Warning : Explicit Suicidal Thoughts.

Note : Please find the songs related to this fiction below.

Creep – Radiohead / Losing my religion – REM / Tell the king – The Libertines / Rock'n'Roll suicide – David Bowie /Disorder – Joy Division / Brilliant Mistake – Elvis Costello / The Boy with a thorn in his Side – The Smiths / The Crawl – Placebo / Lost Art of Murder – Babyshambles

THE REBEL PAWN

Money and Power are the Queen and King of our accidental world. If you have one, you want the other; if you lose one, you lose everything. In our society built on those values, we have turned democracy into an unspoken dictatorship. Whether you want to fight the system or contribute to it, you have to tear apart any morals you may ever have had. Morality is no longer part of our vocabulary, except in the name of a hopeless God who left greedy children on their own. Morality is no longer in our brain but in our wallets and false bibles. Pray the holy book to sin, Pray Judas to abuse Jesus, summon Satan to wash you from your good actions. The wealth of few makes the rest of us the bishops of a ruleless game we don't want to play.

So we try. We try to heal the aches which burn the roots of humanity. Charity, campaigns, donations, marches, and art : Oh yes we try. As hard as we can but we are failing. Checkmate. You can't win without the Queen and the King. You must own them. You could yield to them, but have you enough guts to enter a game of lies yourself? Yet, when you have been the pawn of the capitalist entity, in a war where you were killed for imaginary an utopist concept, you don't care about the game anymore, you lay your weapons and you obey, squashed by tiredness. You don't want to give Life a try, still you do, surrounding by all the shadows of your dead soldiers, killed under your responsibility.

January, 29th. London. You are walking down the streets but you don't look around. You know London. You hate London. Noisy, dirty, and fake. You enter the game. Working in a bank sounds boring, you laugh at yourself. Here your boss is that which took away your humanity; that which ordered you to kill; that which you continue to live for, power and money.

You push the glass door and ask for Mr. Brook, the headmaster of the Bank. Your soldier instincts react when you see him. Fake. Ostentatious. Despicable. How a perfect target would he be ? Kill the rooks, the knights, the bishops, the queen, and get slowly closer to the king. You shake the kings hand and follow him in his office. You don't belong here.

Lifeless, you sit on a chair. Could probably pay rent with it. Guess that when you have the money, the price of a chair is of no matter. sits at his desk and opening your file. He seems unimpressed not that there was anything impressive. He closes it and stares at you.

''Colonel Mora-''

''Don't call me Colonel.'' You don't even take the time to look at him. doesn't go on. His silence heavy and full of scorn. After an eternity, you can hear a snigger. At a slow pace, your eyes land on him. He is smiling.

''Colonel Moran...Impressive. Really impressive. A good little soldier. Interesting.'' His singsong tone and his thick Irish accent are irritating you. In your pocket, you take your pack of cigarettes and light one on. The match crashes at your feet. Mr Brook says nothing. He stares at you, frightened by the two big black holes that won't to let you go, you halt before taking another drag of that cigarette. Standing up you march to the front of his desk. Your ashes take his cup of tea as their resting place. He doesn't move. The fabric of his suit is taunting you. Too expensive. Too perfect. Too fake. You stub out your cigarette on your file and laugh. '' Which bank could possibly need a soldier anyway ? ''.

''Mine.''

The word falls like a guillotine. Mine. You can hear the threat. You can feel it. '' I am not interested. ''. Maybe you were wrong. Maybe Life wasn't worth a try. You stand there though you don't belong there.

''You will be Colonel Moran.'' You see a smirk at the corner of his lips. You don't like this man. He's a bishop who pretends to be a king. Vainglory.

You walk away. Long stroll back to your studio. It's so skimpy and impersonal. You don't even care. The mattress on the floor, yellowed by the cigarette smoke is the only thing you need. Your phone is ringing. Who cares ? You throw it away.

Why don't you leave? London has never been your home, Earth never has been. What keeps you here ? You, clever man, think about it. You read all the great authors, you glanced over the purest poetry, you admired the most beautiful paintings, you caressed the most perfect sculptures. You saw the wildest rapes, you witness the worst executions of children, you watched the most morbid dead bodies, you observed the most tragic suicides. Does the best of Humanity can balance the worst ? You lived enough for a lifetime, you are broken, you are desperate. Why don't you allow yourself some eternal rest ? You don't belong here.

Phone keeps ringing. Who cares ?

You look at the ceiling. The paint is peeling before it trails down to the ground. What are you supposed to do when you want to keep living but not in the life they offer you? You never asked for this game. You would just like to stay in your pathetic flat, surviving. You are not interesting in running after money, but you have to. You are not a survivor anymore. You survived enough. You are tired. Exhausted. You miss the thrill of Life, you miss the joy of discovery, you miss something. You are missing something. Oh life, it's bigger, it's bigger than you

Phone keeps ringing. You care. You take it.

''...Hmm ?'' Your voice is empty and lazy.

''How many missed shots ?''

The accent. You sigh, deeply. Your shaking hand covers your eyes. Last year, they all wanted you. Best shot in the world. You were a legend. They say you killed a tiger with your bare hands. They say you can shoot someone dead from a town over. They wanted you. You declined. How can you fight when you can't sort out the good side from the bad. You retired. Yet, you did miss a shot. Just one. Can you say you missed it when you actually were a coward to press the trigger ? It is more simple to pull it when the target is one mile away but when the target is you, it's an other story.

''None.''

He hangs up. You would like to hang yourself. What time is it ? It doesn't matter. You are done. You think about that tiger. You didn't kill it. An animal doesn't deserve death. Not like that. Even your legend is a lie, a game of power. They judge you on your deadly capacity. The more deaths you had on your table the better they fed you, Odd. At what point can you decide whether this person should live or die. God complex. That's you in the corner. That's you in the spotlight, losing your religion.

You would like to kill them all. Destroy all this illusion to build something good. A final act. Throw its shame in the face of Humanity. Show it. Be noisy. Kill them all or kill yourself. Be the sacrificed pawn or the crowned King. Nothing less. Didn't they explain : you have to play the game.

You play with matches in the dark. Fascinating. Burn a match for every corrupted soul who rules our world. Watch it and don't step in. The stake of shame.

This one is Mr Brook. You delightfully observe it. Burn the suit. Burn the desk. Burn the chair. Burn him. Yourself a killer but the only thing you're killing is your time.

Bag. Get your bag. It is inside. You haven't used it since...since. Use the bullet you kept. Kill him. Do it.

What a wonderful smile you are wearing right now. Who is right, who can tell, and who gives a damn right now. You are going down the stairs walking tall. You can feel the thrill of the hunt in your veins. You like it. You miss it. You are a mess. You know your way to the office. Who needs to knock ? You enter and you find him, behind his desk. He doesn't even look at you. With a theatrical gesture, he shows you the chair.

"I was expecting you much earlier, Colonel." Kill him. "I hope you don't mind my men. They kept an eye on you.'' Kill him. "And wouldn't it be a shame to waste your bullet to kill me ?" Kill him. "Now, if you feel like it, may we talk about your contract ?'' Kill. Him. Pull the trigger. Now. "Or do you prefer a bullet right in your heart ? Do you have a heart Colonel ?" Pull. The. Trigger.

"Who are you ?! Who the fuck are you ?!" You lose your temper. Put yourself together. You are a mess. "What the hell is going on ?!". Stop yelling. Behave. Just kill him. Pull the trigger. "Tell me !"

You are trapped. Two men caught you. You are now unarmed. You are a failure. What happened to the Colonel ? Were you a pawn pretending to be a King ? Or God maybe. He stands up, comes closer to you. His facial expression is so calm and so peaceful. He stares in your eyes. You are not going somewhere else.

''Don't encourage me to kill you.''

He can kill you, you don't care. You don't know what you would enjoy or not. Blur. Emptiness. Dark. Loneliness. You don't belong here. His black eyes are analysing your soul – or what is left of it. He's mad. This man is genuinely mad. Don't be frightened. Oh, you are not. You are delighted. You like it. You do. He is not a bishop pretending to be King, no, no, no, he is the King pretending to be a bishop. You don't know who he is, but he is not him. He's so natural - religiously unkind. Everything is so blurry.

''Here's the deal Colonel. I know you, I know the stories about you. I don't believe them. I want you to prove your skills. If you are as good as I heard, you will be part of my team. If you are not, you'll be murdered, disguised as a suicide. Credible don't you think ?''

He keeps smiling. The look in his eyes is the same that children wear. Unhealthy. Put yourself together. Behave. You move your shoulder and stand in front of him. Two moves. Quick. His men are down. Easy. Now you can talk, man to man. The rebel pawn to the arrogant King.

"Who are you?" Simple question. No simple answer expected.

"Jim Moriarty. Hi!" This singsong tone again. Kill him. No don't. Torture him. Make his look disappear slowly. ''Criminal consultant, the only one in the world.'' He was now turning on himself, arms tensed as if he were about to bow his audience. Joke. ''I rule London. This is my town, my masterpiece! I earned every souls down here.'' You knew it. He is the king. Kill him. "I can start any war, anywhere, or end them. I can turn England into a dictatorship and make the Windsor fall, or turn them into gods. You ought to see me in a crown!" Sinnerman. ''I'm trying to kill some time amongst other things. You know the annoyance, boredom, don't you? So far, I appreciate you." Madness. Pure Madness. He's a creep. You do belong here.

Stop smiling. Stop sniggering. You are slowly losing your mind. Put yourself together. That's an order, soldier. Don't go into his world. Abort the mission.

''What make you think I am interested in your business ?'' You are enjoying this. You feel alive. Destroy them or kill yourself ? You may have done your choice. Be the Prince of the town. Rule it. Make it your kingdom.

''I know you are. '' He sneaks in front of you. So close. You could strangling him. You want to.

''I'm in.'' Done. You entered another game, you don't know the rules of this one. Are there even rules ? He presents his hand. You shake it and you can't hide your smirk. Welcome to Hell, you will be King.

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