/bs/ - backstory

On a lonely night lane, where the river flows slow and the lanterns are on strike, flew nothing but wind… wind and dust, a silent whisper of desolate plateu dat this street is, walking from door to door, speaking to each of the families without knocking

No one wants to have any guest here, unless of course you have your knife behind your back and fingers crossed to ward of the devil. Against real devil dat wouldn't help but superstition is stronger than reason, and through dat strength there is a valid way of resisting. To find in own self power to resist, to attack and counter attack, all in the defence's name. Her name is her grace, Defence, a deity and a God, commands to kill but only slightly…

A lovely night, no less. The silence is deafening however, the silence screams but only out of desperation. To walk alone here, well, a pleasant experience as no body to ask any questions. Who likes having conversations? At these parts if you try to converse dat only will be through force and force is wat they don't like, they think they are beyond the force and violence and their resistance is just. Only just in so far you are stronger and stronger still will have the last laugh

Had I been in a union, all I would do is strike. Strike, strike, strike! Down with the opression and up with the demands! I support them, a just cause they have, however when one knows a better way with people in pretty cabinets, which are all adorned in impressionist painting on walls, then there is a better job. Like mine. It is only a honor to be under a patronage of someone who knows how much everything costs, and costs is wat I'm interested in. I'm an artist but even artists have to eat, maybe

This time, the job is fairly easy. Straightforward even, don't need to do anything of particular difficulty. Go there do this, they'll get the message. And the rest is not my problem, my reputation is high enough dat even if I lied and did nothing, I would've still be thanked gratuitously. Though, then there is no point. There is no reason for me to exist of everything would to be solved with a lie, no, I don't like dat. I like to lie but not like dat

The line of houses extended and extended somewhere far, or it could have, instead it is a circle. Not a even but nonetheless there is logic to this design. The river cut through the city in half, the south part and the north part. Looking at the river, a many two or sometimes three story houses stood. No living could be detected however, from this city people just run. They take their possessions or anything wat they have of any value, put it in a bundle, and ran away, away away, and never come back. You would, too, run had you been them

Sometimes, history of miracles have to be a lie. There has to be a charlatan somewhere here, ready to tell a magnificent story of this city, oh, he would tell just dat. About bakeries on every street, every man sated and settled, and even of a gentle policeman. There has to be a big beautiful lie because the truth is ugly. If there is any truth, as the circumstances which people here in are no truth. How can truth be something dat belittles and forcefully regresses the one who know it? The sagacious, you can find them on every corner behind the dumpster and rotting of something, but definitely not food. They'll tell of all the truth, all the true knowledge and them some, how their wives left them, how in their delirium they've had special relationship with god or even how once they've read about an ancient of thought. And now they ready to teach you, how to spank a kid right for to instill fear and respect, how train a dog to be a trusted friend, and how to instead of going home, doing a little detour to the counterfeit alcohol friend behind the dumpster. And remain for the entertainment, as at home are only problems and problems

That's my city! Proud citizen of city run by mayor alcoholism and baptized by porno. It couldn't have been better than dat. After all, maybe that's all dat we desire. A man is a little man of the same pleasures. How does a little man know of higher pleasures, of art but not art of being drunk. Such a man can't, in his honesty and desire for truth only, to conceive a cabinet in which there is only free time. A leisure, and a two hour meal, then bath. And sleep… a long, fistful of feathers and asbestos, pleasant sleep on a king size bed no less. Imagining dat would leave anyone bitter had they haven't the means of such highness and subliminality. But so are we all. The higher man imagines himself even a higher man, a man beyond the skies, The Man of the loft and of a stature of a long grain tower. In this way, only the higher man is truly jealous. Because the higher man can get more higher, just not as he imagines himself to be, blinded by own delusion of grandeur. The little man however is deluded in own powerlessness and uselessness, and dreams of nothing but a bottle to sip on and a stray meteorite to fall on everyone's heads for dat they've let such things happen at all

And wat man am I? Not a good man. Though, it depends. I'm good for myself, that's all I need to know. Now, the moment of truth. I just need to turn this key here, go in and leave a message. Simple, at this time even if there will be a whole band of trumpeteers, no one would bat an eye and no policeman come. The house feels to be empty, but my sensibilities speak of not so empty. Dat is, of a danger, an unexpected sensibility to have in this situation. Wat can I do now?

I place the note on the drawer and when I try to leave, in a moment's notice, I feel like two thousand blows hit my head at once, just imagine this. Me any my head, someone with a large stick or watever, strikes with such intensity and precision, that the image becomes crooked. In this moment my head compresses but then uncompresses as if it was a ball. Had only anyone could've seen dat, alas, no human can exist with such perception. In these moments of my unavailability in the world of conscious, I dream of something. I don't know wat is dat, all I knew is dat when I do wake up if I even do dat, then it will be surely the last of me

And the day of judgment had come at last for those who deserve it. The end of a tool or a glove, thrown out and forgotten. No hard feelings, no drama, no theatre. The actors all went home already, scoffing on their way from the stage "boring, boring". The people all had left and wat remains is wat they left behind, nothing of value. Even if it was, there is no value to it now. Wat those who leave left is death, only death, nothing but terminal end of something that is most surely was purposed to be stopped

Death! Death, death, death, in the name of death is my defence. I, without a rule, my own kingmaker and ruler, of thousand and thousand feet fields ruler, a great chieftain of my own and some more. Wat has come to me in pleasantness and rudeness, is mine, presenting itself for me to take. And no time should be an end to me, as I've cheated. As I am now the death itself

The man, who had been stuck hard, woke up at last. In a room, somewhere, he can't see anything now. His eyes arent tied or is he has been blinded by purpose, no, the strike was too powerful for the poor head to handle and now you can only speculate wat has left of him. The someone who did the bashing stands just before the man, noticing him being animated again. One question is, wat is the purpose of this? We know how this is going to end. Why doing this in such hoops, and just do and be done with? Maybe, it is respect… or just your regular sadism dat is common to such profession. People have to entertain themselves and they are ready to go on only such lenghts

The guy feels the metal stick that is going to do it all already. On the face of a murderer, of a despicable human being, all kinds of stitches you can see. Not a pretty face dat is. A long history is written on such a face, of bruises, illness and hot water perhaps. Disfigured mess, in two words. And all in blood. And while in blood, the face is smiling in earnest, a childlike smile of pure boyish carefree happiness. There is no regret or fear, wat the face displays is a smile dat is honest to a fault. The happy man lies with his arms stretched out, as if making a snow angel. The brute with the tube doesn't dare to strike, he disappears into the nothingness, once stood here and now nothing. And nothing comes more…