I don't get mad.
I don't get even.
I calmly analyze the situation to determine the estimated personal cost to me in order to rip the person's lungs out.
Then I make a subjective comparison between that cost, and the pleasure I will feel to have their warm blood running down my arms, cascading onto my hips, curving round the tumescence of my belly, and curving inward to tickle the inside of my thighs as it continues its downward descent along the inside of my shins to where it collects in a purplish red pool at my feet.
It's a simple question of economics.