In the end, it boils down to nature, not nurture. It boils down to the millions of years of vicious evolutionary rage, pent up through long nights dreaming sleeplessly around savannah campfires while lions roar saber-toothed death from the bushes. It continues with dark nights in huts on the steppe, listening to wolves maul the cattle and try the tightly tied tent flaps. It follows with the skulls cracked in the flaming acropolis while the barbarians burn the crops and trash the homes. It percolates in the rib cages of a hundred million corpses mouldering while Europe burns in religious rage. It takes life in the mass graves of a hundred years of bloodletting, through the trenches of Belgium to rat-chewed Russian polises of the dead.
And it climaxes in your fist. Two hundred thousand years of being the victims of our excess, our inability to control our basest desires. Two hundred thousand years of pure, undiluted, and utterly human rage. Two hundred thousand years, in the spearpoint climax of a generation.