Flip

Jan. 21st, 2017 06:11 pm
proxodimec: (Default)
Одна моя знакомая организовала в Джакарте так называемый "писательский клуб" - на самом деле, просто благородный повод для жутко общительных и жутко стеснительных индонезийцев встретиться и пообщаться, хотя авторы, и впрямь неплохо владеющие виртуальной клавиатурой, тоже иногда заглядывают. Суть еженедельных встреч такова: оглашается тема, и в течение получаса все участвующие пишут на неё короткий рассказ, очерк или стих. Впрочем, стихов, кажется, ни разу не было, разве что "стихи в прозе". Так или иначе, я с удовольствием подключаюсь к игре, когда оказываюсь в столице, и пару таких быстро приготовленных экспромтов рискну опубликовать здесь.
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Рассказ третий. Тема: randomality.

Read more... )
proxodimec: (Default)
Одна моя знакомая организовала в Джакарте так называемый "писательский клуб" - на самом деле, просто благородный повод для жутко общительных и жутко стеснительных индонезийцев встретиться и пообщаться, хотя авторы, и впрямь неплохо владеющие виртуальной клавиатурой, тоже иногда заглядывают. Суть еженедельных встреч такова: оглашается тема, и в течение получаса все участвующие пишут на неё короткий рассказ, очерк или стих. Впрочем, стихов, кажется, ни разу не было, разве что "стихи в прозе". Так или иначе, я с удовольствием подключаюсь к игре, когда оказываюсь в столице, и пару таких быстро приготовленнык экспромтов рискну опубликовать здесь.
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Рассказ второй. Тема:
The choices we make. )

Karaoke

Nov. 24th, 2016 11:29 pm
proxodimec: (Default)
Одна моя знакомая организовала в Джакарте так называемый "писательский клуб" - на самом деле, просто благородный повод для жутко общительных и жутко стеснительных индонезийцев встретиться и пообщаться, хотя авторы, и впрямь неплохо владеющие виртуальной клавиатурой, тоже иногда заглядывают. Суть еженедельных встреч такова: оглашается тема, и в течение получаса все участвующие пишут на неё короткий рассказ, очерк или стих. Впрочем, стихов, кажется, ни разу не было, разве что "стихи в прозе". Так или иначе, я с удовольствием подключаюсь к игре, когда оказываюсь в столице, и пару таких быстро приготовленнык экспромтов рискну опубликовать здесь.
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Рассказ первый. Тема:
Karaoke )
proxodimec: (Default)
Trying to cross our tongues (nothing to do with kisses);
Mine irritates your guts, yours entirely misses,
For your tongue is melodic, full of bizarre pronouns,
Tonal, monosyllabic, difficult to pronounce.
Mine is strict and straightforward, mathematical, even -
Syllogisms and causality, total derives from given,
"Cool" is an understatement - more like zero Kelvin,
Not prescribed for your ears, elongated and elven.
Trying to cross our tongues; it's hopeless, but amusing.
No way to equate my formulae and your music,
Linking minus and plus to launch a current of power,
Shooting arrows at God from the height of this tower.
Our phallic contraption, then, is bound to crumble.
Dodging lethal debris, gaining nothing but trouble,
Wasted, lost in translation, will we at last be able
To quit this linguistic game, this frantic Scrabble of Babel?
proxodimec: (Default)
I light stars. It's my job, that's all, take it or leave it. For hobby's sake i prefer experiencing new drinks, somewhat less often - new conversation partners. And i'm very fond of linguistics: after all, this reminiscence, certain insights into the etymology of local words, is the only thing i can preserve from the cultures i shall never see again.
Yesterday i drank warm suspension made of ground seeds which were apparently named after a small province in one of the southern countries - amusingly, at a distance of about 1/4 the equator length from that province, in a city that bears the name of its founder, a fratricidal hero. The method of preparation - extraction by water vapor - translated from the local language as "well defined", or possibly "rapid". That was hard to deny, especially considering the routine of brewing a particular type of leaves in the countries east of here.
She approached my table herself, as it usually happens - my body language, mimics, olfactory signals inevitably differ from those of the natives, and this subconsciously frightens most of them, but in a few bold ones, on the contrary, arouses great curiosity. It turned out she was also a foreigner, a tourist from a neighboring state - it's name is said to derive from miniature rock-dwelling mammals. When i was just beginning my extended journey, such encounters fascinated me like tiny miracles; some of the best ones stick in my memory even now, though they seldom linger there as long as the verbal peculiarities. I casually dismissed all inquiries about my home with a standard joke, but when it came to my work, replied most earnestly: "I light stars".
Later we drank something else, with various sugars and a notable quantity of ethanol, combined barely compatible, in the natives' opinion, types of entertainment, such as observing art collections, ancient and modern, then rhythmic shivering and jerking of limbs to primitive repetitive sound patterns (to define the latter, locals, quite surprisingly, employ the same term - originating from demigods of an outdated religion - as for the truly beautiful, harmonically perfect acoustic sequences). And so on, more or less the usual way, working it up to the forbidden mutual pleasure, this culmination of socializing - here the role is given to copulation.
At dawn i prepared two more portions of the warm drink (such was a common autochthonous ritual).
- We'll never see each other again, - there was almost no question mark in her voice.
- Never, - i didn't argue.
- Tomorrow you won't remember my name, - she assumed.
- I will, - i replied, - it means "worthy of admiration".
- Leave some contacts, maybe? E-mail, Facebook? Who knows...
- Where i live, we don't use electromagnetic means of communication, - i left the empty cup on the armrest of a hotel chair and picked up my backpack from the floor, - but i'll make you a farewell present. I will light a star for you.
Immediately outside the door i inserted my hand into the navel, lightly touched the link-sphere hidden where aborigines would have their digestion organs and transported myself to the nearest store of purified uranium - it was used here to produce energy in a very ineffective, barbaric way. There wasn't much of the radioactive metal, but quite enough to establish the required contact. Removing native-looking bioform (it's incredible, i must say, how those bipedal creatures keep balance and remain upright), i opened the link-sphere and found the center. Then liaised its reverberation with that of the local sun, letting through a short energy impulse from the galactic core - this had postponed the core's destabilizing for another tiny fraction of time, but, unfortunately, instantly transformed the poor little star into a proper nova. And finally, just for a brief moment, i moved to one of the highest roofs in this city, on a building dedicated, judging by its name, to a sacred stone - for no real reason, merely to have one last look. Eight units of temporal measurement aptly called "minute" by the locals remained until the arrival of a radiation front powerful enough to boil oceans, melt the planetary crust and reduce even my almost indestructible composition to a jumble of chaotic code fragments without hope of restructuring and regaining consciousness. But i didn't doubt i could retreat via the link-sphere just in time - acting quickly is an essential professional skill for those who light stars.
proxodimec: (Default)
As a journalist (OK, a former journalist), i don't do politics. It's not a vow, nor a principle; calling it basic hygiene would be nicely rhetoric but somewhat exaggerated; i just don't want to mess with table games i have no wish to play, especially inside a burning house. But this time it's too close, it's becoming personal - people i should have met here in Thailand, should have enjoyed the presence of, are avoiding the country, scared meaninglessly by the nonsense in mass media . I'm not trying to position myself against the news machine - just showing how i see the Thai coup from within the country.
To start with, the term "coup" evokes certain pictures in European minds: the roar of tanks, soldiers firing at the crowd, cars and shops ablaze, rivulets of blood on the pavement. I'll leave it to you to decide which part of it is Hollywood and which - how things actually happen out there in the West. Still, just to avoid unsuitable associations, i propose to call the current activity in Thailand "taking out the garbage". This is how it has always worked in this kingdom: the parliament, no more competent or adequate than any parliament in the world, would make a mess; then the military, who both by the constitution and their own calling answer to no-one but the king himself, would interfere, set things right and return the playground to the kids - i mean, the politicians.
As i was adding details of why and how it is happening this time, i realized this article was beginning to resemble a proper political review. No need for that. Just the practical things: what's out on the streets?
Let's see: first of all, the barricades have been torn down, the traffic is back to normal (for Bangkok, read: a bunch of slowly crawling traffic jams). The shelters previously housing mobs of yelling opponents are partly removed, partly used to accommodate soldiers. The soldiers in question, by the way, are not invaders, not some kind of enemy - most of them are from the same place, the same very guys you would see in town anyhow, only wearing uniforms. If you think that makes them behave differently you're wrong. Since there's nobody to fight or subdue, most of them are bored within an inch of their lives - it's nothing unusual to see a whole squad facebooking on their mobile phones, formidable-looking weapons heaped a few meters away (i don't even want to know what the army regulations would say about this, but as the sergeant isn't objecting - here he is, actually, chatting happily on Whatsapp with the rest of his team - why not?). In some places the higher ranks are staging impromptu maneuvers, merely in order to have something to do. One nice side effect of this is that the appearance of hundreds of well-armed and trained men has driven away whatever criminals may have roamed the streets before (not that there were many - whoever has been to Thailand would agree that the country is very safe and rather orderly). Is it something you should complain about?
The ambiance is back to normal, too - i felt a lot of pressure in the air as the contesting parties were stalling the kingdom with their endless quarrel, piles of sandbags blocked the roads and the country was losing millions of dollars daily , the typical anxiety of a population uncertain of their tomorrow. That is thankfully gone. The usual mix of dedicated workaholism and "sanuk-sabai" (the proverbial Thai attitude of having fun whenever possible, even finding enjoyable elements in one's routine job) has taken hold again. Time will show which troubles are now solved for good and which - only postponed, but at the moment it's peaceful here, Thailand is again living up to its touristy moniker: "Land of smiles".
Finally, the only tangible result of martial law: the curfew. From 00:00 to 05:00 all shops, bars and other non-vital establishments are closed. I've heard quite a number of tourists whining about this, and here's what i responded: "Have you been to Laos? Cambodia? Myanmar?" The thing is, none of those neighboring countries is under any curfews, naturally; however, as round-the-clock amenities are nearly non-existent and the general lifestyle is much more rural there, everything normally shuts down by 20:00 PM, simply because people go to bed. And as for the nightclubs, well, it's my own opinion, of course, but i say - good riddance.
Mind it, nothing nasty would happen to people stuck outdoors after midnight - i've never even heard of anyone forcefully escorted home, not to say - apprehended. Just recently i strolled across Chiang Mai, more or less end to end, at 01:30-03:00 (it did take me an hour and a half, the town isn't too compact) and in fact enjoyed the blissful quiet and emptiness. Almost like a night hike in the Himalaya...
To sum it up, or to back it up with something more veritable than mere words - see the photographs below:
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happy revolution-web
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A sign at one of the tourist restaurants on Khao San Rd, Bangkok
More photographs )
proxodimec: (Default)
Bird's karma
Once upon a time somewhere in big Krung Thep, on the outskirts of Bangkok, further from the noise, closer to the sea, there lived a bird. She had not too bright a color, not too charming a voice - ordinary oriental myna, tropical Asia is full of those. One morning she landed on a beautiful large pile of grain, to peck some, and got stuck - quite literally. A couple of hours later came the bird catcher, removed her from the glue, put in a bamboo cage and took to the temple, the big one on Chao Phraya, to sell. Added some rice, too - so that the live merchandise remained vivid. It was a full moon day, throngs of pilgrims coming to pray, so in no more than twenty minutes someone bought the bird and sent her to the sky, improving his own karma.
The myna, to be honest, enjoyed the adventure - to see the world, to mingle with people, to visit a holy place, plus a free lunch! Practically a pilgrimage tour, all-inclusive. So on the morrow she flew to the same place and got glued again. Good thing birds aren't conscious - if she had human brains, she could've analyzed the process, understood the meaning and chosen a trap closer by, there was one right next to her tree. But this one had been set by a boy who caught little birds, fried them and sold for crunchies to lorry drivers on the highway. Because nothing ever repeats itself in this world, and the ability to recognise patterns is harmful as often as useful; anyway, this is not what what our story is about. Our myna was collected by the same catcher, took a comfortable lazy ride to the temple, returned home on her own, well fed and entertained. And so it went from then on - every morning the myna hurried to be caught, had her breakfast in the trap, lunch in the cage, dinner at home. Maybe for a month the bird enjoyed herself, maybe for an year, maybe for two. No-one can count how many people she'd led a step closer to nirvana by her rapid release, for how many had improved their next lives. But finally, one day the bird catcher failed to manage Bangkok's hectic traffic and bumped on his bike into a pickup truck. Himself, luckily, came out unscathed, but the bird cages in the back got smashed - and the birds too, of course.
And after death it turned out that the wheel of karma has its own law of preservation, so every bonus the pilgrims got by setting the myna free ended up as her personal credit. She was reborn as a worm - and would have been eaten by a bird had the Universe known justice, or at least some sense of plot. However, since it is not so, she got eventualy trampled by an elephant, right through 10 cm of soil, which obviously affected her karma as well - but that's already a different story...
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Dreaming sheep
Once upon a time there was a sheep in North India. All day through she wandered on the slopes, afraid of every shadow, especially - of two huge Tibetan dogs and a Gujjar shepherd, and prayed to Pashupati to let her be reborn in her next life as a cow: to have real freedom, to be sure no-one dares do any harm, and to give milk to people out of sheer kindness. Meanwhile she had to give wool - it was unpleasant, sometimes even painful. One day the sheep was sold to a Kashmiri, slaughtered for Korban Bairam and reborn as a cow - in China, in Shaanxi province. No-one would milk her, Han don't eat dairy; instead, she was forced to work from dawn till dusk. And so she prayed to Guan Yin, hauling the plough: "May i please be born a human being next time, to be completely free, to do whatever i want and to give others useful structured data - wise words, kind deeds! After all, don't i deserve something better for all my disappointments?" Eventually, the cow was butchered too - and born as a girl in some European megalopolis. But human consciousness quickly replaced the memory of previous lives, left only the feeling that she deserved something better. So the woman grew up petty and bitter, with repulsive personality and depressive tendencies. She loved to lecture people on their immoral behavior which only made them wish she went mute, or fell dead, to do good without asking, so that her subjects had to waste a bloody lot of time and effort washing this good off, served someone or something for her entire life; and, even though she didn't believe in reincarnation, kept dreaming to become one day - well, doesn't matter what, but free as a bird and able to give people something they'd value. When her time had come she died of peritonitis and poached as a swiftlet on a small rocky island in Sunda Straits. Now she flies faster than anyone, excluding planes, only can't take off from a level place, and gives people her saliva. You see, Buddha doesn't bother with justice, but he definitely has a mighty sense of humor.
proxodimec: (Default)
Hello from Alpha Centauri! Good thing those new breakthroughs in the field of tachyon physics now allow our transmissions to travel at roughly 10 times the lightspeed (by shifting backwards temporally while they're propelled forward in space), reducing communication delay to less then half a year.
Well, enough science, i'm not an expert anyway. Down to the personal: money is less of an issue here. Once you have enough to rig your own stellar skiff, just come over. You see, Vacuum the Dark and Empty doesn't ask you to pay your way; instead, it puts your ability to operate a zero-capsule (after a few devastating accidents man-shaped spacesuits have been acknowledged as impractical and replaced with ovoids made of highly resistant yet adaptable hell-knows-what, ask the techs, with 4 retractable manipulators for limbs)  to a good test, and in case of failure - your ability to instantly transform yourself into a totally homeostatic system, too. I seem to excel at both.
More costly artifacts may be required to establish anything resembling coziness down here, i mean planetside, and the autochthons have the concept of trade, sometimes (surprisingly often) fair, but the difference in values means you need considerably less here than on not-so-good old Terra. As overpopulation, resource shortage, mutagenous toxins and other residues of high-level civilization have yet to arrive here (introduced by us the friendly strangers, no doubt), the locals are much less inclined to chew right through your belly than your fellow human. Their snarls may frighten initially, but apparently it's merely a way to express the pleasure of seeing you, or at least to pretend they feel it. It looks like genuine hospitality (when was the last time you used the term out of historical or purely theoretical context?), and out ethologists say it partly is - ostensibly, it stems from the possibility to breath unfiltered air and drink water from natural sources.
Speaking of books - even if you're one of those rare talents who don't require solitude and general calm to write, believe me, this environment is better suited for the purpose. Let's face it, the little fragile germs that inflame the inspiratory system in human body have long died out on our poor poisoned home planet, along with pretty much anything else that couldn't build a protective dome or insinuate itself into one. Writing is what i've been doing a lot lately. Almost like in the ancient tales - composing lines by the luminescence of fireflies, a task greatly facilitated by the fact my comm unit has its own light, especially considering my genetic myopia.
As for my official work, it's accelerating, efficacy growing exponentially; most pre-fab domed cities have been unfolded and initiated, their factories already burrowing into the crust and digesting everything they can, spewing the rest miles high into the atmosphere in proud fountains of automatic excretion. By the way, i did ask the coordinator: why bring domes to a planet where you can inhale all you want without the danger your coroner would need a chainsaw to perform an autopsy? Because it's standard, he said. And an ethologist later added, answering my question with a question, as they always do:
- Imagine yourself a normal human, not a mutant freak like us all. Well, try to, do your best, for conversation's sake. Would you be comfortable living outside a dome?
Honestly, i didn't do my best. Puking is not a big deal here, you don't have to wash your respirator afterwards, but i just didn't want to.
So, my work. Domes are set, as i said, factories running. Next is the Cat's Cradle, the landing field - an immaterial baseball glove the size of a small town. The generator, with the adjoining nuclear power plant, and the backup nuclear power plant, and the spare backup nuclear power plant, and the monstrous gizmos you need to find and mine and purify all this uranium and plutonium - all must be up by the time the settler tankers arrive. You're aware, of course, of the big news: 2 years ago (~2,5, i mean - forgot about the delay) a million of perfectly normal humans, although probably not very smart or gifted - else old Terra wouldn't be so eager to send them off with a one-way ticket - were cryo-ed, loaded like a shipment of frozen pork into giant beehives, which were then coated with that highly resistant hell-knows-what and launched from Lunar sling. Well, we're here to catch them.
It'll take them quite a while to get here at sub-C, you know. Body enhancement or not, i may not live to see them landing, thawing and walking out like a million of bogeymen who suddenly grew bored in their closets. But it will happen, of course - what is there to stop them, in the Dark and Empty? The beauty and the nightmare of interstellar space: the only thing that may befall you out there is yourself, and that's not much of a hazard if you're an icicle. So the tankers will be gently rock-a-byed to the surface of their new home, met by corridors timely thrust out by the cities (it's a good question whether the air is going to be breathable by then, but even if it is, who'd want to risk seeing the sky, and a foreign one at that?), and Earth will burst from them like the shockwave of a nova.
Why am i writing this? It's all a bit unsettling, i guess, isn't it? Well, what i'm trying to say is: hurry! Galaxy isn't so big. And i'd like to see you, actually - before i either die or leave. Because, you know, as i was typing this message it struck me: there's no way i'm going to meet and greet them, the settlers, the normals. If i'm alive, i'll move on. And by the way, i'd be thankful if you kept me updated on the Cepheidae project - as good an option as any, i figure, and you know how it is here with the news. So one way or another, when they come, i'm not here. Consider the time dilation, and that's another reason to hurry - although i do realize this may not qualify as a reason to you.
Yes, now i'm sure about it: should my enhancements show sufficiently proof against ageing, and should the law of big numbers spare me for a while, this is where i will be: in the first glittering drops off the crest, announcing the wave that is bound to drown the space, the Galaxy, the Universe. Just like a happy, careless, perfectly healthy carrier of an unstoppable, extremely virulent and 100% lethal plague.
proxodimec: (Default)
Often i'm haunted by alien dreams,
Higher than mine and brighter,
Dream i of roofs and of secret rooms,
Soaring copper kites.
Dream i at times that i'm not myself,
I'm no more the writer
Nor the composer of my own song,
My own days and nights.
Sing to me, beautiful, i'm silly but not naive,
Heed not what my empty head portends.
Winds of the East in that hollow vastness forever live,
Gales that bring the summer to our lands.


Billowing sails and untrodden trails -
Perfect anti-depressant,
Why should i bother with human griefs,
Meaningless common grid?
Dream i of tempests, of moving seas,
Powerful and incessant,
Dream i of leaving this "real" world,
Simply renouncing it.
Sing to me, beautiful, of summer and cotton high,
Sing of believing in yesterday.
Sing of my flight, for i never flee but i often fly,
Finding and losing reasons along the way.


Dream i of jungles and heaving decks,
Stains on the flat horizon,
Dream i of tiny Pinoy consort
Waiting for me ashore.
Dream i at times that my dreams come true,
Dream that i watch them rising,
Gaining momentum and weight and might,
Ever and ever more.
Sing to me, beautiful, i'm leaving, you tag along -
That's just an interim, not the end.
Sing to me, i'll be glad to hear your Tagalog
Full of important fables to comprehend.
proxodimec: (Default)
I've dived into every ocean and fallen from every sky,
I've been to hundreds of continents, and wouldn't count the countries,
I scarred the face of the planet with a helix of dirty tracks.
I've even visited elves at their iridescent homeland.
There is one terra incognita, where the grass is greener,
But it lays on the other side of a mighty incessant highway.

I don't know who built it, and it's probably best this way.
My sight bypasses the windshields for fear of seeing the drivers.
I'm looking for a flyover, not the ultimate truth.
All i need is a tiny path across, however ethereal,
But the highway is wider than Styx and flimsier than Bifröst,
It's very existence claims: sometimes there is no solution.

And so i stand there, frozen, watch this jumble of headlights,
Blinding me, always shifting, like a crawling constellation,
Portending at once an infinite number of chilly fates.
Even a master of weaving his humble tottering beelines
Amidst the vectors of bikes on the crazy streets of Hanoi
Faces imminent death when trying to cross the highway...
proxodimec: (Default)
That evening the sky had changed its skin from puke-yellowish to shitty-brown and begun showering us with some principally new kind of crap, a bit like overcooked hair of an albino rat. But my detector seemed to ignore this nuisance, so AK and me strolled with our helmets off, chatted, stuffed ourselves with that loathsome moonshine from "Dark Corner" - you could refuel a Humvee with it, there's more solar in it than alcohol, although where the hell would you find a Humvee nowadays? And then, all out of a sudden, that wonder flies right into us - a hound, big, black, full of pedigree, and it's not aiming at our stinky throats, no, it's wagging its stupid shaggy tail and whining from sheer happiness! For all i know it must have been the last dog in the world, those tiny stray mongrels have all been wiped out, not that there was much meat on them, and the background did the rest, those poor buggers can't hold a dose, go bald and rot on their paws in week. And now - this! Then AK, the sucker, goes shitnuts, pulls his beloved cannon - that's how he got his nickname, they say he sleeps hugging his gun, and it's a big question whether they have anything, you know, serious between them two, kidding, kidding - and launches a burst from the belly, spreading shreds of dog fur over, like, 10 meters of cracked concrete. I shout: "You fuckhead, are you out of your fucking mind, it was tame, i could break its neck right here, or slice it open, and what have you done, what the hell did you waste half a clip on, you bloodshitter?!", and he grins: "I don't give a fucking damn, i have more ammo now than i could spend even if i shoot every prick like you! You want my AK? Take it, i've got a stock of those, too, like, enough to fill a lorry!" Well, even a dickhead like him would understand i wasn't going to get off him after a statement like this, so he goes on confessing: "Once upon a time - that is, coupla days ago - i went to the fourth crater, the furthermost, you know, you can grab a lot of stuff there if you don't mind grabbing a few Roentgen, too." I think to myself - what a bloody moron, another few of those forays and his balls will shine in the dark like them glowshrooms, no need for a flashlight anymore. He must've read it on my face: "What" - sniggers - "too chickenshit to go hot yourself, but still want my stash, heh? Go suck, there is no stash!" I snap: "Don't fuck with me, you itchy ratcock!" And he keeps braying: "You just listen on, that's no Junkard's heroism for you!" Junkard had once fought a pack of electrocats for and old storehouse and won, and got too proud of himself to ever sober up. I bumped into him recently - one foot in the grave, face all bluish and not even overhanging, more sort of flowing and forming icicles, like concrete in the craters, where it hasn't yet dissolved in acid rains. And that storehouse, by the way, must've been stocked before the Third Big Bombing, it was so old you couldn't tell where the cans ended and their contents began, and all that was mixed evenly with cat shit and radioactive dead cat. "So," - continues AK - "as i was passing through the Park, just where we'd strung that fatcunt..." Here he shuts up briefly and gloats like a decomposed rat, clearly recalling life's little pleasures. Not so little that one was, i must say - we were also strolling like this, the two of us, already loaded with some proper booze and all, through the Park - it's a strange place, the Park, overgrown with some weird crap, maybe crystals, maybe 'shrooms, it munches up the background, so you can take your rad-suit off and enjoy - when that bitch ran just there in front of us, young and fresh, like, 14-15, just what i like. What smartass let her out to jog like that on her own i don't want to know, it's his problems, right, finders-keepers! Anyhow, first thing she tried to show some speed, but i wasn't into marathons - lifted a boulder and sent it smack into her bony spine, i've always had a good aim, ask anyone, though some won't answer on the account of being dead. Well, she flipped face down, and then all she could do was say "Welcome!" Mind it, the bitch wasn't too clean, of course, but healthy, no scabs anywhere, what a rarity nowadays, and smart - didn't wriggle overmuch, only murmured something pitiful while we took our turns. Like, i remember, some three years ago i pinned down that other cunt between the first and the second craters, hell knows what was she looking for in that dump, maybe for a good screwing, well, she thought she knew some karate or whatever shit and decided to practice it on me. I had to soften her every second bone with a lead pipe until the bitch finally calmed down and spread her legs, and then only because she'd just switched off. "Well, so on that very spot i bump into this old jerk. And i see there's no suit with him! Not just on him - with him, at all, imagine that!" "What do you mean, no suit" - i start getting tired of this bullshit - "How did he get to the Park then, by chopper?" It's our private little legend with AK - as if before the Bombings there used to be that huge metal contraption, like a lorry or a Humvee, but it could fly. Crap, of course, chunks of iron don't fly, and anyway what if you hit a cloud, it would probably melt even the metal and the poor buggers inside would be reduced to bones. Jointy once told me how he found a village a cloud had landed on. He said even he got some goosebumps there, and he's no chicken when he's stoned - decayed buildings, everything softish, sort of half-dissolved, those little bunches of human bones everywhere and each one in its own tiny puddle where all the rest has leaked onto the ground. Still, i like the chopper idea, it's quite something to laugh about. But AK wouldn't be strayed so easily: "Go fuck your chopper," - he says - "you asked me yourself, didn't you, now shut your mouth and listen! There's no protection on him, as i said, no suit, no mask, no gun, nothing, walks with a limp, dressed up for a comic show, like when they slap each other and fall in shit, a flat hat on his head topped with some spooky long thingy, like he's plucked it from the tail of some crazy beast, but instead of fur it's lined with some other type of crap, whatever. I push the muzzle into his belly - he's clearly halfway out to there, it's safer to know i can send him on all the way, any time - and he just addresses me calmly, as if he thought it weren't loaded: "Young man, good gay! Tell me, what is it you desire the most?" How do you like it, hah? Well, it's no big deal to see i'm still a man, not one of those crippled hot freaks with no skin left on them. But now i'm also "young", and the day is "good"! I snap: "Your ass, that's what i desire! What, you're now going to take off your pants?" and he replies: "Really, young man! Pants off - easily, what do i care? But this is not what you actually want. What is it? Tell me, and i shall provide." He got me a bit curious here. "OK," - i say - "give me another AK, just like my own, and five clips!" And then i almost go nuts, 'cause this old fart lowers his head like it's supposed to mean something, kicks the gravel a couple of times with a heel, and i see a barrel sticking out of there! Well, i simply trample the jerk, start digging like a mad rat, and there it is - AK, pretty new and shining, and five clips, fully loaded! Now, i'm no fool, right? "What do you want for the stash?" - i ask, while peeking around - slim chances he's really alone here, but if he is, so much for the deal, my gun is again at his stomach. He pulls a hide out of a pocket, thin hide, well cured, not rat, something else, all covered with tiny curvy thingies, like though chewed by a dozen roaches. "Just put a cross here and press your finger here - and we are done." I laugh in his stupid face: "Whom are you trying to screw here, you clown? Spill it, what's your price?" "Your soul" - he says - "Your immortal essence. The core and the primary code. Nothing else." That spooked me out a little - i heard rad-sickness must have something to do with some primary code, too. "What essence?" - i ask. Now get ready to laugh your ass off - the jerk replies, literally, i'm never going to forget this shit, it's, like, the best joke i've ever heard: "Young man, how shall i put it... Your soul is what you love with and what others love you for." Anyway, once i stopped neighing and checked my underwear to see if i shat myself out of sheer amusement, we discussed the subject seriously, and the old bugger was too bloody nuts to ever say "no". In the end i put a smudge on that hide of his and a cross nearby, just like he wanted. So now i have more ammo than i need, and a shitload of cannons, too. New boots, look, new helmet. And there's more, but that's a secret - you leak it, you're dead meat - i demanded a cunt then, clean one. Well, you know what? Greyman's bitch now runs to me every week or so. I don't think she even likes it much, i'm not blind, it's more like something is driving her. Of course, not a word to Greyman, she wants to live, after all - i hope you want, too, mind it, i warned you! Life, i say, may get very interesting soon - that limping freak, he mentioned he'd be visiting again, said our place was "a land of plenty" - plenty of what, i'd like to know, rotten shit? So you just keep your eyes peeled - maybe one day you'd also get something for that thingy they bloody fucking love us for!
proxodimec: (Default)
Сказка со счастливым концом - нонсенс. История может закончиться только смертью героев. В противном случае мы наблюдаем лишь завершение поворота сюжета, семантического рукава; история продолжается, принимая новые, обычно менее привлекательные, формы.

"...But to say they lived happily forever after would be a definite exaggeration. Once they had dried, smoked, salted, pickled and preserved in every other known way the slain dragon's meat and sold its hide they came back to live their ordinary life. They never told anyone what happened to the beast's hoard; most likely it was stolen by someone less warriorsome, but way more agile and sneaky. Or maybe, the treasurer had expropriated it on pretext that it was found on king's lands; whatever it was, they didn't grow rich.
Their warm relationship, lacking now that important link - mutual goal - started to dwindle. 7 years later he was bored with
her, she nearly hated him. By that time they had "produced 2 units of offspring" - those were the words he used, as if jokingly, to describe the fact. Their marital game was obviously proving itself a failure and would soon come to a divorce - or, considering her temper, homicide. Unfortunately or fortunately, he perished of pneumonia. His corpse was burnt with just the necessary minimum of ceremony, very quietly. She had no intention of dying on the same day with him or joining him on the funeral pyre, and actually managed to survive for another four years, though an obscene disease she had caught from one of her numerous lovers made her look somewhat unsavory. Her funeral, unlike his, was an event to behold. Quite a few drunken speeches were said, but not a single guest paid any effort to remember: those two were the only humans ever to butcher a dragon with no magic or mechanical devices, using only short pieces of sharpened steel."

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