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Rageaholic’s Anonymous (fiction)

My name is Gayorg Reynolds, and I’m a rageaholic.

Growing up, I never fit in. Regular gloves, shirts, coats, and shoes never properly fit. As a kindergarten orphan shopping at the local Big and Tall Men’s shop (only pants), my caretakers started to grimace at me. I wanted to, but was unable to sew clothing with my 3-fingered hands. They speculated that my mother was Shiva, who conceived me in hate… with no idea of the father. Loneliness and abandonment do not justify my actions as a child, nor my atrocities as an adult.

At 7 years old, all my forearms were chained and bound in solitary confinement at a high-security prison, I never knew the name of the place. It was there that the bribery of Shao Kahn enlisted me as a contestant for his death game.

He encouraged the rage I felt, and awarded senseless murder by my stage name: Goro. He’d slap my right hands with a high-ten after a “fatality.” On making decisions he’d have me take a spectator, hold his arms and legs stiff, then chest bump the poor bastard.  If his torso landed face up, “heads,” face down, “tails.” He called it: “flipping a quartered.”

I’m a changed individual now, my first defeat provided reckoning. Earth realm’s Manhattan provided rageaholic’s anonymous. I went to a costume party in Brooklyn, where I felt so accepted. I’m even OK with myself to get outside and exercise with the new bike system. Never does a day go by where I don’t recall my atrocities, but I am able to forgive myself a little more each day. I also give free hugs.

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