How many of those storied tales of murder and mayhem were motivated out of not evil or possession or sheer meanness, but out of some unbearable pain or simple toothache? Maybe that Knoxville Girl was bludgeoned to death not because she was preggers, but because poor Billy-dear had a backache like mine, and he just lashed out from sheer exhaustion and irritability. Did I read somewhere that Stravinsky noted in the margins of his score for Rite of Spring that he had a toothache? If that piece isn’t the musical equivalent of explosive violence, I don’t know what is.

Not that I am at the point of killing anyone yet, but my back sure does hurt. I twist myself like a contortionist, trying snap that ornery vertebrae back into its place. But instead I get the same dull throb. The same persistent burn. I wake up in the morning with my teeth clenched, grinding those bicuspids down until they are nubs. Then I bolt from the house like some wild animal that’s been grazed.

The first person I see…