“Yet under this Mortal Sun we cannot hide ourselves”
- Isis, 'In Fiction' -
He's a bit hungry, his ciggies are gone, so he decides to take a stroll and walks into a shabby grocery store around Legions Square. An old lady looks at him with suspicion, when he interrupts her fervent dialogue with some young girl with two dirty, malnourished babies at her side.
'Y'heard all that? Two bodies, found yesterday in our neighborhood! A girl, thirteen, her throat slit... Must be done by all those 'migrants, russkies...' croaked young mama, her voice hoarsed from cheap alcohol. 'Mo' of God' moaned a selling lady, her looks resembling a retarded dachshund 'such a sweet young girl, what an atrocity... and where's the police? They never do anything to get those monsters, they just get all those fat bribes, I hear about them day by day, I tell you...'
Hears his knuckles crack. Forces himself to calm down. Buys some candy bars, buys his fags. Still shaking, returns to his office through the cold, November wind. Never gonna leave his office again. Never. What for? Those bitches won't get what his job looks like. Years of digging through the darkest corners of the city, only to find more and more filth and blood. Seen homicides commited by thirteen year old girls, like the one they found in the skip. They murdered their boyfriends, drug dealers, parents. Some of them were empty like a promise, some – desperate to get out of the charmed circle of cheap life, cheap fuck, cheap kills. Some just wanted to revenge an abuse, do an old style murder, the one that only victim of rape can do.
He does not know what is good and what is wrong anymore. He does not remember what his children look like, probably they don't give a damn about what he looks like. His wife? Sure, rutting somewhere with some young stallion. Can't blame her. She deserves someone younger, with fat wallet, white teeth. Not like his own, rotten, blue and yellow from coffee, cigarettes and years of grinding them helplessly.
Could've called the boys from the squad to find the fucker who dares to screw his wife and beat him half to death. Could've even order a murder, he's a chief inspector of Homicide Section, after all. Guys would've done that. But he won't. It's not fucking worthy.
And those fat fucking bribes are for fairies from Attorney, strolling down the streets in their shiny Mercs. Not for us, you whore.
* * *
Back to his office again, back into the heart of his unit. Beat of this heart is being measured by dead bodies, coming and going. Case opened, case closed. Like atriums, pumping the blood. Not artificial one. Real.
Bartek's back. Been at dead body, now coming back with a witness. Gonna take her to Confession Room, gonna ask her routine questions, maybe he'll get some answers, maybe not. Gonna waste himself, as usual, gonna run into another wall of human cruelty and stupidity, then gonna waste himself even more. Bishop probably could do anything about that, but he won't. It's not fucking worthy.
He knows this girl. She's been here a few days ago, a witness of a shootout on the Warsaw Bridge. Now she's back again, bad goddamn omen of hers.
Bartek lets her into the pits of Confession Room, filled with the stench of tar and sweat and even the blood. Sometimes. So Bishop does his routine again: starts the monitor panels, puts on his headphones, then presses the RECORD key.
* * *
Sixth hour gone, he sits still at his desk, motionless. Another pack of fags gone, another coffee as well. His wife... Well, probably she's well asleep in her lover's arms. One day he's going to check it, but not now. Right now he's got something worthy.
He puts his headphones back on the aching head, tries to hush down pouncing of his heart, releases last puff off the fag.
'Right, so you've been called by...' it's Bartek, his dull, hoarse voice ringing in Bishop's headphones. Forward. Back to the girl. Has to listen to her again. Few seconds forward, no more. Play.
'That's what I've been saying, mister'. Her alto voice, quiet and calm. No stress, no panic. Never ever happened to a civilian, first time in Confession Room. 'C'mon, girl's throat been slit open, there's been way too much blood all around. Floor, cupboards, even the fucking balcony door. Furthermore, she's been taken by surprise, but yet – there's way too much mess. I would not have enough time to...'
Nice one. But, what did she say later on?
'Don't look at me like that'. Scolding voice. Like she's lost control a while ago, now she's up to be cool again. Rewind. Play.
'Don't look...' NOW the panic? Well, Bishop smiles, little girl has something to hide. Very nice. Hound's got the trace, won't let it go.
Forward. Aim. Play.
'Y'seem to be sorta smart, miss. Plus, you notice helluva things...' 'C'mon now' she interrupted nervously. Aim. Play. 'What do you think, that I'm some goddamn detective? Everyone can see stuff like this! And plus' venomous accent on “plus” word 'cut this “miss” bullshit. And any other one. Am I accused of something? No. Missing an alibi? No, it's fucking bulletproof, you said it before. Hence, give me all the necessary papers to sign and let me go. I'm...'
They didn't let her go. They told her to stay in touch and not to leave town under any circumstances. They will need to see her in next few days, she can expect their call. They took her addresses and ID numbers. Then they let her go home.
* * *
Seven cigarettes and half an hour of scrutinizing later, Bartek enters his office. Bishop doesn't even bother to check out how he looks like. Not much to expect: reddened eyes, weary posture, shaky hands. But still, this ruin of a man is one of his best hounds.
'Been at harvester, Bishop. Our gal's good, can't say. First an Academy of Arts, then An Academy and HS in Warsaw, been doing some political stuff. Probably couldn't vent the pressure – just after closing the case she resigned. Moved to Wroclaw, started studies in psychology. Last year now, just before her masters.'
'Anythin' fishy? 'Cept for that case?'
'This case of hers ain't “fishy”, it' s a fucking pile of turd. All hushed up, no reports opened, even in our internal network. Her co-op been known to leave country just after the case' Bishop raised his brew curiously 'Fucker ran to Israel, can you imagine? Anyway, the fishy stuff. Yep, there is some. First, she changed her name, fuck knows why. Then, during her studies she started a cooperation with Focus Technologies – buncha geeks, they dabble with construction tech and some freaky projects... like the one she participated in. Ya remember this creepy show? Virtual players, running through some samurai – like world, cutting each other down. Bollocks for the masses, but it sold out in TV and Net. Now – she's been researching some psychological bullshit for the game...'
'...did she play?'
'Why of course, fucking bitch did! Same goes for this cocksucker who took down Miller on Warsaw Bridge and the chick from Crayon Hostel. Mo – of – H., how come she's always where the shit hits the fan?!'
'Women. Y'know, Bartie boy – they call it feminine instinct.'
'My ass. She's been a psychologist for the whole party, now she's a fucking Damien girl out of cheap horror bullshit. So what we do now? Nail her down? Or just follow her to another cold boy? Cause there's no fucking way we let her go, I s'pose'.
Bishop's silent. Observes shining patterns of sound recording. Flips through datafilms. Looks vacantly at the control lights on his panel. Touches a pad with his yellow, nicotine – stained finger.
* * *
'So what's the deal?' she started without hesitation.
'Hi, by the way. I'm feeling good, thanks for asking.'
'Screw your "hi", officer Siwiec, and screw your comfort. You've awaken me at fucking 7 AM, told me to be at your goddamn police HQ in an hour, and to top that - you're drunk. So give up your bullshit, tell me what's the deal and let me go back to my work.'
'Those were the harsh words, miss, but OK, I'll respect your position.' He reaches for the pack of cigarettes, offers her, she shakes her head, he lights up and starts talking.
'I'll respect your position mostly because you've been higher at ranks. Police ranks, I mean.'
He's silent for a while, blinks his eyes, shuffles his data. Seems to be ignoring a look of surprise and utmost irritation on her face.
'C'mon, miss. You may run, you may hide, but the collective of drunken officers is working well. We know about your game incident, we know about your research behind this project of Focus, so YOU can cut the crap and help us stop the murderer. Especially if you and this dead girl from Crayon, Sabina, been such a pair of friends.'
'Yeah? You seem to forget that I quit. Quit, d'you fucking get it?! No more the police. And I'm not going to return. I'm not gonna...'
'Not gonna what? Land into some dung again? Too late, you're already in. Wanna stay a civilian? Fine by me. But you gotta reconcile with the fact that I'm coming with you. And I'm not going to ask you whether you want me to become your yojimbo or not.'
She seems to burst in anger. Then to laugh. Then she's all solemn and asks 'why?'
His answer is a whisper, almost impossible to hear. But she can see it on his monitor.
She recognizes a medieval Japanese city. Years of work of an army of graphics and projecting consultants. She can see a girl in an armor of samurai - ko, a female warrior. She knows it's an avatar of Sabina.
A character lurks into shadows of virtual Osaka. And Marta Jaronska forces herself not to scream, not to try to interrupt the course of events in the game.
A second later a hand wielding a razor - like knife reaches for a throat of Sabina's avatar.
Another murder is on the way.
Marta knows how it's all going to end up.
“In carefully scrutinizing the affairs of the past, we find that there are many different opinions about them, and that there are some things that are quite unclear. It is better to regard such things as unknowable.”
- “Hagakure: The Book of the Samurai” -
The night shift is the best place to sit calmly and contemplate a mystery of human life. Adjeelu Unambe, Nigerian CCTV operator in “Crayon” hostel and former student of University of Wroclaw, has always been sure of that. Nights in student houses are full of life. Life that tries to get through quietly and only with occasional noisy festivities.
Adjeelu is a quiet, short and bit burly. He's shy, he doesn't like to speak much. He prefers listening and watching. All that CCTV, placed in most of “Crayon” locations, can handle.
19:28, camera no. 7. Close take. Room 152 A - D. Zoom. Audio: on. Black fingers moving across the panel, they caress the slides, so the Eye can take a closer look, while the Ear wakes up from its slumber.
Phone call. Police number, as indicated on connection panel. Red numbers on plasma screen. An alarm call.
'Hi. “Crayon” hostel, Marta Jaronska speaking. Yeah, same me, yeah, I called you from the cab. Yes, it's rather urgent, lady. It's a murder. Room 152 C, victim: Sabina Grezner. Clear homicide, throat slid from ear to ear. You can hold Your ambulance, just send a bloody coroner in'.
Adjeelu zooms in while changing the take.
* * *
Camera 12, zoom across the corridor, towards the elevators. Light correction due to poor extra sources of light. Time – 19 :47.
An elevator stops on the 15th floor, doors slide open and a tall, unkempt man strolls out. Two man in police vests behind him.
'Junior, tapes. Gimme Flasher with his UV. Andy, Charons on shoutout?'
'Onna way, mate. Flasher's already at cold 'n' ugly.'
Young, red – haired policeman starts to stick the tapes across the corridors. Tall, marine – shaved cop, who seems to be in charge, calls out for attorney and some other policemen to come along.
'...and where the fuck are witnesses, eh?'
Woman. Quiet voice, almost a whisper. So audio's slider receives another soft pat, change from C12 to C14.
She must've been a caller, Adjeelu thinks. She's really attractive, with those black hair, a bit tight t – shirt, emphasizing her figure, black cotton jeans. Young, posh and a bit slutty, for Adjeelu's taste. Mobile in her slender, long – fingered hand.
Blood on her hands.
* * *
Room 152 C. Doors wide open. Camera 14 peeks in, greedily. Zoom times 12, light correction off. 19:58.
Policeman, his dirty jeans jacket thrown across the table, sits next to the opened window and smokes a cigarette. Adjeelu shrugs and turns off the fire alarm in room's sector. No need for more noise and alarms. One bloody corpse is more than enough.
A woman sits on the bed and looks on police technician taking UV photos and samples of dirt, blood and hair from the floor.
'Awright, miss. Gimme one good frickin' reason not to arrest ya. First, you screw in the middle of police action and risk yer life, whatever bollocks ya have fer reason. Now yer here, with this cold doll...'
'First: my name's Marta and I don't like being called “miss”. Second: please speak in something not being this moronic parlor, 'K? And third, she's not a goddamn “doll”, she was my goddamn friend, you DAMN hear me? '
'Sure sweetheart' he shrugs, ignoring her angry grimace 'so was this buddy from the bridge, eh?'
'No. It was... he was... Oh, shit. FTF. Am I accused?'
'Not really. Your alibi's steel – solid, Last Contact is more than sure that she's been cold siiiince... lemme see... 19:17. Taxi boy said ya left his cart on 19:26, approved by CCTV... Fuckin'ell...'
He slams the door, barking something about 'damn audience everywhere', but Adjeelu's all into this this story and is not prone to let it go. So he turns on corridor cameras, starts on the sensors (“voyeur's Christmas”, as “Crayon's” receptionists call it. Whatever, man has to make his living. Be that students' intimate life, distributed around porn sites, be that murder).
Another zoom, audio's slider to the bar's top. Black 'n' white picture starts glowing in dark control room.
* * *
She's bending upon the bloody stain on the cream – white carpet. Her finger dancing in the air, she mumbles something. Adjeelu is sure he can hear it, but man sitting on window pane – cannot. She whispers some words sounding like 'from the backward...', 'surprised, but a one, quick slice...' 'she could scream out, with her larynx opened up...'. She's silent for a while. Then, her eyes wide open.
Boy in the control room can swear to God, that she is panicking. Max zoom, turn on an extra mic. She holds her breath for a while. 'It's like in bloody game', her mouth moves slowly.
She composes herself, she's concentrating on what's happening here and now.
'OK, Mr Officer...'
'Bartek. Ya don't hafta be that official. Whaddya want?'
'What does your doctor say about her death?'
'Well, as for now? Fucker's been fast, he got her by surprise. Some sharp blade, razor perhaps? If so, a murderer's been a damn old - styler. Receptionist claims that no soul wanted to see this girl, and there were only one elevator calls to this floor. Two guys, sharp suits, but they left a few minutes before her death. 'Cept for that – peace and quiet.'
'Not really. By the way, you found Tom's... y'know, boy from the bridge's body?'
He's a little startled, looks at her suspiciously. 'No... We've checked even damn Brewery's sewers, and up and down the river, no sight of anyone leaving water, no terminal diver whatsoever... Why?'
'Sabina alarmed me around quarter to seven. She was repeating that Alice's death wasn't an accident... and...'
'And that Tom told her so.'
* * *
Camera is patient. It records everything it catches, filling up a hard discs of CCTV. Disc will be removed later, during shift change. Adjeelu will take it home, check it, probably delete. Or not.
'Say; what's that story of yours? And who's that late Alice?'
'Alice, Tom, Sabina, me, we were into samurai VR... No, wait, from the beginning. Whole affair started about eight months ago. Institute of Psychology started to work on Virtual Reality's project, in cooperation with one of Polish companies...'
'Can't tell, it's been a part of agreement that...'
'...my ass. It's an A – Class murder case, to hell with all agreements, thank you very much'.
Marta's silent for a while. She stares hardly into the floor. Head down, Adjeelu can't see what's the look on her face. He's still sitting at the window pane, cheek pressed to the plexiglass. Seconds are running on the panel screen.
'Yeah. To hell with all agreements.'
Clock strikes quarter past eight. They open up the door and leave the scene.
* * *
Adjeelu is silent. He stares vacantly at the map of corridors inside the hostel. If the murderer was here and left around 19:20, it has to be recorded on some cam. It's impossible, he muses cleaning dirt from behind his nails, that someone left this floor unnoticed. Also, there should be some fingerprints, drops of blood, a print of shoe on staircase linoleum.
Staircase, that's it. Fire exits. There is one cam on each floor, next to the alarm bell.
Fingers switching the buttons, lights of controls glimmering.
And one of camera circuits is off. And it has been off for around an hour.
Adjeelu smiles wide. Now he knows that the killer was no ghost at all.
Enlarged version of A Pardoner
"No compromise. Not even in the face of Armageddon."
-Walter "Rorschach" Kovacs, in Alan Moore's "The Watchmen"-
So there he is, stuck in an analysis room with bottle of high - octane Finnish vodka, head on the desk, cigarette stubs all around him, leaving their round fingerprints on datafilms and archive papers. His head is hollow, yet somewhere in between his synapses adrenaline, fueled up by numerous glasses of seventy per cent high Blue K, rages aimlessly.
Shaky hands, tears in his eyes.
Hours of staring into contents of DVDs and USBArchivs, ruffling through catalogs of Datafilms and some antique papers. And he isn't even a bit smarter. Fucking life. Fucking, pointless life of a fucking stubborn idiot.
No. Not pointless.
There is still THAT case.
So there he sits, helping himself with another glass, warm vodka almost making him puke half - digested pre-pak soups on his desk, he wants to roar and to cry and to smash every fucking thing he's got in sight. Then he takes a deep breath, calms himself down, starts up another cheap cigarette and he muses of his past.
It was seven years ago when he left the elite Police Academy in Szczytno, the highest grades top to bottom, trigger happy and willing to prove himself the best cop in the whole damn country. What made him even happier these days was the fact that he managed to avoid any of proposed help from his uncle, prominent leftist politician. Only his grades and exam results gave him his dream job in Cracow.
His first assignment was a lucky shot. Homicide. A couple. He was an alderman and a famous architect. Well, famous enough to make all of grumpy cocksuckers from City Council erect at the sound of his name. Political parties were tearing their throats off to get his assignment on their list. She was attractive, well - educated, PhD in ecotechnology, starting her university career. And black.
And they had a baby. Sweet mulatto girl, as attractive and stubborn as her grandma and mother combined. Probably she made old grandma bury the hatchet with her daughter - in - law.
There were of course some pseudocatholic fundamentalists, stuck up in self - proclaimed Subcarpathian Autonomy, bellowing their rabid rants, cursing them for breeding mulatto dirty spawn on Sacred Polish Ground. They didn't care. Fundies proclaimed a death sentence on them. They laughed.
And one night this perfect couple was found cold dead, their blood showering all over the furniture and walls, man's head being hacked off with a combat knife, same for woman's breast and belly. Rabid, animal - like killing.
Their daughter was away from home at the time.
He saw her once, while she was being interrogated by a district attorney. They didn't let him do it, he was too young and unexperienced, they said. So now he bites his fingers down to the living flesh because of regret.
Sip of vodka. Fingers stub a cigarette, almost screwing a butt into the table. Aimless flip through DVDs.
It seemed to be easy. Every proof pointed out at the Panpolish Youth, ultra - rightist movement that after a short period of being civilized turned itself into terrorist radicals. And furthermore, everyone demanded them to be condemned for this horrible crime. And he was meant to be a hell hound of justice.
First interrogations planted a seed of doubt in his soul. Every detail was too perfect to cover the impression of somewhat conspiracy, which tentacles lurk deep into the world of local and national politics.
He was so bloody dumb, cause he said that aloud. And he was even dumber to point at circumstantial evidences that could not be missed.
And hell's been let loose. Straight on his fucking head.
His choice was simple, they told him on that hot, timid August day. He'd spent almost two years and half, they said, and all he could get were slanders and limp circumstances. So he could choose between signing "a compromising" version of a final report, a version that pointed out only on separatists from Subcarpathia. Or else, he could sign down his resignation and go to find any other police headquarters, preferably hundreds of miles away. Or, what would be the most preferred option, he could go and hang himself.
So he told'em to shove this report up their arses and he left.
His family broke down with him on the day when his uncle called and suggested him to change his decision "and continue the job, You know, Junior, easy, through the back door, no dangerous efforts, it's not a way, you know...". Uncle heard only a few words from him. Words about shiteworthy communist pigs with money for brains. Words about cowards and lacks of balls to face the truth. Words about mutilated bodies and wiping his friends' asses with the victims' blood.
And then he threw his phone through the window and wept.
So there he is, sixth year with no promotion, stuck in some shitty HQ in Wroclaw. District Homicide Department, a place to take care of stuff no one wants to dirty their hands with. Psycho killings, drug overhauling, kiddies gunning down each other. And among those cases he holds a data of some fucked up kid with God knows what kind of wires inside him. And this kiddo played Mr. Big-Fucking-Gun. And he shot down a policeman.
Bartosz held his palms to his eyes. Probably somewhere outside the Sun has just risen. Or maybe it's a goddamn noon, who cares? He still doesn't have shit. Except for a hangover.
So he leaves his room, almost chokes with the first draught of cold air in a corridor, spots up that it's around noon alrighth, somewhere behind the dirty window.
It's the first time that he takes a look on his hands and sees them smeared with blood, his and Miller's altogether.
Enlarged version of A Watchman
"We all live under the whim of Murderers"
-Alan Moore, "A Whim"-
There were too many bad signs and omens in the sky that any of them could be real.
She ran so long that she could barely catch her breath. Deafening pounding of her heart made her oblivious to anything happening around. Tyres screeching frantically around her, policemen shouting, all surrounded by a gusty mists of autumn. Panic in the air, rage sparkling around, waiting for barrel of gunpowder to make it explode.
Too many, far too many bad omens.
She ran onto Warsaw Bridge. 'STOP!', she shouted, 'stop, for bloody fuck's sake! DROP THAT MOTHERFUCKING GUN, YOU IDIOT!'.
Her last words were directed towards skinny, tall man, visibly hung over and tired, who pointed his awfully looking black Tokarev at small figure standing at the bridge. Or maybe she shouted at six - foot - tall blonde, all in his Hugo sharpsuit, with no less awful Glock 21 pointed in the same direction.
Or maybe she shouted at small, skinny young man, dressed in hooded blouse and jerseys. Youngster was pale, black-eyed from tireness, got shakes. And held Gargantuan pistol that seemed to be half his size. And pointed it. And pointed it towards her.
'Jays' fucking H. Christ...' skinny cop, she nicknamed him "Mr. Hangover" in her mind, started his lithany of blasphemies, trying to stand in front of the girl, still pointing his pistol at young man on the bridge. She squeezed around and stood with her hands held in front of her.
'Tom! Tommy, hear me! And You' she turned towards cops 'Stop pointing this horsefucking doorknobs, 'K? I will talk him over, please... Please, for God's sake! Tommy! Put that fucking gun DOWN!'
Tommy still standing on the bridge, his face pale and his body trembling, huge Zastaver MUP in his hands overwhelming him. She's moving slowly towards him, repeating her mantra to keep him listening, to keep him sane enough to put down the gun and let the cops go, they will let him go, but please, please Tom, put that fucker on the ground... And cops, standing still, not moving their guns by an inch, and one of them, Mr. Hangover, who is standing closer to her, notices something strange in Tommy's eyes, some glimpse, like the rage has just found its barrel of explosives, and he jumps, and the one in sharpsuit jumps towards her.
Whatever really happened next happened too quick to be remembered differently than series of conditioned reflexes. Tom preparing to shoot. Frantic leap towards him, in the same time skinny policeman jumps towards youngster from her far right. From her left Mr. Blonde tries to stop her. Teenager's gun fires with mighty roar and she contracts into herself. She lands where he should have been but he's gone, running to the other side of the bridge. Skinny one lands on all fours, starts up and runs towards Tommy.
She also runs. Runs as hell. Silence on her back, so suddenly.
Goddamn You, Tom. God-fucking-damn You.
And they chase him, and when he's halfway the bridge, he suddenly jumps on the bareer.
Don't. Please, don't.
And they rush, but he's jumped, he arched from the bridge into the icing water, broke the fresh, morning ice float and dived under the surface.
Skinny cop ran towards the concrete bareer and stared onto the hole in the float. He spat towards water, noticing the girl on her side.
'What do you think?' he murmured 'Will he end up with chitine coat and extra pair of eyes? It's Odra after all...'. 'Shut up' she answered, still catching her breath 'Shut up and get out of my sight. Now and forever, d'ya get me?'.
He shook his arms and left leaving the bloody mark of his hands on the concrete. She still stared vacantly into the water. After a couple of seconds she turned away, only to see Mr. Hangover kneeling next to Mr. Blonde, who laid in the growing puddle of blood.
Marta never knew how they managed to take her to the police station. She remembered only skinny cop, named Bartosz, screaming at Mr. Blonde (whose name - or surname, perhaps - was Miller), trying to keep Miller conscious long enough until the emergency came in. She remembered something like police car taking her away towards district police headquarters at Podwale. Now she sat and stared vacantly at elder man in smuggy suit and rotten teeth, who was probably trying to convince her to something. Or maybe only to explained something obvious. Nevermind, who cares?
'Name?' elder man barked from behind the cloud of cigarette smoke. 'Marta Jaronska, age 24, student of University of Wroclaw, fifth year of psychology, address...' she started to recite answers in dull, tired voice.
'OK, good girl. Now, what the hell were You doing on this goddamn bridge, care to explain, eh? Why the hell have You ran in the midst of police action concerning a bloody serial killer?'. His voice hasn't raised even half a pitch, but she knew that he was just about to run amok. She decided to answer as carefully as she could.
'He... I knew him. His name was Tomasz Rejwan... He wanted to contact me just before... Just before he...'.
'Just before he shot a policeman on duty, that's what You wanted to say, girl. Rejwan's wanted to contact You on this bloody bridge or what?'
'No... In his flat. But on my way through I've caught a live coverage from the Warsaw Bridge and rushed towards there. He...' her voice suddenly turned to steel 'He could've been helped. But Your men decided to screw everything up in style. And there You go, instead of one scared boy on the verge of his nerves You got one dead body in the river and one wounded cop, goddamn!'
Police inspector hasn't been moved by her rant. Or, at least he never showed it. Instead, he smiled a bit with his rotten teeth and almost blue enamel.
'You maybe all right, Miss. With two exceptions. First, noone has been found in the river. Second, lieutenant Stephen Miller is dead.'
Enlarged version of A Murderer
" (...) We've been looking at one of our songs from a different angle, under a different light, so we can, hopefully, see it almost for the first time. We'd like try that for You tonight, is that OK? We'll need Your help. We'll need Your help and Your permission..."
-Maynard J. Keenan, "Pushit" (live)-
And that's about it. I need Your help and permission. You've played it, You've seen it, so it's Your story as well as mine.
And never, ever think that it has anything in common with our future games, which will be played until we drop off or get grumpy, tired and ugly.
So... Do You give me Your permission?
It's a first day of Spring. Winter hath goneth (well.. at least theoretically), eveything wakes up back to life, so does this LieJourn.
Now, my faithful hordes of non-readers, lemme explain my appaling laziness (4 months, 4 days, not bad!).
1. It was bloody winter, time to sleep and screw violently all activity whatsoever.
2. That meant - it was time to move away from home, pass language exams, get some job and to think about moving even farther.
3. It all made no sense. I mean - c'mon, face it. What's the fun in writing down how jerkish Polish government is? Where's the intellectual challenge in here? Those morons have made it so obvious, that it's tiring. And hell, I haven't made myself to set down this LJ only to write about something THAT boring. I still have my dignity.
4. Write down personal notes? Nonsense. I never wanted to do it and never will. I share all my personal observations to one person only, and I prefer to do it in expressis verbis way. Y'know, it assures me some dinner on the way.
5. So maybe I could write down something about music, comics, movies - anything like that? No, no, no. First of all: there are folks who do it better. Second: I sold my soul to mediumblog which means they are first to suck outta me any note of that kind. And they try dearly. And I resist fervently. Now I'm waiting for MB's troopers ambushing me and beating me half to death wit.. Damn. They still have my books. Shit, maybe I'll squeeze out some note...
Yeah, You see how that works.
So You see, I was kinda apathetic and thinking of anything else than updating some journal that almost noone reads (well.. now I know why, at least). But today, while fighting a cold (yeah... sure sign of spring coming), I got an idea.
Idea started from Do, who urged me to make some blog concerning last RPG games we've played. Then She repeated the idea, while playing. It was something like 'gash, we'd better do some blog, else we won't remember a thing from past games'. In both cases I answered 'yeah, sounds good' and never thought about doing a thing.
In a meantime we spent one of the evenings in hyperposh pub in Wroclaw's Ring. Pink, magenta and green lights been boiling our eyes out, beer tasted weird, and some psychodelic version of Frank Zappa has been staring on us from the wall. No big deal, except for the fact that Zappa stared at us with his Third Eye placed on his hand's palm.
'Why You never write?' She asked me in Her soft voice.
'Dunno... Probably 'cuz when I start to write down any piece of dialogue or description it looks shitty. Furthermore, I'm more into writing scientific data, it's OK with me'.
She nodded and we've returned to contemplate Zappa, photos of Elvis, something that looked like a hop - scotch for kids on acid, and hyped bartenders in their red shirts. We did it in the same manic way as rabbit does when it observes approaching rattlesnake.
But seeds have been sown and today I decided to do something with it. And, by the way, put on my mug as a default pic. Promise is promise.
Still, I don't wanna write down what happened during last gaming session. First, I'm prone to forget half of important stuff, second, I'm never to repeat the most juicy dialogues and situations (like the shootout scene, played with lights off and in sotto voce). And third: I'm too bloody lazy to do something like this. Not to mention keeping regular updates on.
But hell, I might as well practice my language skills (?), try out with writing some goddamn fiction and keeping gaming memories somewhere in the Net. Here You go, here comes the cyberpunk police drama placed in Wroclaw anno 2030.
And it's only up to You how far it will go.
Once in a while I have this feeling of hopelessness, when I want to leave this bloody journal. Noone cares, noone dies due to few lines of rant on this planet. Usually happens when I'm not posting a thing in a week or so. But then come moments like this, when I'm done with a job I planned to do, everything's done and checked - it it's still too bloody early to lay my head low.
When I finally raised my head from a fuzzy, prozac-headache pills-coffee Nirvana, I've noticed that I'm some time - reverting whirlpool. Old sorrows, music I haven't touched in years, old ways of working and solving the undone in front of my tired eyes, tired mind, tired soul.
'ts awright with me. I've always been better in planning my past. Woulda do great pastseer.
Strange coincidence occured. Today I spent whole bloody day in city buses, reading Hicks' rants. Two of them stuck in my memory: one about Bible written in "modern" English (to make more "accessible" to typical, uneducated jerk from middle of nowhere, in USA, supposedly), another about Christian fundies and their views on sex (technically - they're against it, despite "be fruitful" bit).
OK, I read it for fuck-knows-which-time, laughed cynically, no big story. Then, I'm coming home, and I hear the news: Polish government won't subsidy in any way "in vitro" insemination. You wanna baby, You pay. Hard cash, best put straight on the tap. Made my hair raise on my neck and scream for a bloody nuke to blow this Cunted Circus (aka Neverending Story) to pieces. Then Do, my friend currently studying in Japan, writes me that she found out "Lord of the Rings" written in "modern English". You know, the _easier_ English. Edition for Americans. Taken easily as a bitch - slap by Japanese.
Now, let us put things straight. Don't have much against Yankees. None hurt me personally, they brought some great artists, given shelter to hell of scientists during wartime, thank You. Seen too many of'em apologising for Bush via Net to spare'em my blame for choosing chimp - looking psychotic kid for another 4 years in White House. OK, he's been chosen by the Other Americans, Moron Americans, You get it, wink wink, nudge nudge.
But, for bloodiest fuck's sake, how come it always happens in USA that someone levels down any good idea that occurs in public, any great book (movie adaptations of masterpieces like "Iliad" being example), any music stream so powerful it might turn mainstream's fundaments? What the fuck, You OWN English - language of ones like Shakespeare, Lewis, Pynchon, Tolkien, Asimov etc. - and You try to turn it into some turdy Mc Don's pulp?! Jaysis fuck, and then one hears he's mindless Yankee - eater... Excuse me, now I got one good reason. Be that Boromir saying: "Yo, Frodo dude, gimme a grab on that shiny!". Or Elven hiphop artists, freestylin' instead of singing ballads. Not to mention redneck dwarves, hillbilly Rohirrims.
And this in vitro stuff... Fuck, hypocrisy of those fundie bastards makes me see in white and eager for bloodshed. First I hear the moaning that Poland's on minus with its birthrate. I see those conservative pimps trying to buy our asses for a scrape of money - extra cash for giving birth, just enough for a few packs of diapers. Makes me feel sick, but OK, I got no babies, plan no babies, even got noone around to make pregnant, so I don't care, I'm calming down. But then I hear - sexual education? no good! Sinful! In vitro? no good! Too expensive!
Goddamn, our gov says that it's good to runt around and strenghten the white race? Sure, if anyone's that irresponsible and is into nazi idea of giving birth for State's sake. But please, cut the shit with "we want save one's life, not give it to the new hope of this planet! We'll try to cure old and broken, but we won't help young and willing to have kiddies!". Enough that thanks to Your holier-than-thou shit teenagers breed babies every year, then mutilate them! Thank you, more-papal-than-pope fucking retards with cross-shaped balls! Now I cannot move without seeing or hearing "mother beats its 4 - month baby half to death, another drowns it like a litter of kittens in the sewer...". If mother does it, it doesn't mean she's a fucking Dahmer with pussy! It means she had no way to raise it, no hope for her kid, no cash and no bloodiest idea why it happened to her. It wasn't a miracle of birth to her. It was ignorance, poverty and lack of REAL interest instead of sorry charity, act of revulsing pseudograce.
Of course The Jury had no doubt: punish the murdering mother, drown her deeper into shit of her misery, further beyond the point of anaestesizing despair. Pretend we live in Land of Justice. Never try to think about changing this state of matters. They be psychos, we be good, here be dragons.
Fucking hell, and I said that I won't care... But in depths of my egocentric, molden protetics of soul, I'm still human. And sometimes I feel as in a presence of the crucified Alien from Morrison's "The Invisibles".
"They crushed your poor, skinny body into the world of weight and measure. They twisted you into flesh and they showed to the gutters of the human soul. And I was there".
I do really need to change my waking hour. Usually it's set on 7 am, when radio starts playing. This way first thing I hear in the morning is set of morning news, usually dreadful or turning me off.
So, this way I automatically hide deeper under the coverlet, I fall asleep, I wake up at some crazy hour that makes my whole daily routine go to hell.
Today I've been awaken by news of my fav boy, CP's Jan Rokita, nickname "PM from Cracow" (that was his logo from election campaign), or, what I prefer far more "bare ass with glasses from Cracow". Rokita, afraid of winning populism and willing to solve coalition in spe's crisis. Wow, how cute! We've got this crisis thanks to you, cunt! Now what you wanna do? Play the man of the state, or what? You whining maggot, first you torpedoed coalition talks because your personal ambitions weren't fulfilled, now, when you see that you may not get any power in your hands you start mumbling something about "coalition that elector always wanted to see". Fucking two - faced traitor, sick for scrapes of power and authority.
Can't get it. What's wrong with this "power" stuff? You know, I'm curious. Never had any longing for telling others what to do, rest my fat ass on some leather - covered armchair and getting the biggest cash for it. Probably because I never had any real opportuinity to do so. Or maybe I haven't noticed the fact.
Maybe it happens so due to the fact that I simply mistrust in anything that someone does on my behalf. in case of some fuck - up, I'm not so sure who to blame. You know, simple deal, I spoil, I blame me, I mend.
So, I need to wake up at another time. Maybe tunes of Scissor Sisters (or any other shit of a kind) will make me run in amok, looking for shotgun. Well, apparently a waking experience.
According to memories of Death In June band, "nigredo" is a state "when we stood at the instruments, staring at ourselves silently with unexpressible despair". Well, I simply prefer in moments like this to lay in bath, stare blankly at the ceiling and think of myself as virus with shoes (Hicksian idea, after all). OK, I know i won't make me record one of the best cold wave albums ever (I mean "Nada!"), but hell, I'm not that demanding.
I'd rather see similarities between me and "The Pressman". Guy sits in his room, sees nothing except his typewriter, eats tuna sandwiches, jacks off to his fluorescent lamp, everything around him is faded and blank. Still, he mistakes himself that he's anything better than this, he's got his mission and raison d'etre.. Sorry fucker, that's all he is.
Why to write about all this, instead of leaving a note: "Death In June, Nada!, Primus, Pork Soda, track 9, make a comparison"? Don't know, maybe it's my time of a year to spread quotas around. Or, possibly maybe, in my hands as well "everything I touch turns to shit" ("Hellblazer").
Laws - of - Fives proven true. Poland (exactly: voices of bit over 1 / 4 of polish citizens) has chosen Lech Kaczynski for a prez. Well, who gives a damn?
Yeah, yeah, I find Kaczynski Twins a vile spawn of Hitler, but still - ain't gonna waste my spittle on'em (or on stupidity of Poles: which may be not that obvious!). No need to.
First of all: anyone who says that we're gonna live in police State, mythical Laibach's Drzava, "caring of physical development of a youth" - bollocks. Ain't gonna happen. Mathematics explains that. If Law & Justice is going to change The Constitution: they need 3 / 4 of total number of MPs. And they may be sure as hell that Civil Plaform together with Democratic Left's Alliance will block it. And L & J has to change our Bill of Rights to give to the Prez any of wanted laws.
Second: if L & J is going to play this hitherto existing binary "lose-or-win" game, they ain't going to win anything. They have won not enough votes to play Masters and Commanders and gather all of the key Secretaries in their greedy paws. No chance, boys. And, if You'll keep to discourage your potential partner (i.e. CP): well, You're going to have to handle with greedy hyenas of SelfDefense's kind.
Third: let's bet that L & J will rather befriend hyenas. Oh well, that means that they have never learnt from DLA'a fall from grace (being partially caused by their silly try - offs to befriend SelfDefense). And this means a flaming bordello instead of Law, Justice or even a next year's budget.
So, let's just simply play patient. They are going to kill themselves, without our help. And we can talk about anything else. Seems more sane to me.
After a long break and few try - offs I'm back with my egocentric rambling. All about me, sit and enjoy.
Probably this long break has something to do with my sense of shame. Y'know, my nonexisting readers, I feel stupid. I called You names: fucks and idiots, voters for Hitler's clones... Now i find it silly.
Why? Probably because I should not care.
My life's goal is to be a scientist. The guy who works with his brains, finds out new solutions, judges the evidence. Sine ira et studio. And I get pissed off, rumble around bellowing like an idiot. Like anyone cared.
Last night I've been arguing with Her. About "Blade Runner" and perception of the movie. She proved me (or rather: She tried to prove) that this picture sucks, I tried to prove Her that this is a bloody milestone of cinema's history. We left in mutual misunderstanding. After the fact I've been thinking. First some suicidal thoughts of acting immaturely and leaving to some fucking New Zealand (Pitcairn would be an option) without saying good - bye. But hey! If I cannot make myself understandable, why am I even thinking about teaching other folks? If I am so bloody self - centered, how could I ever try to understand a world around me?
No, my nonexistent reader, it would not be a time to confess "and then I decided to become a fucking janitor and released myself from impeding personal horror". No, too much of a Hicksian in me. I simply decided to challenge it.
No more irresponsible hatred (responsible and thoughful acts of hate welcomed). No more me, myself and I policy.
Of course: except for this den of intellectual vomits.