Evil, they say, is in the fist.

They say it grows from where patience dies in a weary soul. When red bursts from veins and into swollen knuckles and loosened teeth. Stones thrown and mud splattered. They say that evil spreads like contamination, unless the wicked are cornered. Contained. Detained.

Evil, they say, is in the fist.

Meanwhile, their hearts are as clinical as marble-laden floors. Brains are replaced with cogs maintained by expensive oils. They eat on the backs of subjects acting table, and they wipe away the grease off their chin with a stash of crisp, newly-mint bills. They fill their caves with cars they'll never drive. They spend on a single night what most of us will never earn in this life.

Evil, they say, is in the fist.

The fists of the crowd. The pushing against shields, wearing slippers and hand-me-downs. The blood they can't ignore. The screams they can't tune out. The mass of bodies slowly approaching, ready to pounce.

Yes, evil is in the fist.

But it is not in the bloody one that demands justice.

No.

Evil is in the fist clutching the reins. That holds the whip. That beat out the last bit of patience in these weary souls, and stole the last bits of hope until there's nowhere else to go.

And so, I ask you —

What fist do you own?