I once lived with a guy who grew up in Kuwait and would talk about his childhood late at night when he was drunk.
One evening, a few of us gathered as he described a horrifying incident in which his father had beaten him severely for leaving a smudge on his black Mercedes.
“I don’t understand, why did he hit you?” I asked, shocked by the scale of such a beating.
“Well I had to clean his cars every week, and if they weren’t spotless by dinner, I got into big trouble,” he replied.
“That’s awful,” I commented.
“It’s okay, I got him back,” he said with a smile.
“What did you do?” my friend asked, “Did you scratch his car or something?”
“No,” he said, glancing around the room mischievously. “I killed his dog.”
Roughly eight seconds of complete silence passed, before I cleared my throat and asked, “How?”
“Well,” my housemate continued, “I waited until he went to work, and then I locked his dog inside the Merc. By the time my dad finished his shift, that dog was swollen up like a motherfucking beach ball!!”
Then he roared with laughter. My friend, an avid lover of animals, picked up her bag and left immediately, while I busied myself clearing away our empty glasses.