Don’t offer me a high five unless you’re ready for some serious shit.

I come in like an eagle, my hand instantly transformed into a vicious bird of prey, screaming towards your palm like something forged in hellfire and tempered in a tsunami of gasoline. My fingers are stiff and close, but not completely together: The wind whistling between the firm stalks of muscled finger flesh nearly penetrates the speed of sound. Still, inert, power rippling the fabric of spacetime ever so slightly outwards from my palm, reality doing its best to dance out of the path of impending superviolence.

My eyes focus on the palm of your hand: It is my target, my center of attraction, the one sole purpose of my existence. I see only it, I know only it; my one desideratum to smash into your skin covered extremity with a force not seen since the extinction of the fucking dinosaurs. Though my sight is total and my purpose singular, I take it all in; your expression — the wrinkles under your eyes, the slight flaring of the nostrils. The faded freckle between the third and fourth finger. The toned wrist. The smooth, moisturized skin. The soft light hairs running up your arm into the gray folds of your sleeve. Your shirt that proudly exclaims “MICHIGAN” as if a primitive challenge or a possible enthusiastic greeting of some sort of foreign land. I went to Michigan State. My fury rises.

I visualize the fateful events several seconds into our soon to be shared future: The loud CRACK that whips through the office like a sniper’s bullet inside a ribcage; tumbling and bouncing, doing damage to every surface it touches, echoing off walls and windows and doors; drawing sudden undivided attention from all within earshot that something seriously fucking epic just took place. The murmuring will start. People will talk; asking each other “why the tremendous high five?” “what great occasion did we just miss?” They will think that the two of us have just won the lottery or that America has won a war. They will nod to themselves and smile, each consoling the other that they were a part of that momentous, earth shattering event in some small way. They will be wrong, of course. This high five would kill anyone weaker.

Finally, after decades, lifetimes, the moment has nearly arrived; our hands almost as one, our forearms raised, upper arms parallel to the floor in textbook, classic, perfect 10 high five form. Like a lunar shuttle upon reentry, the last stage is by far the most critical. Calm, collected, yet full of white hot high five fire, I have just milliseconds to make several final adjustments that will ensure that the majority of my upper hand and fingers strike my intended target: The soft, warm, fleshy pocket that your hand — as the soon to be recipient of a world ending high five — has naturally curled into. The Pain Train is just about to pull into Palm Station.

It is in these last few moments that the near erotic pleasure of such a historic high five swells to a magnificent, unholy crescendo; the nanoseconds before contact stretch out slowly, each one containing worlds of pleasure, like the soft orange glow of a sunset as it hits upon the last few warms drops of honey slowly sliding out from inside the body of a translucent plastic bear onto the waiting peanut butter sandwich below. A smile teases the corner of my lips. My eyes close slightly in ecstasy, in total rapture, in anticipation of that little death that so many yearn for yet so few manage to attain. Perfection in three… Two… One… And… Missed.