Clapper

"Well, well... now I'll be completely afraid to open the fridge," she thought, looking at the crowd gathered in the market square and the reporters milling around. "Jotpe on the radio, jotpe on TV, on the internet, and gods knows where else..."

The crowd knelt, sang, or rather wailed, then knelt again, and so on, though it didn't compare to the nativity scene from a year ago. She took a drag on her cigarette and tossed her hair back from her face. Ashes, along with a bit of embers, fell onto her dress and burned a small hole.

"Fuck," she cursed loudly enough that one of the journalists standing nearby caught her eye. The man with the camera looked at her for a moment with a strange expression—one of surprise, one of disgust. After a moment, a nasty smile appeared on the cherubic face, revealing a set of white, perfectly even teeth – the result of long hours spent at the dentist's, probably worth as much as two good cars. But it must be admitted that the dentist did a very good job, presenting the patient with a dazzling keyboard – nothing more than playing it with a hammer like a dulcimer.

The journalist approached the girl, trying to erase the nasty expression and replace it with a gentle, warm smile, but a mischievous spark remained in her eyes. Cherubino had clearly come up with a brilliant idea for a report. He would film a piece about the dirty, funny-looking, and probably not entirely sober girl, presenting her as a representative of the lost segment of youth who probably knew little of the genius of the Greatest Compatriot and thought only of drugs. A song from the maximally demoralizing Owsiak Party will be enough to set you apart from your peers, gain fame, and money to pay off your dentist's debts.

"Hello. What do you think about the anniversary of the death of Holy Father John Paul II? Are you also here to join us in celebrating the anniversary of his martyrdom?" the beautiful-eyed cherub, his camera aimed directly at the girl's sleepy, pierced face, blurted out in a single breath, his voice soft as plush. The girl gazed dispassionately at the journalistic hyena's blond curls for a moment.

"Hello. I think the anniversary of the martyrdom of Holy Father John Paul II is extremely moving. So moving, in fact, that it's even more moving than the martyrdom of Holy Father John Paul II itself," she replied slowly, parodying the journalist's tone and blowing cigarette smoke directly into the guy's still-grinning, snow-white teeth.

"They're even more moving than the sight of children begging for bread on the street. It's just so moving," she said, taking a drag on her cigarette. "Do you have a tissue?" The journalists' dedication to the cause is also touching, as I'll have something to write about for the next week.

Cherubino stared at her, transfixed, and she abruptly moved the camera away, brought her face close to the reporter's nose, and, exhaling smoke, said through her teeth

, "Even more touching than seeing such harm inflicted on you by Mother Nature, you loser." Her purple hair fell over her face again, and as she spoke, she tilted her head to the right. On the left side, she had very short hair, growing longer the further she tilted her head, so that when she tilted her head, it didn't obscure her bloodshot eyes, brimming with contempt and frost. Cherubino squinted in surprise and stood hunched over, jaw hanging open, for a long moment after the girl turned on her heel and walked away. Even her dazzling white teeth had somehow paled. Floss

from paying off her dental debt. Dental.

She walked slowly down the street to the bus stop. The day was rather chilly, the wind was blowing, and everything around her was wet with melting snow. Spring is finally coming, a time of blossoming life, joy, and raging hormones. It's hard to believe that next year at this time we'll be studying for final exams. Final exams... what then? Architecture, law, journalism, the Academy of Fine Arts? Probably the latter. The academy will instill in a young soul an artistic flair that will make sandwiches made in an English dive bar look almost like works of art of the highest order. Although for this profession, a bit of the cold and precise soul of an architect would also be needed to give the food a divine symmetry. In any case, first you have to get into some university, which, with the competition being as fierce as sperm and an egg, isn't easy. But why think about what will happen next year? After all, you first have to think about what will happen in a few hours and come up with a good excuse for a two-day getaway.

"I studied?" she smiled to herself. "No... no kidding... Someone kidnapped me? Who would want to kidnap me? Probably some pervert. They won't believe me. Or maybe I was raped..."

She was still pondering an explanation as she reached the bus stop and unconsciously lit another cigarette. The alcohol was still coursing through her blood, but not enough to stave off the growing headache. Socializing can be truly exhausting sometimes. An elderly woman passing by, wearing a beret fashionable in certain social circles, gave the girl a contemptuous look. Well, maybe the girl didn't look particularly fresh and attractive today, but compared to yesterday, she was still in bloom. Only that hole in her red Scottish-plaid skirt, and her dark green scarf, stained with beer and other liquor... the combat boots could have been cleaner too. At least the striped tights were intact, without holes, and relatively clean. The rest, including the owner herself, was ready for washing. But the whole thing probably wasn't so dirty that everyone at the bus stop had to stare at her like a yeti. All except one, a greasy-haired young man with a face that didn't betray his frequent involvement in complex thought processes. It was nice that he liked her, but it was rather slim consolation.

She tried to continue trying to come up with some excuse, but general exhaustion and the approaching tram interrupted her attempts. Besides, what difference did she make? It would end in a heated exchange with her mother and a decidedly unpleasant atmosphere. It was a good thing she'd spend the next two days in the land of Morpheus, regaining her vitality. And then the matter would die down. Trying to smile to herself, she boarded the tram and settled into the first available seat. The skinny boy in a suit sitting next to her discreetly edged closer to the window. The girl glanced at him briefly and snorted softly. He might be as thin as a cross between two sticks, but he made up for it with beautiful blue eyes, magnified by glasses of truly baroque proportions. The girl also noticed the Civil Code, which the bespectacled man probably used as captivating reading material on long tram journeys.

"What year?" she asked with her eyes closed, resting her head on the armchair

. "Uh, w-what?" the bespectacled man retorted.

"What year are you in?

" "Ah... n-in fourth... year. Right at uni... univer... y, at ujot," he said, his glasses glinting with reflections.

She opened her left eye and gave him a brief glance. She didn't comment. She just smiled to herself – what a small world this is.

"Do you know Angel?

" "Uh... what?

" "Michał Serafin.

" "Ah... yes. I mean, no. I mean, not personally, but I know who I'm talking about."

I wonder if there's anyone in this city who doesn't know who I'm talking about. Ever since Angel posted a certain joke on the dean's office door, it's become famous. Very famous... good thing the rector had a sense of humor. Angel... I wonder if he's awake yet. And if he remembers anything from yesterday... hopefully not. He's a gorgeous guy, but it's best to keep your distance when he's drunk. He gets so sweet then. Too much so...

The bespectacled man's voice snapped her out of her reverie.

"Do you know h-him?

" "Yes," she replied without opening her eyes.

"Uh-huh...

" "I met him at a concert.

" "Uh-huh...

" "And what's your name, handsome?

" "Ma-marcin." The bespectacled man's face took on a rosy hue. "Uh-huh?

" "Tekla.

" "Uh-huh... uh, sometimes my friends call me nojuk... b-but I don't know why." The student seemed to have gained confidence, stuttering less often and even trying to be funny.

"That's my name," the girl laughed and tried to turn her face towards the exotic interlocutor, but the hangover forced her back to her previous position.

"Are you kidding?" she stuttered, as fluently as if he'd been an excellent speaker since childhood. Latin apparently can loosen the tongue even of a mute.

"Maybe you're kidding someone in the evenings," she replied almost dispassionately. "My parents are quite unconventional people."

The visibly confused bespectacled man didn't say a word. At the next stop, he got off, a bit startled.

"Well, I can sleep for another three stops," she muttered to herself and settled back into the seats as comfortably as conditions allowed. Normally, she probably wouldn't have been able to stay in that position for very long, but considering her condition, it was still the height of luxury. As long as people weren't talking loudly and it wasn't shaking so much...

"Fuck!" she screamed loudly, drawing everyone's attention. She probably would have added something more if a severe headache hadn't come back and begun to pound her temples with the gentleness of a jackhammer. She'd missed her stop. She was in some unspecified location, somewhere on the outskirts of the city. She could have kept going – if the tram had arrived here, it would probably leave and return to a more familiar location, but yesterday's consumption, and the resulting dehydration, were making itself felt. Tekla got off at the first stop she found and headed towards the grocery store she'd spotted out the window moments earlier. She dragged her feet slowly for a good dozen or so minutes before reaching the store's door. Fortunately, there was no queue, so she managed to quickly obtain the necessary remedies: kefir and three mineral waters. By the time she left the store, half of the first bottle was already down her thirsty throat. Shortly after leaving, the second half shared the same fate as the first. There were two more bottles and the kefir left. As she wiped her chin with her hand, a strange feeling flashed through her aching head. She felt someone's gaze on her. She glanced around carefully, but saw no one paying her any particular attention. Or rather, no one paying her any more attention than usual, given the purple hair—cut in a crew cut on the left and long on the right, almost to her waist—the dark green scarf with black polka dots, the patch-covered jacket, the Scottish plaid skirt, the yellow and black tights, and the shoes definitely not meant for a ballerina. Instead, she spotted an alley where she could rest peacefully after the long, nearly half-kilometer-long walk from the bus stop to the store. To her delight, the alley opened into a smaller, colder, smellier alley, where nothing and no one could disturb her while she regained her sapped strength. She sat down on a patch of relatively clean sidewalk, and closed her eyes.

"Half an hour's nap and we're going home..." she muttered to herself.

"Yeah, nice wake-up call." A silly laugh from very close by woke her up. She slowly opened her eyes and saw the silhouettes of three men. They were standing over her, laughing. One of them nudged her, and it wasn't the slightest bit caring.

"What?

" "Nice skirt, will you give it to us as a souvenir?" Hee hee." The second guy's laugh was even sillier than the first.

"What the fuck is that skirt, you idiot," she replied, trying to focus her vision. It was already completely dark, so she wasn't doing very well.

"Hee hee, you fucking bitch, what the fuck!" All three of them burst into silly laughter, interrupted by occasional grunts.

Her vision finally cleared enough for her to make out the details of the three silly figures in the dark alley. And her face twisted in contempt.

"I'm not afraid in the dark, I'm wearing a glowing tracksuit," she commented in a mocking voice. The tracksuit-wearing men immediately sobered, the fake Adidas landing with a thud on her knee.

"You whore, I'll show you my glowing tracksuit!" Another kick, and a flurry of profanity flew her way. Tekla cringed in pain. This was definitely not her day. Not only did she feel like a combine harvester had spat her out after a thorough chewing, and her parents were screwed, but now she was facing a close encounter of the third kind with troglodytes who clearly weren't joking. But on the other hand... maybe, if she managed to survive, she'd have an excuse for not being home. And if not, that would be the end of the matter. In any case, the next few moments weren't going to be very pleasant. Suddenly, Angel appeared before her eyes – she began to regret not staying with him that night. Maybe he was her only friend, but a friend who was handsome as hell. And she'd definitely rather be wondering what's next for their friendship than face a forced date with three bald idiots. But there was no point in dwelling on that now.

"Well, you're screwed, loser," she whispered, and the boot shot out with full force towards the jewels of the tracksuit standing directly above her. The guy howled and doubled over. A plus for him – intense training doesn't completely annihilate testicles after all. A minus – the second boot ripped into his face with even greater force. His nose was a bloody mess, and the rest of his face was marked by the imprint of his sole. The tracksuit guy fell backward as if struck by lightning, spraying everyone with blood. The others stood frozen for a moment, but they quickly recovered and began preparing for a cruel revenge. This time, there was no point in hoping for surprise, and any defense became hopeless. After a few kicks, Tekla tried to get up again and began furiously scratching at her attackers with her fingernails, but it was to no avail. One of them grabbed her by the throat and squeezed with all his might. He aimed his fist and prepared to deliver the hardest blow he could. Everything pointed to murder instead of rape.

"Let her go, you fucking female boxer!" A terrifying voice came from behind the would-be murderers. Inhuman, unnatural. Low, raspy, bass. It sounded as if several sinister, inhuman creatures were speaking simultaneously. The attackers paled. The tracksuit man holding Tekla released his grip, and the girl fell to her knees and, between the legs of the tormentors, saw the owner of the terrifying voice. Even though the hangover and exhaustion of the day had made her face as pale as a sheet, the girl paled even more. Trembling with fear, the tracksuit men slowly turned and saw him too. Whereas they had been as pale as snow before, they now practically gleamed white. A large black cat with cold blue eyes glowed over the friend who had been given a facelift by Tekla, lying in a pool of blood, stood a large black cat with glowing, cold blue eyes. It looked a bit like a female lion, but it was slimmer and larger. It bared a row of white fangs and growled softly. A vibrating, bass growl hung in the air for a moment, then morphed into a powerful roar. As if on cue, the thugs broke into flight, chasing each other away. At a bend, one of them lost a shoe, once white but now as filthy as a city latrine. The large cat stared for a moment longer at the spot where the humans had disappeared, then looked down at the man lying motionless.

"Carrion," he said in a low, contemptuous voice, but no longer as inhuman as before. He lifted his gleaming eyes to the motionless girl. His gaze warmed, the frosty glare diminished, and in its place was a bluish glow, encircling eyes the color of crystal-clear water, seemingly bottomless.

"What? You've never seen a talking cat?" he said in a completely human, warm, masculine voice. Friendly and reassuring.

Tekla fainted and fell to the ground.

- I guess not... - the cat muttered to itself.