Oh boy, yep it sure does.
My father had that face all the time, that face that says, "I'm confused right now, but slowly realizing that I'm actually furious." Ya know, the kinda face that gives you 5 full minutes of him sitting in his chair motionless as the gears of destruction grind in his skull, and that 5 minutes is something you want to take full advantage of. I'd often put my dad in that stupor and bolt of the room to warn one of my several or so siblings about the coming doom I hath wrought upon the household.
Dad would sit there, vibrating with greater and greater intensity, cheeks flushing redder and redder, veins bulging and pulsing. It was a sight to behold, to watch the metamorphosis of a normal man by all accounts from a happy hapless chap to a wrathful monster, completely unbound in his fury.
5 minutes is what we had, but it never felt like enough.
We were children, ya know? No 5 minute head start, even in a flat out sprint, could ever create enough distance between us and our monstrous, raging daddy. He'd always catch us and wallop us to pulp. "Get the snow shovel, ma! Daddy done splatted another one!" She couldn't, of course, but it was cathartic to yell it. Papa was like a gorilla with a graham cracker...
Hiding? Out of the question. I learned many years later that he was a collegiate level hide and seek champion with a preternatural instinct for sniffing out hiders. The closest I ever came to successfully hiding from my predatorial pops was when I removed the filter to the HVAC thing in the basement and crawled in the space. Even as the hot air blew across my body, both burning and suffocating me, it was a better fate than being plumb pummeled by the vengeful spirit of daddy's disappointment.
Several of my siblings didn't make it past their late teens, despite our best efforts to make our relentless pranks upon that dastardly man so confounding that he'd have to stew on them for 10 or 20 minutes. We just couldn't get our pranks good enough, complicated enough...
Ahh, there's another writing pile of goo I once called a sister. Oh, there's a half-formed brother sloughing down the steps. Add 'em to the vat! One day we'll have the means to reconstitute them fully, or at least good enough. Right? What'll it be, another six or seven years? Science will get there. I got a vat full of loose siblings I'd like reconstituted and the amount of time I spend spritzin' the jelly mass with nutrient rich water to keep them moist and healthy has prevented me from starting a family of my own.
It's just as well. I know I have the same violent, gooefying tendencies as my remorseful father. He has mellowed out a bit in the last few years, and regrets splatting so many of us kids because of pranks. Would you be surprised to know he's tended to the meat vat since the beginning? That heaping the splattered children into the vat was his idea in the first place? Hm? With mom being as immobile as she was, dad was the only one who could really do anything about it.
I'm glad he did though. We have a great relationship these days, and once we can reconstitute my siblings, we'll all have a good laugh about it. I'm sure of that.
Source:
https://old.reddit.com/qczxed