Peeve

Something that never fails to make me foam at the mouth in livid rage: characters in movies and books who, when at the abject mercy of violent psychopaths, continue to provoke them by flailing about like hooked fish and mistaking verbal slings and arrows for actual slings and arrows. The icing on this cake, the piece de resistance, if you will, is when the villian has a gun/knife/machete/tire iron/axe/halibut (just seeing if you're paying attention) to the throat of the wailing heroine/dumb boyfriend/ignorant cop and they scream "You're crazy!"

People. People. We know better than this. Or at least every atom of my being hopes that we know better than this. You never tell a violent psychopath they're crazy. NEVER.

Now, you may be thinking "Girl, you think too much about odd things." Rest assured, this is a fact of which I am most acutely aware. Nonetheless, it bothers me to no end, and always results in me caring not the slightest for the flailing, cursing protagonist and, in fact, relishing the ensuing butt whooping they always get. I'm perched on the edge of my seat cheering them on.

Why are modern protagonists so often vulnerable, helpless and prone to panic in time of crisis? Where are the cool-headed folks? Why are stupid nice people valued above clever resourceful people? Where is their story? The story in which they tell the crazy bad guy everything he wants to hear, like he's the most logical person they've ever met, and then as soon as his back is turned they sink a tire iron into his skull. Minus any revoltingly cliched quips like "He had it coming" or "Now he's got a headache", or my personal favorite, "You lose, punk."