The Person I'm Next To Is Not Here

I'm next to a truck. I'm in the parking lot of a fine dining establishment, the owner of the truck is presumably in said establishment, perhaps dining. In the bed of his or her truck are four items; 2 bikes complete with pink and purple with streamers, a faded green garden hose with a crushed spigot connector, and a battering ram.
A battering ram.
Who is this person? I picture a man, big. I see him accidentally crushing the brass connector of the hose by gripping it too tight. But gentle, teaching his twin daughters to ride their matching bikes, every second close them full of self control so as to not hurt them with his mammoth muscles. I see him righteous and wrathful, fighting crime with his near unmanageable strength, busting in the doors of seedy drug warrens and hurling the ram across the room at the offensively scuzzy dealers. Drug dealers are usually pretty scuzzy I hear. I see him crying at night, fearful of his own power, every moment a strain against his inner brutality struggling to keep it from erupting and consuming the ones he loves. He knows he should leave, but he can't abandon them. What conflict.
I want to see this guy, but eventually I have to leave this parking lot. What if he is disappointing, what if he is just some redneck repo man. That would be too much to bear. I can't stand real things. I have to leave.

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