Gorgias

At home he was the absolute master. He reigned supreme at home. His house. He had bought the house. He worked for the mortgage. He had built the shed. It was his house, his home, and he was the absolute master there. And he beat his wife and his two sons there.

His job was mediocre, not terrible but certainly, most certainly not great, or even good or nice. Not to blame his boss or his job, however. He was doing a terrible job. He told himself that he did a terrible job because his co-workers were morons, his boss didn’t know what he wanted and his managers hassled him about things he wasn’t supposed to be doing. In his head, this justified the irritation that built up every other week and made his head all red and his temper very very short and made him hit his wife and his two sons. In truth, he was doing a very bad job, because people told him to do things he didn’t do. His irritation and aggression and temper issues were common at work. At work, however, he didn’t dare to hit anyone. They were all guys, all strong guys, and he was, well, he wasn’t weak, but his wife and sons — two damned faggots, probably — were weaker, and he could take control at home.

Because at home he was the master. He reigned like a terrible master, but instead of waiting for a revolution, the citizens left. That’s when he started hitting his co-workers.