Fat Burns

I first met Fat Burns at a party at Bean's. Smoke thick enough to be pleasant wafted between us, and we sat there lazily, as if in lethargy. Our conversations flowed smoothly (it was very stuffy and humid), conducted phlegmatically, as if pouring concentrated blood from one cylinder to another.

I spotted Burns among the other guests quite early on, but I don't really know what prompted my interest in him. He was unkempt, unshaven, greasy, sweaty, and drunk—not exactly an appetizing social figure. I kept glancing at him out of the corner of my eye, though I hadn't yet had the courage, or perhaps the desire, to approach him. I know, I guess I lacked the incentive. Yes, that was it.

He stood in the same corner the whole time, near the betta tank. That's how Bean was—he loved watching those fish kill themselves, watching them slowly become the wrecks of what they were when he came to the pet shop to collect them. How they were still alive, though they seemed like torn corpses. And how they were already dead, and the algae eater was nibbling their dead bodies from a thin layer of sediment and slime. Or perhaps it was the bodies he was nibbling?

In any case, Burns stood there, unmoved and somehow obtrusively real among us, as if ever so slightly swayed between truth and quasi-truth. A bit like a chrysalis crawling among the torn, colorful wings of butterflies.

Although Bean had procured a variety of excellent and more common beverages, Gruby would occasionally pull his own hip flask from his breast pocket and take a sip of an honest swig. He didn't talk to anyone, but he did look. He looked a lot and boldly. Especially at the ladies' necklines. He didn't hide it at all, and that struck me as very respectable and honest. I liked him for that stare. Far more honest than one might think.

Somewhere around 11 p.m., when I had completely lost myself in that levitating world of Bean's M3, when reality meant—we, when truth meant—our word, when I already knew I could stay there forever, when the alcohol had already soothed me and I could sink into the nest of Bean's most exquisite illusion, I saw Burns, for the first time that evening, talking to someone. Hamciu approached him. They exchanged a few words, or maybe they just stood together—I don't know. I couldn't see clearly, and I didn't want to move from the soft, dusty armchair.

Some time later, when I was almost falling asleep, a shape loomed over me. I adjusted my vision as best I could. It was Gogo. He looked at me with a hint of doubt, which smoothly turned to sadness.

"He'll be leaving soon. Go with him. With Burns." "

I can't."

"Why?

" "I don't know him."

"Oh, right...

" We looked at each other. "

Getting ready. Go ahead."

I stood up, said a polite and sincere, but not effusive, farewell to Bean, and followed Burns out to the stairwell.

"I'll go with you, okay?" I tried to keep up with him, though it wasn't easy. It was terribly strange—if you'd seen him walking like that from the window—you'd never think he was moving so quickly, because there was nothing hurried about his gait.

"Huh..." I don't know if the Fat one laughed or snorted. I decided to interpret this as agreement. We stepped out into the pleasant coolness of the autumn night. It stank. It stank of alcohol, sweat, and kerosene.

We walked a few steps and a shape emerged from a dark alley. All black and very ugly, with a real tail and hooves, exuding the smell of sulfur. It was the devil. It swirled around us, wrapped its arms around Burns's neck, ran its claws surprisingly gently across my face, harmlessly, and then stood at the Fat one's right, and we marched off with the devil, briskly and briskly, saying nothing. Although I wasn't pleased with our companion's appearance, and, truth be told, it filled me with dread, as we walked, I came to my senses, seeing that Burns was clearly well acquainted with him and trusted him far more than me.

The cobblestones clattered under the devil's hooves, just as they would under a horse's hooves. Every now and then, here and there, a shape loomed in the darkness, but really, considering my situation at the time, I couldn't be afraid of anything anymore.

Burns pulled out his hip flask. Burns pulled, the devil pulled, I pulled. Holy Spirit—I don't know what it was, but hell, hell. Hmm, logical, actually.

Somewhere in the gateway, a cat meowed. I turned my head for a moment, and when I looked back to the right, the devil was gone, but Burns was still striding as before.

"Burns, who are you?" I blurted out. I'm not used to asking such pretentious questions.

"Oh..." Burns sounded concerned, and his voice was unusually pleasant. Unfortunately, he said nothing more.

Even though it was dark, I noticed that as we walked, the old drunk began to grow paler and paler.

"Burns, you don't look well, maybe we could do something about it. What would put you on...

" "Nothing can be done." His words sounded final and authoritative, yet quite gentle. There was a certain sadness in them. The kind of sadness that always made my throat tighten. The unpretentious kind, untainted by anything, unless it was normality.

After a while, I blurted out again (oh, that unruly tongue):

"Burns, who are you?

" "Oh..." again. However, now he added: "Let's go."

And we entered the building. He turned the key in the first-floor apartment. To my surprise, in the hall we were greeted by a chubby and cheerful boy of about ten years old with a wonderful twinkle in his eye and his mother, a middle-aged woman of pleasant appearance and well-groomed.

"This is my family," Burns said. This surprised me greatly. He then took me by the arm and led me into the room. We stood in the doorway. Then the Fat Man extended his open hand and, with a very slow movement, as if only just realizing its existence, pointed to the center of the room.

"And this is my bier."

I emerged from it devastated and close to tears. The cold was no longer a refreshing blue. It had turned a sad shade of blue.

The devil was already waiting for me around the corner. He handed me a hip flask, the same one Burns had. I took a sip—the drink was the same, but the taste seemed less unbearable. We followed my brother into the night together.