How divorce affects life...

 

A cloudy autumn evening. A 16-year-old girl with the unusual name Anastasia sits alone on a bench in a suburban park. She thinks. A few minutes ago, she learned that her parents were getting a divorce. Why? She can't think of a reason. They'd always gotten along great, never argued. Anastasia can't understand it. She glanced furtively at the little boy and his father, strolling along the paths. Something seemed to occur to her. Anastasia's mother had once cheated on her current father with someone else. But that was a long time ago. Would that be the reason for the separation and divorce? No, not really, after all, the girl's mother had left her lover and returned to her family...

Anastasia couldn't find any other reason. She wondered what her future life would be like. Will her many friends and acquaintances abandon her? Will people on the streets in this small town point fingers at her family? And what about her biography? Someday, the time would come when she had to write it. Should Anastasia lie? No, she wouldn't dare...

The divorce took place the following spring, without any fault being determined. Already 17 years old, a devastated Anastasia didn't dare go through with it. She was ashamed. She had no siblings, so she was an only child. She often cried because her parents were divorced. Eventually, it turned out that her father had also found someone else, but he had been hiding his new wife for many years. This was the main reason for the breakup. As a result, the girl ended up living with her mother, grandmother, and grandfather in a big city. Anastasia preferred being with her father, but she didn't dare express her desires. She felt safe with her father. Whenever she had a problem, she went to him; she could cry on his shoulder. He comforted her, gave her advice on how to get through the bad days. However, sitting on that same bench six months later, weeping bitterly, she lost hope for her father's help... He lived too far away. Over time, he stopped communicating with his daughter. He was slowly building a new life with a new woman. The girl's mother also returned to her former lover. Secretly, of course, from her daughter. But Anastasia sensed everything. She knew her parents inside and out, knew everything was falling apart. Every day, she sat sadly on a park bench, reliving memories of when everything was perfect. She cried as she did so. She wished she could turn back time. There came a time when she took all the blame and withdrew into herself...

And now? Now, as she suspected, almost all her friends had abandoned her. Almost all of them. Only one remained, whom she'd met online. They lived in the same town, attended the same classes in high school. They often met outside of school. Anastazja considered him her best friend. They got along great. His name was Jarek. Whenever she needed his support, his help, she'd call, and he'd be there within five minutes. It was with him that she experienced the most beautiful time after the great, terrible event that was her divorce.

The holidays arrived. Anastazja became involved with Jarek. She loved him, and he loved her too. The grown woman had stopped contacting her father; her mother seemed unnecessary to her. And Jarek? Now she felt safest in the world with him. After passing his driving exams, Jarek took Anastazja to the seaside for a few days. They were driving very fast. While driving on the highway, there was an accident. Jarek hit a truck. Both of them died instantly. They had so many plans for the future together, they wanted to get married.... However, sometimes Anastasia wrote in her diary that she wanted to die, to perish in the arms of someone close. And so it happened.

The couple's funeral took place in their hometown. Many people lined the cemetery. All the "former" friends of the adult teenagers showed up. It was clear they regretted turning their backs on them. The girl's father and mother also attended the sad ceremony. They decided to continue supporting each other and got back together. Since the tragedy that befell them, they had blamed each other. They didn't remarry, but instead stayed together forever...

Adia - part 1

A large detachment of Crown soldiers, dressed in golden uniforms, slowly retreated south. The steady clatter of boots echoed in all directions as the men-at-arms marched along the road toward Raven Line, located on the other side of the Kingdom. Most of the men's faces were grim. One war had barely ended, and another was about to begin, the soldiers thought.

Far behind, a single, twenty-man cavalry company still stood before the gates of the capital castle. The cavalrymen, though already somewhat bored, waited patiently, watching the scene unfold before them. None of the warriors said a word to hurry their commander. In fact, it would have done nothing, except cause unnecessary tensions within the company. Besides, they had all known each other for a long time, so they more or less understood Sir Erynkrist's situation.

The knight knelt on one knee, looking into the eyes of the small figure standing before him. The wind gently ruffled the captain's navy blue cape, as did the loose hair of the girl standing before him. The seven-year-old cradled a rag rabbit in both arms, clutching it to her chest. The child's olive eyes glistened with tears as she gazed into the calm eyes of her father. A short, serene man stood just behind the girl.

"Adia... I really have to go," Erynkrist said. "You know Dad's a soldier, I have responsibilities."

The little girl continued to stare at her father silently. She began to tremble slightly, and tears slowly welled up in her eyes.

"I'll be back before you know it. I promise, little girl," he said tenderly and calmly. "It's only six months. Until then, listen to Darrel."

Adia began to sob quietly, tears streaming down her face. She stepped forward and threw her arms around the knight's neck, hugging him tightly. Erynkrist gently returned her embrace, careful not to hurt her with his plate gloves.

"Daddy, don't go... please..." she whispered through her tears, her voice breaking. "Don't leave me here alone."

The knight looked at his daughter once more, his eyes full of pain.

"I'm sorry, Adia. I have to," he said, and gently removed the girl's hands from around his neck and pulled her back enough to stand.

The footman grabbed the girl's hand, reassuring her.

"I'll be back soon. I promise."

Erynkrist turned and had barely mounted his horse when something tugged at his leg.

"Don't go! Daddy!" the girl screamed through her tears, clutching the warrior's foot. "Don't go!"

Darrel quickly grabbed Adia and pulled her back, preventing her from breaking free.

At Erynkrist's signal, the company turned and set off down the road to catch up with the rest. The knight gave his daughter one last look and sadly said, "Farewell.

"

"Darrel! Can you bring me that new dress from Daddy?" she exclaimed to the butler below. "I'll be late for class!"

Adia carefully arranged her hair in front of an old mirror, eagerly awaiting her guardian's arrival. She smiled at the butler as he brought a wooden hanger with an elegant cotton dress on it.

"Thank you, I can handle the rest."

Darrel nodded slightly and returned to cleaning the large house.

Once she finished with her hair, she put on the dress the servant had brought. The green dress was one of the most beautiful gifts her father had given her. This particular one had been delivered by a messenger a few days earlier, as a New Year's gift. It was only the beginning of December, but the knight wanted to make sure his daughter received it on time.

It had been almost seven years since Erynkrist first set out for the Line. The situation in the south had not improved, but the knight returned home every six months, as promised. He spent the summer and autumn with his daughter in Ravenna, and before the first snows, he set off with his men back to the Line.

Adia threw a fashionable hooded cape over her shoulders and ran down the stairs, bidding farewell to the butler on the way.

"Darrell, I'm going to the dance, I'll be back for dinner!" she said briskly, slamming the front door behind her.

The butler only sighed, returning to dusting off an old swamp troll trophy, brought back several years ago by the master of the house.

The girl headed down the cobblestone street straight to the Collegium in the city center. At this school, with her father's money, she received a wide range of knowledge – Erynkrist insisted she study protocol, dancing, poetry, science, and theology. Studying all these subjects was often beyond Adia's capabilities, but she refused to disappoint her father. So she studied diligently, not squandering the knight's trust or the money she risked her life to earn.

Despite the cold and falling snow, the streets of Ravenna were crowded. Street vendors shouted the prices of their wares, praising them above all else. Crown guards with halberds patrolled the streets in groups of three or four, and craftsmen worked tirelessly.

Along the way, Adia greeted people she knew who lived near her home. The girl was well-known to most of the local townspeople for her beauty, her unique social standing, and her past. It was no secret that she had lived alone in the large house for many years, without her family, ever since the war in the south began. Recently, she had also begun appearing at court, when her father took her to the palace in early autumn, introducing his daughter to important figures in the kingdom.

The common folk who knew her were primarily motivated by jealousy—though well-concealed. Adia's peers, in particular, envied the expensive gifts she received from her knightly father, and the fact that she didn't have to work, studying instead at the Collegium alongside children of well-known families of the lower nobility.

The girl passed the Two Candles Inn, greeting Tionarl, the innkeeper for whom she had worked until the age of ten. When Darrel first sent her to work at the Two Candles, Adia was decidedly dissatisfied. She only began to devote herself to cleaning the inn at her father's insistence.

She walked another fifteen minutes before reaching the city's main square. This was where the government offices, the guild halls, and the Collegium were located. In the center of the square stood a large statue depicting a man, a woman, and a dog. The carved figures were dressed in traveler's garb, the man carrying a large bundle on his back, from which various tools protruded. Surrounding the Monument to the Pioneers were a multitude of stalls selling valuable goods. Cloth, weapons, jewelry, and spices, arriving from faraway places, lured the wealthier sections of Ravenna, who had been gathering at the market since dawn.

Adia entered the university courtyard through the main gate and entered the massive doors for her dancing lessons. The New Year was approaching, and so was the ball at the palace. Erynkrist had promised her that she could attend if the teachers deemed her dancing skills adequate. Hence, the girl applied herself diligently, determined to impress the instructors as best she could. Smiling, she entered the large hall, where she was bombarded with somewhat hostile glances from her classmates, who were never happy with the company of the relatively low-born Adia.

* * *

Two crossbowmen strolled through the fortifications of Raven's Line, wrapped in warm, navy blue cloaks. It was already night, and small raindrops softly pelted their helmets.

The situation to the south was precarious – attacks came only from disorganized groups of monsters. This had happened before, but never so intensely. Swarms of goblinoids, ogres, and sometimes even trolls mindlessly attacked the ancient, several-hundred-meter-high wall. It was obvious they stood no chance without siege engines or even a modicum of organization. The only problem plaguing the soldiers and their commanders on the Line was their rapidly dwindling supplies. Arrows and bolts were dwindling, and boiling oil was almost depleted – hence the commanders along almost the entire length of the Line forbidding its use until the next, already delayed, delivery.

The defenders of the fortified border suffered no casualties, though there were some wounded – occasionally an orc arrow would strike one of the archers behind the battlements. The cavalry, patrolling no man's land, was a different story. Small squads of cavalrymen were sent out to scout – the king ordered the commanders of the Line to be cautious and not to underestimate the enemy. Barbarian tribes of monsters could be dangerous in large numbers, especially if they emerged as leaders.

A pair of crossbowmen passed a warrior in officer's uniform, whistling a cheerful tune. He was heading for the watchtower – along the entire length of the Line, there were several such strongholds, serving as barracks and warehouses for the border troops.

When the distance between the pair of archers and the knight became sufficiently great, one of them spoke up:

"To the one so cheerful? Sir Erynkrist, I mean?" "The short-haired blond, probably from the vicinity of the Citadel—a fortress city located at the northern tip of the Kingdom—corrected after a moment.

"It's almost May. He'll be back soon." The soldier sighed. "The knights and their companies rotate every six months. I still have four months left to serve. You have eleven.

" "I thought everyone served a year before furlough," the younger soldier muttered, a little irritated. "I wouldn't say it was fair.

" "Fair? Certainly. It's the law," the red-haired rifleman replied firmly. "They say officers work harder, hence they get furlough more often." He said, adjusting his belt, which held a quiver half-full of bolts.

They walked in silence for a while, the rain and wind intensifying. They stopped at one of the small, roofed outposts recently added to the walls. The room was sheltered from the wind, and inside stood a long table and two benches. At the table, two soldiers were playing dice for entertainment – there was no pot in sight.

"I've heard Sir Erynkrist is from Ravenna? Is that true?" the blond asked uncertainly.

His companion only nodded. He was growing tired of the topic.

"That he wants to travel such a long way from here..." the younger rifleman muttered as if to himself.

"I don't blame him. In fact, I pity him."

The soldier from the north looked questioningly at his older colleague, demanding with his eyes that he continue.

"He's a widower and left a daughter in the capital. Apparently, he sends all his pay to her, but maybe that's just a rumor. He's a bit of an oddball, but as I said – I pity him," he added after a moment and sighed, sitting down on the bench and greeting the other soldiers.

Spread your elbows (7)

 

His friend glanced at his watch and realized it was time. He waited a few more minutes until it was surely too late. He glanced at his watch again and realized it was time. Nothing was going to pass him by this evening. Cold air billowed through the entrance door in clouds of thick, milky steam. The silhouettes of the evening's guests appeared in the damp clouds, still reeking of winter evening exhaust fumes, their cheeks flushed pink. Droplets of steam trickled down his friend's nose and onto the floor; he had already broken his third cigarette, and his pant legs were wet. He found it difficult to breathe through the dense swirl; his lungs felt extremely dry and heavy. In the thickening fog, the silhouettes of the guests began to blur. First, the table at the far end of the room, against the wall, disappeared, then the girl waiting for the restroom. And so, step by step, hand over hand, foot over foot, everything disappeared, and his friend was left alone. He felt the presence of others, somewhere beyond the gray, damp screen he heard muffled voices and laughter, but his friend was already walking alone and he tried desperately not to look back. And suddenly, right in front of him, on the edge of visibility, he saw a hand, or perhaps even the shadow of a hand in a long leather glove. He immediately recognized the fingers and nails, knew the fingertips and fingerprints by heart. In that shape were silk, pearls, a rainbow, and the edge of a razor blade. Only Chinese promotions had such hands. And it seemed to him that from behind the clouds of steam two eyes were looking at him, and a hand was unbearably beckoning, twisting toward him but unable to reach him. There was a roaring and hissing in his ears, blood pounding in his membrane. So where was that whisper of "kidnap me" coming from, at the edge of audible frequency, where were those sighs coming from, perhaps only the dripping of water. He took a step forward, but the fog began to choke him. It bit into his mouth with a passionate kiss, not content with his tongue but seeped into his lungs and smothered his heart. A huge bronze bell-shaped heart swayed in his head, beating against his throbbing temples; his breath became increasingly shallow. The shadow of a silhouette approached him. He felt the sweet scent of perfume and balm on his lips, closed his eyes, and spun. Someone kicked the door from outside, and an icy blast pierced his friend, struck the room, and froze the row of vodka bottles above the bar. In a fierce draft, the fog suddenly condensed in a silver rain and fell to the floor, scarves and colorful hats flew. Fikołek, pale in a billowing white dress, screamed, "Close the fucking door." His friend staggered and collapsed into a chair. He felt a great cold and great chill creeping in through that door, opened magically by the intoxicated customer, and something within his friend froze and would never thaw again. The gray shadow vanished without a trace, though its dark and warm memory remained in the air. He glanced at his watch and it seemed to him that it was time.

With a frozen heart and icy pupils, he walked slowly along the sidewalk. With each step, he drew closer to the end of his assigned role. The square shape tucked into the lining of his jacket banged painfully against his ribs. He seemed slightly irritated by this fact. He thought ruefully of his snotty, pissed-over childhood, when every Christmas, his Friend would joyfully run, heart pounding, to unwrap presents. He thought of his foolish and high-minded youth, when, with madness on his lips, he had kissed a girl, then possessed her in the lilac bushes on a clear moonlit night, with the narcotic scent of flowers and a stick poking his butt. He thought of the heartbreaking breakage of seeing the same girl kiss another friend. He remembered carrying the host behind the priest, stealing a pornographic magazine from his father, the first time he'd struck a fat, sticky note from a string, the first vodka that had hit his head in a rainbow, opalescent fountain. The entire sidewalk he'd left behind his friend was covered with his sorrows and joys. Now, however, he walked, compact and ready, with a madman's plan thrashing between his ears, and he felt nothing.

Nothing.

Absolutely nothing.

No tingling in his fingers, no tickling in his back, no timid erection. The stock market quotes from last Tuesday were the equivalent of his friend's mood.

"It's going to go up," he muttered to himself and trudged on.

And they sat tight, compact, in a hard, dark mass. Soft-calved intellectuals passed them by in a timid, swift stream. Because all those glasses, long, slender fingers, and protruding collarbones were nothing compared to the hard fists, short, shiny stubble, and greasy eyes. It was immediately clear who was on top and who was falling away: on the one hand, a dying culture, decadent as dying Rome, and on the other, barbarians at the gates, three stripes instead of torches. They came here from the fatal mistake of continents, spinning around unabashedly in the most foolish directions. And like the Bering Strait, one can jog across fragile ice in particularly harsh winters, they entered and sat down, and the crowd parted for them. They sat in a corner. The stench of mahorka spoiled the aroma of expensive, noble cigarettes. A few thick jokes dripping with whore and cunt were shared, and the crowd parted even further. The Convict, the Lover, and Fikołek leaned over their glasses at the farthest table, their backs to the unnamed one.

"Something's broken," the pale Fikołek remarked. "They shouldn't have come here.

" "True, something's broken with the company. These guys must have made a serious mistake.

" "That big guy sitting next to the Chinese promotion is supposedly really... Big. His friend seems to have wanted something from him," Wirtual tried to recall.

"The guests have definitely made a mistake, but I'll be the last to tell them." The Convicted Man leaned over the table. "I'm already choking from this mess."

A slender intellectual walked past them, clutching his bleeding nose and holding broken glasses.

"Look, they beat Janek," the lover exclaimed. "How could they beat Janek? You can't beat Janek, Janek is ours.

" "Well, to be honest...

" "What?

" "I never particularly liked him." The Convicted Man weighed his words for a long time—perhaps it was better that someone finally explained it to him.

"Explained what?

" "That I never particularly liked him .

" Fikołek drew a righteous arc of cloudy orange and took a deep breath, because what she was about to say was utterly important.

"That's not the point at all, Convicted by the Face to Fame, let the name be light for you. The point is that we have a role to fulfill here, certain, as it were, duties weighing on us like an unwanted burden. Responsibility." Responsibility weighs on us, too. We have weak, anemic limbs, but quick, sharp associations and punch lines, wit, and bon mot. And because of this contrast, because of this juxtaposition, us, us...

"What about us?" the lover inquired.

"You can't hit us," the somersault finished emphatically. "Because we don't know how to fight."

The last batch of orange juice met everything the somersault drank that evening, and the somersault took off.

"Look at her, what a nice girl." The lover glanced into a dark, dismal corner.

In the corner to the left of the throbbing vein in his arm, next to the armpit that smelled of "brutal" water, reflected off his bald skull, sat a Chinese promotion. Turned to her better profile, she played with a chestnut (today) lock of her hair. Her profile (better) was surprisingly regular, her eyes halfway between a warm spring sunset and Miles Davis at his best. Emerald nails added a slightly predatory, feline touch, counterpointed by a touching neckline. Her legs injected a sentimental, melancholic note. Feet in green slippers casually tapped—tap, tap—against the floor. But even so, everything was reduced to primal lust: lips, lips like cherries, lips like flames. Their lines twisted any observer into a painful grimace; the color, texture, folds—to kiss such lips would be a sin, a desecration, and a slander. Kissing such lips would be a sin, a desecration, and a slander. A Taliban could have kissed such lips while chipping off the wise and ancient head of Buddha. And right now, those lips formed a smile as delicate as a sigh, ironic, slightly mocking, teasing, a smile that shouted to the entire room, only to the lover.

"I'm not one of them," the lover whispered.

"Please?" asked the Condemned One.

Lord Eckersley stepped onto the terrace of his luxurious villa and gazed with satisfaction at the lithe, tanned body of his lover, Julia, lying on a fluffy towel by the poolside. She was fiddling with her feminine prose, with particularly simple sentences, 3 złoty in the underpass beneath the station.

"Get me out of here," the lover whispered.

"Oh, damn, this is bad," the Convicted Man fretted.

He placed a glass of his finest wine from the family's private vineyards on the white, ebony table and moved decisively toward the sunbathing girl.

"I'm so lonely. Chase away my sadness," the lover moaned.

"Lover, listen to me. Stop looking at her, she's hypnotizing you." One of them will notice soon…

" He drizzled a small amount of musk oil on his manicured hands and began rubbing it into her sweat-beaded back, casually removing her bikini straps from her brown shoulders.

"I'm only for you," the lover whispered, and didn't finish, "because…"

He didn't finish, because a large shadow obscured the lover, the Convicted One, and the Flipper at the very end; it was a truly large shadow.

"Hey, buddy," a large, sinewy hand lifted the lover by the lapels of his jacket, and the lover was now swinging his legs playfully. "I noticed you were looking at my girl."

"I'm the one who's going to piss off," the Convicted One said noncommittally, and he really did.

Suddenly, Jose, the lover of Lord Eckersley's mistress, jumped onto the terrace. "You aristocratic pig," he said in his face. "You've made my plebeian chosen one your concubine, but I'll put an end to this abomination now." Julia burst into tears. "Oh, Jose, it's not like that."

"Do you have a name, buddy? Or should I just write 'Tomb of the Unknown Soldier' on your forehead with a lighter?"

Sir Walter suddenly drew the pistol he always carried on a special strap. Two shots rang out, and Jose Antonio, bleeding and wheezing, collapsed onto the villa's terrace. Julia screamed, "Jose! My dearest!"

"My name is Legion," said the lover, and looked back, hoping for the condemned man's support. The condemned man glowed with absence. "Because... damn, there aren't many of us."

He was hit twice in the face, once with a swing to the soft side, he doubled over, and then he was hit again with an elbow. He crashed face first into the floor, felt something fragile and painful like a son of a bitch burst in his nose, and he curled up in his own private universe of suffering. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the Chinese promotion approaching him with subtle, dancing steps.

"Hero, you stood up for me," the lover groaned with effort, "so now... so now...

" "Come on, let's get out of here," she took Big's arm. "It's a bit numb in here.

" "I'm coming, honey," Big gasped, "I'll just kick myself one more time.

" "So kick yourself one more time and let's go."

"That's why I'll step on your hand now," the lover declared, tears of pain in his eyes, looking at Promotion's heel, which was embedded in his wrist.

"And they lived happily ever after," the little lady said dispassionately, turning even paler and losing consciousness.

Promotion waited by the exit, nervously adjusting her makeup, delicate as a dream from a long night. Behind the door, the lover squealed playfully each time the big man's heel dug into his stomach. The party, though dull, betrayed some comical elements, but despite everything, Promotion was already somewhat tired of it. She felt a dark presence behind her, so she nodded impatiently:

"Let's finally go..." when she noticed Friend.

Friend stood still, his right hand in the pockets of his leather jacket, smoking a cigarette. He seemed completely motionless, as if he'd been standing there for hours. But he looked really good standing there, smoking, a mix of bum and truly fashionable, gangster boy, a bum in Dior clothes. Promotion felt uneasy.

"What are you looking at?"

The friend took a drag on his cigarette and said nothing. The melancholic corners of Promotion's mouth curved up slightly, and a glint of faint amusement appeared in his poison-green eyes.

"So you too? You just stand there, thinking you can achieve what thousands of other men haven't?"

The friend, without emotional involvement, finished his stupid cigarette and searched for the ashtray for a moment. Finally, he placed it carefully on the ground. Promotion ignored him. She rubbed moisturizer on her shiny lips.

"You know, since you're here, I'll tell you something. We live in increasingly dwarfed times. Men used to kidnap me with screeching tires, the wail of police sirens, carry me out the window, jump from a burning skyscraper." They reeked of sweat and gunpowder, some casually uttered brilliant lines. Others, on the contrary, didn't speak at all. But everyone, without exception, fucked me afterward, some romantically, with candlelight and music. Others, on the contrary, quickly picked me up in the hay and ran off to relive their adventures. But some died from bullets afterward, having only managed to whisper my name. Others, on the contrary, died with a knife in their chests, or collapsed under the table, with poison in their veins. Some died quickly and painlessly. Others, on the contrary, suffered for weeks. But the end, my friend, was long ago written. So I wouldn't want to spoil your evening.

My friend betrayed a certain weariness with this monologue. He glanced at his watch.

"Will you allow me? I'm going to kidnap you.

" "Of course you are. And I will. At least for a while, until things get boring." Impatiently, she brushed her hair back from her forehead. "Well, get started."

- Promotion... - he began and stopped.

"On such occasions, something special is said," he repeated in his mind obediently after Tolstoy. But he couldn't quite remember what he was actually saying. He looked at her. She moved closer, and her face flushed. He wanted to lean over her hand to kiss it, but Promotion, with a quick and sudden movement of her head, captured his lips and pressed them to hers. "Now it's too late, everything's over!" How I don't love her! the friend thought.

"Je vous aime," he said, suddenly remembering what to say in such situations, but the words sounded so feeble that he was ashamed. The lover's whimpering from within subsided, so the friend took the promotion's hand in his own with a decisive movement and pulled it with him into the darkness. The promotion's hand burned with living fire; the friend felt as if he were holding a flaming salamander, and the living flesh was peeling from his fingers. Yet he felt a piercing cold in his lungs. And inside, under his jacket, under his large package, under his sweater, under his fashionable T-shirt, under his thin chest, under his ribs, under his heart, he felt a frozen lump, a nub, pressing against him and giving him no peace. He licked the poisonous, violet-scented saliva of the promotion from his lips.

Neuroschism

I activated my neurotransmitter and drew my pistol. The heavy, thick stock gave me a pleasant sense of security. The dealers' den was located in Kern, the worst district of Moloch. People lived here in crumbling tenement buildings or shacks cobbled together from corrugated iron, cardboard, and whatever else. Most residents had no permanent jobs, so to survive they had to steal. Some were paid by local syndicates; the gangsters recruited informants from among them, or set up dens in the backwaters of Kern. That's why my investigation was so delicate. If anyone had started snooping around the locals or asking about the formula dealers, they would have left long ago. I had to put in a lot of work to get firsthand information from the dealers' last client.

"Josh, the assault team is ready, and so are the medical wagons," I heard Biglery's voice coming from my internal implant. "

Let's hope we don't have to deal with the Blacks." "

Good luck, don't get yourself killed."

"I'm not going to."

I cocked my pistol and stepped over the body of the unconscious youth who was standing watch. I headed for the door. Just as I was about to open it, I heard a scraping sound coming from the trash-strewn alley. I immediately crouched and aimed. My nerves were on edge when a small, dirty girl with a chubby face crawled out from behind the large bags. She looked at me with wide, terrified eyes and ran away. Good, little children shouldn't listen to curses, even whispered ones. If black people burst in, there could be a real massacre. I turned to the door and opened it a crack. Through the crack, I saw Inductor standing in the corner, a huge neurocomputer humming in a low voice. Someone was sitting at a computer, rocking in a swivel chair with her back to the entrance. I stepped through the threshold, cast a quick glance out the door, and then aimed back at the IT guy. I forced the chair to turn toward me. I felt the neurotransmitter heat up. The surprised young man raised his hands. I tossed the elastic handcuffs toward him. "

Put them on," I whispered. He hesitated for a moment, but after I aimed at him, he relented and, using his teeth, obediently tightened the tape around his wrists. I walked over to him and quickly tightened the tape around his mouth as well. With an additional strap, I handcuffed him to the Inductor. I entered the next room. It looked like a dining room; stacks of Chinese food cartons littered the floor, dirty glasses on the wooden table, and a scuffed couch in the middle of the room. The neurotransmitter lay on a low cabinet next to the couch. I was just about to secure the item when a startled man entered from the other entrance. Without thinking about the silent action, I shouted, aiming my gun at him:

"Get down!" Get on the ground, you bastard!

I didn't expect him to find me so quickly. In one fluid movement, he leaped behind the couch, reaching for the neurotransmitter mid-flight. I fired twice after the fleeing figure; the first bullet splintered a section of wall, sending clouds of plaster into the air, the second dismembering the couch. I dashed into the previous room, feeling the pressure of the neurotransmitter. At the same moment, a table shot out of the ground and flew toward me, smashing into the wall near the door. Splinters and splintered wood swirled through the air.

"Derek, trouble!" yelled the man crouched behind the couch. I leaned out and fired a few random shots at the couch. Besides flying sawdust, they had no effect. However, a cry for help did, as a moment later a blond man appeared in the other doorway, clutching an assault rifle. I was so surprised that all I could do was raise my left hand and activate the protective field. The burst flattened against the invisible barrier, but some managed to penetrate, and their energy threw me back several meters. My vest withstood the impact, but it would surely leave ugly bruises. Derek fired at the door to prevent me from entering the room. The young IT specialist sat crouched behind Inductor, his head buried between his knees. Splinters, shreds of doorframe, and plaster flew through the air. Suddenly, I heard a distinctive click. The firing pin hadn't struck the cartridge's primer; time to change the magazine. Now or never, I thought, and crouched in the doorway, raising the weapon to fire. I had one chance to eliminate them both. A neurotransmitter stung my skin painfully as I pushed the couch with all my might toward Derek standing in the doorway. At the same moment, I fired twice at the exposed figure in the center of the room. The man, falling, threw his arms out in a heap. Blood gushed from the two holes in his chest. Derek lay unconscious in the doorway, among a smashed couch. From the way his limbs were positioned, I could tell he'd sustained a few nasty fractures. I picked up the rifle and concentrated on the bolt. A moment later, the firing pin snapped, and I set the useless piece of metal aside. I pulled the ring from his dead friend's temple and reported, "

Clear, we'll need a wagon, one stiff, one wounded, one secured." "

I've accepted Josh. The wagon has a green light, the Blacks are going home."

Biglery patted me on the shoulder. "

You did well, Josh." He reached for a bottle of whiskey from the desk and suggested,

"Would you like a shot? Pass me some ice, there should be a few cubes left in the freezer." "

Alcohol on duty? Hell, the Chief Inspector himself was offering me some." I reached for the glasses and tossed in a few ice cubes.

"Good?" I almost got crushed under the table.

"I imagine it wouldn't look too interesting on the paperwork. After fourteen years of exemplary service, killed by a table while performing operational duties.

" "Funny," I muttered. "Stan, things used to be different. I remember when transmitters were rare. Now, on almost every mission, I encounter someone throwing fireballs left and right. Those scum had an Inductor on their staff. God knows what formulas they could have used. An Inductor in a den..." I sighed. "

Josh, you're getting older, and the world is moving on. And the bandits with it. That's normal...

" "That's not normal. Neurotransmitters aren't normal. That someone can cook your brain without even seeing you isn't normal either.

" "If I didn't know you, I'd think you were burning out." Biglery gave me an appraising look. I shrugged.

"Maybe it's true. Stan... I feel like I'm fighting some kind of relentless hydra." In place of one arrested dealer, two more, more ruthless ones arrive. With more dangerous formulas.

"You hate neurotransmitters, don't you?" he stated rather than asked. "You do, but you use the hoops yourself." "

Are you trying to moralize me, Biglery? Yes, as far as I'm concerned, I wish neurotransmitters had never been invented, but I use them, otherwise I would have died long ago. A neurotransmitter saved my life today, too. But I've had enough. Fourteen years is still four years too long. I should have retired long ago, or been stuck behind a desk.

" "And what would you do? I know you... You wouldn't sit around with your ass in an office."

"Stan, if this keeps up, they'll shoot my ass off, and I won't have anything to sit on at all," I growled. "

Tell me one thing, Josh," Stanley persisted. "Who do you want to go back to? Who do you want to live for? You have no one; your job is all you have. It's your life."

"I decide what my life is," I hissed through my clenched jaw. "And my private life is my personal business, it shouldn't be anyone's business."

Biglery leaned back in his chair. He sipped his whiskey. Finally, he said,

"You really want to leave. I understand, you have the right to. No one else deserves a break more than you. And it would be a terrible bastard to ask you for another favor." Biglery looked me in the eye and finished, "But that's my job."

Then he tossed the manila folder onto the desk. "

Look through this, Josh."

For a moment, I instinctively wanted to reach for the papers. I caught myself feeling a sick excitement, like I always do before a new job. But then I remembered the fragments of the table spinning at high speed. I shuddered. I stood up from the desk. "

I can't help you, Stan. I'm sorry."

As I was leaving, I was afraid I'd hear, "Stop, Josh! You're still working here! You're a cop, damn it!" I was afraid, but at the same time, I longed for a clear order that would decide for me. But I heard nothing.

On my way back, I left the expressway earlier than usual. I stopped at a Chinese restaurant and bought some snacks. In the distance, beyond the elevated expressway, the skyscrapers of downtown were visible. The sun was slowly setting, bringing to life the flashy advertisements and countless neon signs. Moloch, as we called Molobay City, never slept. In fact, it was more active at night than during the day. I untangled myself from the maze of narrow streets, stopping only for a glass of wine, returned to the expressway, and headed home. I sat down in front of the Holo, placed the snacks on the table, and held an iced coffee in my hand. I wanted to call a few people, but really, I only knew Biglery well; the rest of my friends had either moved away or weren't as close to me as they used to be. So I put a bottle of wine in front of me, intending to drink it alone, and I started wondering what my private life had been up to for the past fourteen years. I have a nice apartment. Sometimes women even come over, and surprisingly, I don't have to pay them. There was Rose once, but she couldn't stand a guy who was never sure he'd come home from work in one piece.

"...Six accidental victims," the announcer snapped me out of my reverie. "The perpetrator, most likely using a neurotransmitter, is very dangerous."

I automatically turned up the volume, carelessly knocking over the bottle. For a moment, I struggled with the wine spilling onto the floor, but eventually I focused on the holo.

"...then proceeding to North Center Avenue, where suspect Jeremiah Levy caused an explosion that resulted in..."—the visuals showed a smoking car wreck at the intersection of a busy street, and burning debris on the sidewalk. "...Two more people died."

I turned off the holo. I reached for the communicator, feeling an unpleasant knot in my stomach.

"Stan?" "

I'm listening, Josh. "

"I was watching the news."

"Spence Heatfield and Roma Blank. They were supposed to catch Levy in a raid on North Center Ave.

"I'm sorry, Stan... "

"Me too, Josh, I know their families."

"Biglers, I..." my voice caught in my throat, "I'll be at the station soon, okay?"

Fortunately, Stan wasn't the type to get offended by wounded pride.

"Come, Josh, come," he said calmly.

Biglery was drinking coffee; it was almost eleven at night. The briefcase was still on the desk. Stan had taken out only the most important papers and placed them beside him. I reached for them. Professor Jeremiah Levy, a professor of neuromolecular physics at MPI. Thirty-two years old, very talented and hardworking. He was about to receive his habilitation when he suddenly decided to crush several passersby. Next came a list of contacts, addresses, acquaintances.

"Maybe someone prevented him from getting his habilitation. You know, revenge, frustration—these things happen.

" "No, the habilitation is just a formality now; all it took was a few signatures. He knew that. I act like he no longer cares about his degrees. Like nothing else matters to him anymore.

" "He must have some motive. Maybe he realized there was some hidden flaw in his work. Wasting years of work can be unsettling."

"Perhaps you could check it out. There's something else." Some witnesses claim Levy wasn't wearing the neurotransmitter. "

Are you kidding? They're probably still in shock. I watched the holo report. He'd have to be carrying a whole arsenal to do that kind of damage.

" "These are photos." Biglery showed me printouts from the security cameras on North Center Ave. The photos weren't high quality, but it was clear Jeremiah wasn't wearing the hoop. "

I'll have to talk to a few people," I said, putting on my coat.

The documents indicated that Jeremiah Levy lived the life of a hermit, shuttling between the university and the lab, spending significantly more time in the latter. His only entertainment was playing bridge with his regular group of gambling friends. In this case, a hypothetical failure in the job that was his entire life would have had a very strong impact on Levy's psyche. In any case, I probably won't learn anything from my sparring partners. The only options left are the professors at MPI and perhaps the students, but I wasn't counting on them either. I drove up to the institute building. Vice-Rector Alan Travis, after a brief phone call, agreed to see me in his office.

"I'm usually the one who comes to you if you want to talk. You know, it's also a school, and the sight of police officers walking its corridors doesn't exactly do a good job of bolstering the image of an independent university. But I understand the circumstances." He recited this lengthy introduction in a reprimanding voice honed by years of lecturing to crowds of students.

I decided to get straight to the point, avoiding unnecessary sophistry along the way. Somewhere out there, Jeremiah might have been planning another murder.

"Levy was applying for a postdoctoral degree; were there any objections?"

"No. Quite the opposite. Jeremiah is a pioneer in a new field of neuromolecular physics." He deserves at least a habilitation for his work.

"So maybe someone prevented him from obtaining it," I suggested.

"That's ridiculous. We have healthy relations within the department. Besides, we all admired Levy's work.

" "What exactly was he working on?"

Travis reached for a business card holder and handed me a thin sheet of paper.

"It's Levy's assistant. You'll learn more there."

I ran my finger across the sheet, and three-dimensional symbols emerged. Chazz Thompson, Balamory St.

Despite the late hour, I decided to visit Chazz. He lived in a rather nice neighborhood, located away from both the bustling city center and the slum outskirts. In such neighborhoods, people didn't put holo signs in the gates; you entered through the gate and rang the doorbell. As I had just done. After a moment, the door opened, and a woman's face appeared in the gap between it and the frame. I showed my ID and introduced myself:

"Officer Joshua Sheridan, I'd like to speak with Mr. Chazz Thompson."

I heard the scrape of a chain being pulled, and the door swung open wider. The woman was wearing only a bathrobe, which was understandable given the hour. She was shapely, with slightly curly brown hair and harmonious features. She could have been twenty-five or twenty-six. For a moment, I envied Chazz.

"I apologize for the intrusion, but I urgently need to speak with Mr. Levy's assistant."

She seemed to be in no hurry. The girl smiled and rubbed her eyes.

"It's urgent," I repeated. "I

'm listening." Her smile widened. Only then did I realize.

"Excuse me, I was convinced—"

"That only men do physics?" she interrupted. "Don't worry, it's not the first time this has happened to me, and it won't be the last. Would you like some coffee?"

I nodded, and we sat down at the table. "

So what did Levy do? Did he run a red light?" She spoke of him in such a patronizing tone that I wondered if there was something between them.

"Oh no, I know! Parking in a prohibited spot!" "She opened her eyes wide with fear. Under different circumstances, I would have smiled.

"He's murdered eight people so far."

"Oh my God!" Chazz covered her mouth. "That can't be true!"

"Unfortunately. I'm sorry you're hearing this from me, but we're pressed for time.

" "How..." she stammered. "How can I help?"

"I need to know what Levy has been working on lately."

"He's a genius. I can't explain all the issues he's raising, but to put it simply, it's about transforming and transmitting energy without a neuro."

"Without a neurotransmitter?" I asked, surprised, and a picture of Levy from North Center Avenue flashed before my eyes. "That's impossible. Sounds like he's practicing some damn magic."

Chazz smiled.

"All we know about neuroenergy is how we can use it. We don't know where it comes from, why it's stronger in some and weaker in others. Using the mathematics of many fields, we've learned to create equations that direct neuroenergy appropriately.

"Formulae," I muttered. "

Right, the right mathematical formulas, so..." Chazz continued, "...We've created a canon of commands that use our neuroenergy to produce the desired effects. We've also created Inductors, neurocomputers that can be coupled to the hoops and feed the formula into the transmitter so the user can use new formulas. But that's where our knowledge ends; everything else is theory, or even guesswork. We're only scratching the surface, but we don't know what neuroenergy is." Levy got to the heart of the matter. So, as you can see... jokes about witchcraft aren't so out of place. At least in a way.

The lecture shook me. I'd always thought I was an expert on neuroenergy, but Chazz made me realize I was merely a skilled user. I felt like a sharpshooter in a ballistics lecture.

"So, could Levy have gotten by without a neuro?" I asked.

"That's a pretty far-fetched conclusion. Theoretically..."

A bit of plaster fell onto the table.

"Damn, it's a brand new house," Chazz cursed. A premonition struck me, and I grabbed her hand. "

Is there a back door?" I whispered. Chazz nodded, her eyes wide with terror, this time serious, and choked out,

"Kitchen."

I pulled her along, running toward the kitchen. A split second later, the living room ceiling buckled and fell with a loud crash onto the table. Behind the ceiling, more and more pieces of the house began to fall away exponentially. Wasting no time in opening the door, I kicked the door open and we rushed outside. A few moments later, the house folded itself as if made of cards. We lay on the grass, panting and choking on the dust from the ruined building that enveloped us immediately after the collapse. I held my gun in my hand, but I had a feeling I wouldn't need to use it again that night. Unleashing that much energy must have taken a lot of Levy's strength. Regardless, we made it out onto the highway through the fences of more properties. I called for transport to the police station. A moment later, a civilian car pulled up to pick us up.

"That kind of power..." Chazz was still clutching my arm. "

I know. The neuro should fry his brain," I muttered, and after a moment, I added with a smile, "

At least we know that, theoretically, the neurotransmitter isn't necessary."

I figured that, considering her condition, the faint smile on Chazz's face wasn't bad at all.

In the morning, after we'd rested and cleaned up, things weren't so scary. They were still scary, to say the least. Biglery brought us trays of food.

"Boss! It's almost like breakfast in bed," I smiled. "

Be glad I didn't spend the night with you," Stan replied. While eating, I told him everything I'd learned about Levy. Chazz helped me with the technical details of his work as a scientist and the account of the attack on her house. After the report, I asked Chazz,

"Do you have a place to stay?"

"I could spend some time at a hotel, but I left my credit cards at the apartment..."

"If you want, I can put you up for a few days. I work nights anyway, and if necessary, I can sleep at the police station."

Chazz smiled. I was liking that smile more and more.

"Okay," she agreed.

"Just don't expect any luxuries. It's enough of an effort for me to keep things relatively tidy." I winked at her.

"I'll be fine.

" "Great. I'll take you now; you should be safe there."

We were reaching my floor. The elevator clattered noisily up the stairs.

"Are you sure I won't find anyone under the covers?" Chazz continued to tease me the entire way. "

Imagine, I'm a good cop."

"Sure. You didn't have any qualms about inviting me. If I remember correctly, if a man invites a woman to his house..." "

That was fair enough, because I took her with her safety in mind." I was about to object when she narrowed her eyes at me and parted her lips. Then she suddenly burst out laughing. Chazz. I think I could get used to it in time. Just before my floor, the elevator slowed. The lights flashed a warning and dimmed. The elevator doors slid open slowly, as if about to stop.

"Emergency?" Chazz whispered, startled.

"Shh." I put a finger to my lips and with my other hand drew my gun.

Somewhere at the end of the hall, a light bulb went off, trailing sparks.

"Wait," I told her, and started toward the door to my apartment. I felt someone's eyes boring into me, almost as if I were at gunpoint. My stomach tightened painfully. When I was just outside the entrance, I was sure the bastard was behind the door. I wanted to aim for the door, but my arm froze halfway there. Suddenly, I felt as if my whole body had frozen. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Chazz silently slide to the floor. A force lifted me a few inches off the ground and pushed me toward the entrance. Kicking down a door with my face is a very unnerving experience. Levy stood behind it. He looked at me calmly, as if judging me by my appearance. Finally, he said, "I'm sorry, I'm sorry."

"Thank you for bringing Miss Thompson. At this point, getting her out of police headquarters could be troublesome, to say the least."

I felt the feeling return to

my face. "The pleasure's all mine," I rasped. Levy ignored me and turned away with a straight face. He stepped over the fallen door and left the apartment, leaving me hanging in midair, blood streaming down my face and dripping onto the floor.

"Josh..." I heard Biglery's voice in my ear. "Hold him a moment longer, we're taking up positions."

The bastard must have been keeping an eye on me, but in this case, it's hard for me to blame him.

" "Levy!" I yelled. A moment later, Jeremiah returned.

"You had a chance to survive. I'd already forgotten you existed. I understand that talking to me is worth any price," he sneered. "

People usually remember me longer." You simply didn't give me a chance to get under your skin, Levy," I replied, forcing a smile. "

Is that all, Mr..." He stepped closer, his eyes closed. He licked his lips as if he were focused on something. "Mr. Sheri...Sherdian?"

He was so close that when he opened his eyes, I could see the smoldering fire in them.

"Do you think you're a god, you sick bastard?" I hissed. "Get out of my head.

" "A god? You could put it that way. Just a little longer, and I can do anything," he drawled.

"Why do you want to kill her? After all, if you're so powerful, she can't harm you."

"That's obvious. Chazz is the only person who has had anything to do with my experiences. She's capable. Sooner or later, she would have reached where I am now."

"I think she wouldn't have taken up the offer of being a ruthless monster, Levy, after all."

Jeremiah laughed.

"You still don't understand, Sheridan." People don't mean much to me anymore. I'm not committing any crimes; you can't be held accountable for killing bugs. Neuroenergy is evolution. I'm the future, Josh. "

Hoho, Levy, you might not know this, but you've pissed off the police so much that you'll soon be a thing of the past. History, even.

" "You'll be there sooner," he hissed. I felt an invisible force force the air from my lungs. Biglery whispered in my ear. I smiled.

"By god, you're doing a terrible job of keeping an eye on your little girl," I gasped. Levy closed his eyes. After a moment, his lips twisted angrily and he ran outside. Immediately, the section of the corridor I could see through the doorless entrance was flooded with a blinding white light. The flash of the grenades wouldn't stop Levy, but they distracted him enough to ease the pressure on my body. I heard gunfire. Jeremiah was backing up, bullets ricocheting off his protective field. I drew my pistol and fired a few shots as well. He must not have expected them, as he was almost thrown against the wall. He waved his hand at me. I barely managed to dodge as a wave of energy ripped through the floor and ceiling where I'd been standing. Someone from the special forces fired a gas grenade. Plumes of smoke flattened the invisible barrier surrounding Levy. The body of one of the policemen flew across the hallway, forced open a window frame, and flew from the seventh floor. Amid the deafening gunfire, a speeding Levy jumped out after the officer. Screaming for them to stop shooting, I ran from the apartment. Choking on smoke and weaving between the commandos, I made it to the stairwell. I jumped the steps, trying to ignore the pain. I ran outside. Next to where the officer's body lay, the asphalt was dented. A stream of blood led down the street. I followed the scent and caught up with a staggering Levy, still trotting down the street. Cars sped past us. I don't know how he heard me in the din, but he turned. His eyes blazed, and his mouth formed a scream. The anger between us condensed into an almost tangible structure, the thickened air distorting his perspective. But I was prepared. Recoil wrenched my hands, and the bullet flew toward Jeramiah. I could almost physically feel the friction of the bullet as it covered the distance to Levy at a snail's pace. Time slowed, fragmented, and became jumbled. Jeremiah's now palpable will sought a way out, shedding fragments of time and leaping into new ones. But the bullet kept pushing forward, and I saw the hope fade in his eyes. Suddenly, I heard a loud crack, as if something had broken. The air whistled in my ears, and the bullet instantly picked up speed. I hit him in the chest. Shreds of flesh and blood sprayed everywhere. More shots brought him to the ground. Stripped to the bone, he was still alive as I changed the magazine. I aimed carefully at his head, ready to fire, but there was no need. Police swarmed around. Someone, probably the coroner, was taking photographs. Biglery tugged vigorously at my aching arm, probably congratulating me on my success. He said something, smiling as he did so, but I heard nothing but the hum. I caught a glimpse of Chazz's face in the gathering crowd. I searched for her with practically outstretched arms. A moment later, she was beside me. We embraced tightly.

I look into your eyes, buddy

So what's your point when the day is already breaking towards sunset, you're exhausted, and the sun is sinking into the big sack of a great vagabond named God.

Little beggars enter the church and extend their hands reverently. You never know why, though they always claim it's for food, for food. He laughs. I once saw a boy, about fourteen years old, earning his living in this simplest of physical ways. He was leaving the cinema. He wasn't having a bad time, but he certainly didn't have a good look in his eye. Oh no, fuck.

Fog is an atmospheric fruit that falls to the ground, sometimes finding its way into your head, obscuring the past, otherwise known, especially by older people, as memories. I have almost no memories, and I advise you to do the same with yourself. Do you hear?

He didn't hear. He sat staring out the large window opposite, as if trying to remember something. His eyes were dull green, turning even darker, and nothing showed through his gaze but a strange, slightly irritating chaos. Evening had long since settled in the window of the small pub where the two of us, it could be safely said, sat. Two small glasses of golden liquid gleamed on our table, and night was approaching. This was especially evident in the clouds, tangled and twisted, as if women in a fit of hysteria were rewarded by a funeral procession straight to heaven. They transformed into clouds along the way. The remaining remnants of the daylight fell on the sidewalks, fading and fading along the way until they transformed into a vague purple-dirty gray glow. I noticed that such moments were facetious, and the air thinned and then became truly delicate.

Then the spell is broken, and from one moment to the next, all nature gives way to the approaching, domineering heroin, simply called night. And there's nothing to see.

My friend wouldn't listen to me. Apparently. He said he was doing well with his girlfriend, but worse at work. When he recounted his failures and childishly ridiculous screw-ups, I told him he had talent.

Once in church, I saw a woman, about 50, short, obese, with short black hair. She stood right next to the altar with a large crucifix. When anyone tried to approach her, she waved it, warding them off like holy water from the devil. Of course, everyone gave way, except for one old woman who had come to Mass. She stood next to her, and she was really old. The woman with the crucifix waved it around until she finally started mumbling something and looking the old woman straight in the eye. I can't say how, but it wasn't human gaze. Finally, she walked away, threatening her, the altar of saints, and all of heaven.

Night had already fallen. We hadn't lingered at all. We were slow, but we had plenty of time. I studied his face and his demeanor. My mind searched for the secret code, for what nature was up to.

I looked at his eyes, trying to sense what was happening there. I remembered many similar looks, invariably conveying that it only took another dawn, another granted day, to understand that chaos, ingratitude, and the pretense of religiosity were far removed from the harmony and order of nature. There wasn't a single star in the black sky, so I continued my discourse.

I can't imagine helping anyone if you don't find and say even a single word, a small sentence, that your friend, acquaintance, a pregnant woman, a five-year-old child, a good or bad spirit with a confused look, is waiting for. And I know she won't admit it, but if you find that secret word and hit the nail on the head, you gain trust. And trust can be stronger than the fear of the night and the murmurs from the nearby square. 

Conspiracy theory

 

I was sitting with Mike at Hale's Inn. He, dressed as usual in flannel and blue jeans, was sipping a Coke, and I was finishing my pancakes. The sun was slowly climbing the sky, mercilessly frying the vast expanse of desert that stretched beyond the window, east of Hammonds. Mike didn't say anything, waiting meekly for me to finish, but I knew that hungry look in his eyes.

"Do you want some?" I asked, irritated.

"No, no, eat it," he replied, looking up from the pancakes a little too quickly. I felt my lips tighten involuntarily and sighed. Can't he ever tell me things like that directly?

"Here, I don't want to anyway." I pushed a plate of pancakes toward him.

"Well, if you say so." He lunged at the food. I reached for my coffee and stared at the barren desert.

"Have you heard of KFC?" "Mike asked between bites. I shook my head.

"What did you learn again, Sherlock?"

I liked his amazing stories. Of course, I would never admit it, and certainly not to him. Because despite everything, Mike, with all his New Age philosophy, conspiracy theories, paranoia, and slight schizophrenia, could be fascinating. And certainly funny. "

Imagine a series of headless mutant chickens, mass-produced in huge factories. No unnecessary organs, no extra hassles with breeding." Mike looked away from his plate for a moment. "Except fried chicken is only in name."

"Good. I'll think about that next time I visit KFC," I muttered. I finished my coffee and immediately hissed in pain.

"Tooth?" Mike asked as I massaged my jaw.

"Damn, I was supposed to go to the dentist last week.

" "I have my ways of dealing with that."

"Voodoo?" I scoffed.

"Pliers," he replied, showing the four holes left by missing teeth.

"Jesus, Mike! Can't you afford a dentist?!" Disgusted, I backed away from him. "

Forget about surgeons. You never know what kind of tooth they might put in you. You don't know how far they'll go to spy on society.

" "Who, surgeons?" I smiled.

"Oh, you know exactly who I mean. Right up there. They don't like people like me." He leaned closer to me conspiratorially and finished in a whisper. "They don't like people who know."

"So how do we stop them, Mike?" I leaned in too and whispered. "Shall we petition the government?"

"Just saying." Mike leaned back and shrugged.

"And who listens to you, Mike?" I laughed easily.

"You," he replied unwaveringly. I stopped laughing. Poor Mike. He's just a distraction to me; I never considered how much I meant to him. Who knows, maybe I'm his last anchor on the shore of sanity. I still had some time, so I offered him a ride into town. "

Nice shirt," I mentioned as we walked to my Jeep. Mike glanced at the slogan adorning the front of his T-shirt.

"'Computers are nicer than people,'" he read aloud and shrugged. As I drove, I wondered what the world looked like through Mike's eyes. The secret rule of the Soviets, who carried out a silent invasion after their defeat at the Bay of Pigs. Yes, can you believe that Mike believes the nuclear warheads planted in Cuba are still aimed at the United States? But that's not all. Above the Soviets, the control of large corporations that oversee the global cash flow. Even higher? I bet he believed in the intrusive interference of extraterrestrials. Secret societies with key figures, large-scale organ trafficking, wars no one heard of, manipulation and propaganda, the media and the police. Mike's world was bleak. Lost in thought, I drove past the bus stop where Mike usually got off.

"Hey, I'll turn around," I snapped out of my reverie. "Why didn't you warn me?"

"Go straight." Mike looked nervously out the rear window.

"Is something wrong?

" "Just keep going. Those cars behind us."

I glanced in the mirror. Two dark vans were driving a few dozen yards ahead.

"What about them? Are you in trouble, Mike?" I wondered for a moment what kind of trouble it would take to send two vans after Mike.

"You don't owe anyone any money, do you?" I asked, but it was clear no one in their right mind would lend Mike cash.

"It's probably them." They finally claimed me," he whispered, terrified. This time I couldn't help but burst into a roar of laughter.

"Mike, you old man!" I laughed heartily and slowed down. "You're going to make me late for work.

" "What are you doing? Keep going, don't stop here!" he shouted, panicked. For a moment, the fear in his eyes made me wonder if Mike wasn't telling the truth about the reality around him. It passed quickly, because of course Mike wasn't lying to me. He believed what he was saying, but it was his own personal, insane truth. "No, bro, I'm not getting on your ship, you're sailing your absurd seas alone."

"I'm stopping, and you're getting off. I've had enough of your nonsense," I announced, turning to face him. Somewhere near his mouth, an orange light was flashing.

"Mike, you..." I stared at the flashing dot. He seemed to be bulging from beneath his skin.

-You... Your teeth... - I choked out.

Mike curled his lip and looked in the mirror. One of his teeth flashed a furious, orange light. Mike glanced at me, and in the next second, he ducked his head between his legs. I didn't actually hear the explosion. I heard nothing, only the noise of deafening. The car's interior was stained with red and gray shreds. Blood poured from what was left of Mike's head, straight onto the windshield wiper beneath his limp legs. I rolled down the windows, and though the pressure had long since equalized, it was only now that the screeching in my ears began. I gripped the steering wheel tightly and accelerated, heading for the exit. The heavy vans should have had trouble catching me on the highway. I had a chance of escape, as long as the Russians didn't use any of their satellites. If I remember correctly, I have two false teeth. The pliers should have been in the trunk.

Spread your elbows (6)

His friend urinated with great effort and splashed cold water on his face. His vision regained the ability to perceive the hopeless reality surrounding him, a reality his friend would have gladly walked out into with his hands raised. He felt ill and weak, feeling the outlines of his figure reflected in the mirror above the urinal lose their definition, and that style, unique to ethanol, intensified. He walked to the bar and quickly drank two clear glasses of the juniper-scented drink, as it said on the bottle. He didn't smell the juniper, but he felt the sadness around his neck take two steps back, allowing his friend to take a few deep breaths. He was terribly, terribly, overwhelmingly afraid of the moment when, after drinking two clear, juniper-scented drinks, sadness wouldn't retreat or let go, and there would be no way to deal with the bastard, because it would grip his throat even tighter, suck his mouth shut, and drink all the aromatic and noble juices, leaving behind a dried-up shell of his friend. He also felt that the round hundred, flowing down his friend's dark, damp entrails, had awakened something truly evil, something that probably shouldn't be awakened. The plot, temporarily limping, began to run uphill again, clapping under his knees. Something was about to happen, and something would happen, with wormwood-like consistency, the friend thought.

He anxiously heard the rustling and scratching sounds mingling with the steady beating of his heart. His lower back had momentarily subsided, but the weakness remained. His hands shook, spreading the hundred across the bar, his breathing shallow, his forehead burning with fever. He needed much more strength to set his plan in motion; in his current state, he was useless. Alcohol wasn't very good at such things. His friend knew another method, reliable, but terribly bastardized. He sighed and walked towards the virtual table and somersaulted.

Somersault and the virtual were having a conversation about whether love was worth it in today's world, even at the cost of breaking the established conventions. Somersault was lightly drizzled with green caustic, while the virtual was perfectly intoxicated. Slightly choking, he radiated alternately masculine charisma and feminine allure.

"My God, how Wroński loved her..." Somersault sighed, or perhaps he burped.

"A darling is love, but a fool's joy," the virtual remarked sententiously.

"Then let's talk about spirituality and metaphysics," Fikołek exclaimed.

"In my opinion, it's all nonsense and bullshit."

The friend suddenly appeared behind the somersaulter.

"You don't think so at all."

The virtual man became indignant.

"Of course you do, my friend.

That's exactly what I think." "You're just talking nonsense for effect."

"My friend, don't start, I've been magically intoxicated.

" "If you really think so...

" "...then what?

" "Sell me your spirituality and metaphysics.

" "You're drunk."

"Sell me your soul.

" "Are you paying cash?

" "Absolutely. "

The transvestite pondered.

"You know, I don't really want to sell it.

" "My dear, dear, never mind, you're magically inconsistent.

" "I realize that, but one of the consequences of being magically intoxicated is being magically inconsistent. And that's why all the magically intoxicated idiots trying to marry the virgins they've been tossed around will abandon them in five minutes. Because of her, I can express myself so beautifully and accurately. And because of her, I won't sell you my soul.

" "You're a stinking coward and a walking hypocryph, and really, you're simply afraid to sell your soul to me. "

"Not true.

" "Then sell it.

" "No.

" "And you?" The friend turned to Fikołek. "Maybe you'll sell me your soul?

" "You know, I'm a young, liberated, stylish girl. I don't need my spirituality; what's more, I don't recognize my spirituality." I don't believe in the basic unit of society; I don't like the Pope, excuse me, the Holy Father. I don't donate to the Christmas charity. I see no reason not to sell you my soul.

"I'll give you money for orange pungents.

" "Stands."

Fikołek extended her shapely finger, which his friend ran a razor blade over. A red drop ran down the fingertip, straight onto his friend's tissue, which had something scribbled on it in blue pen. The friend quickly folded it into quarters and put it in his jacket pocket. Then he went to the bar to get some orange pungents.

"There's no sense in it," Fikołek stated uncertainly.

"None," the transvestite confirmed.

"He doesn't have a soul.

" "He doesn't.

" "The friend let himself be tricked.

" "Sure thing.

" "What a loser.

" "Terrible."

Reassured, Fikołek pulled out her cigarettes and lit one to test. Relieved, she noticed they tasted as good as before. When she set it down on the ashtray, she noticed a bloody trail on the mouthpiece.

"She's beautiful and does beautiful things."

The lover flushed a little with excitement, sitting with his back to the unnamed one.

"So-so, weak in the folds..."

The friend felt no excitement.

"You're wrong, but let's not argue."

He longingly observed the triangle-cut back, the fuck, the triangle-cut back with the deep cut of the evening dress. She disappeared around the bend of the wall. The evening was shaping up to be a real blast, so the lover was sure more than one would disappear around the bend of the wall like that.

"Listen, man, this isn't how it's planned."

My friend somehow came alive, a strange tension rippling through the tendons and veins in his arms. His hair was a little darker, his eyes a little bluer, his jacket a little more fashionable, and his shoes elegant. He looked really good.

"No, no, it's like this, from the beginning." The lover, nervously tense, broke his cigarette and now smoked without a filter.

"She's sitting there, and I come over, stop, and turn around—you think, with a better profile. And then she says...

" "Yeah, right," the friend was bored, "they're always talking shit, they couldn't just sit there in silence.

" "But she says it, and then I sit down next to her, and it's all cinematic. Like, I'm holding a cigarette like Rick from "Casablanca." And she looks like Sophie Marceau, only without the Żuławski.

" "Lover, listen to me. I think you should seriously consider one such possibility.

" "...and I say, 'Are you trying to seduce me, Mrs..." ...what possibility?"

"It's not your fault, that perception. Because it's very common, a failure to develop your paranoia in the right direction. Everyone has it, to some extent.

" "Not entirely you...

" "Well, you see that tramp of yours, a little overripe from waiting, puffing cigarette after cigarette, hoping for a lover. By the way, Sophie Marceau already has children.

" "She won't be any tramp."

"She can sit here behind the wall," the friend continued, "and that's not a bad thing, as long as when you go to the bar, she's not in the restroom. She can be in some other bar, which is worse. In another bar, in another city—even terrible. The tragic version is Haiti. We're not considering the tragic version right now.

" "But you don't understand me; if she's mine, then no matter what, we'll meet again. How else could she be mine?

" "Listen, have you ever seriously thought, seriously screwed up from start to finish, that she simply doesn't exist?" Neither behind the wall nor in Haiti?

- Yes... never? Nowhere?

- Because she shouldn't really be there. That's according to the plot. Imagine it: somewhere two tables away, a Lolita with brown lipstick and silver eyeshadow, faintly smelling of good perfume, just abandoned by her Humbert. A character sketched according to the best tragic models, unhappy and longing. Almost to the end, she's written so unhappily, until suddenly, bang, bang, right into the audience of hairdressers and chefs – a lover appears. This magically incredible client, he invites her for tea, they go to the cinema, he comes in for coffee, they make love, they spend a lazy morning with breakfast in bed. And that's exactly how it can't be written.

- Well... it's never ended like that.

- And there won't be a first time, lover. That's how it ends.

The friend rose unsteadily from his seat, poured the beer for the guy sitting behind him, and strode away in a text-and-speech style. The lover sat silently, feeling an unpleasant tickle in his throat and a burning sensation in his eyes. He felt very unmanly at that moment; after all, boys don't cry. But he also felt his terrible hopelessness in this plot, his grim role, and despite many good lines and comic situations, his destiny was simply sad. He saw himself as the lover, sitting at the same table for many years to come, only increasingly weary, with deeper wrinkles and a higher forehead, but still heartbreakingly alone. He wiped the mist from his eyes with shame and glanced around the room. A girl, auburn-haired and short, stood in the doorway, gazing at her lover, hesitant but also with a subtle amusement. After a moment of indecision, she walked briskly toward her lover and leaned over the table.

"Stupid, I've come."

And for the lover, at that moment, the Chinese promotion faded like a candle, all the more beautiful and alluring girls vanished into oblivion, because for the lover, at that moment, the only thing that mattered was the girl leaning over the table.

"So it's you?

" "You know it's me."

"From the moment you entered the room, you knew you were supposed to sit at my table.

She had beautiful eyes and slightly parted lips, which she constantly moistened with the tip of her tongue.

"I thought you lived in Haiti.

" "I live no more than two streets away."

The lover admired her figure sprawled on the room's varnish with delight.

"This is where my story ends."

He took her hands in his, oblivious to the fact that the lover would appear many more times.

"It's truly... wonderful. Good and beautiful. It won't get any better.

It can always get better, foolish lover.

" "What's your name?"

She fluttered.

"Catherine."

The lover froze.

"Just like that...Catherine?" Kaśka?

- Yes, Kaśka to friends.

The lover felt very tired. His entire euphoric coordinate system, full of love, returned to its stinking place. He already knew that this was definitely not the end of his role as a lover.

- So it's not you.

- What, it's not me?

- It's not you. It's not you again.

- I don't understand.

- The right one... mine... who will come here someday. She can't just be called... Kaśka. Because she will be my complement and completion, like yin and yang, she will be everything I don't have. And Kaśka... I have many Kaśkas within me.

- So it's not you either.

- It's not me either.

The girl stood up silently, and something seemed to have fallen into her eye. She turned on her heel and walked out quickly.

The lover was left alone again.

"But that's okay," he told himself, "she'll be in soon, and she'll really be mine. Not some Kasia-Srasia."

And he stayed, waiting.

Fikołek sat down next to him with a quiet sigh and took the cigarette from her lover's fingers.

"I'm sorry, but I have to take a drag. I don't feel well.

" "Fikołek, this is my last cigarette." The lover grimaced in irritation. "Look, you've smeared lipstick all over the filter.

" "It's not lipstick." Fikołek hesitated. "I... I cut my finger