It was Monday.

Marcus Simeon woke at five in the morning, sometimes an entire hour earlier. He had calculated for himself the optimal time to fall asleep and, as a result, rarely required the alarm clock on his phone. He still kept it, just in case.

From the moment he arose, a multitude of anxieties would assault his mind. He had thirty minutes to prepare for his job at Hugo Boss. The rush was entirely unnecessary, in truth. The work began at 6:30, and even if he left home at 6 he would still get there fifteen minutes early, but Marcus hated the idea of having to walk behind someone. He had to be the first at the workplace.

The first thing he'd do was chug an entire bottle of water, dehydrated from the night before. Then he would pick a t-shirt he felt like wearing on that day and put on his beige work pants. The pants had ten pockets, some big, some small, but enough to accomodate Marcus's needs. Luckily he had already prepared the night before so he didn't have to waste time searching his messy room for all the things he needed, but still it did not hurt to check. The four absolute essentials of his equipment were a multifunctional pen, a knife, a phone and a wallet. These represented the four occult tools of the magician: the pen as the wand, to create; the knife as the sword, to destroy; the phone as the cup, to preserve; the wallet as the coin, to redeem. After that came everything else. The keys to his car, a charger for the phone, a chinese good luck knot, a pair of work gloves, lip balm for his frequently chapped lips, and as of late a tiny a6 appointment book. It was imitation black leather, its pages held in place by an elastic band when not in use. Marcus had bought it on impulse two or three weeks ago – he himself couldn't remember when exactly. Thinking it an ordinary notebook, he decided he must have it. Only later he realized his mistake but it only struck him as amusing. In the manner of a true schizophrenic, he would start writing on anything he could find. Francis Dolarhyde, John Doe, and most recently the Riddler. Of course, those three were not exactly schizophrenic, but who could bother with diagnosing fictional characters now? He still had to get ready for the day!

He went barefoot to the bathroom. Right, the socks! He always forgot something. No matter. He washed his face and then his teeth for three minutes, pleasantly surprised that his gums seemed healthy for once. No blood. Even that one tooth at the front did not taste like iron when he ran his tongue over it. It was on the brink of succumbing to the rot, but surprisingly the situation was improving. Even the incredibly receded gums around it seemed to be returning to their original position. Not by much, but it was a start. All that, just from one day of not eating those damn Mars bars. He applied a special cream that would help the gums heal and then returned to the bedroom to put some socks on and whatever else he might've forgotten.

The watch. He put it on his left hand, the face on the inside of his wrist in a military fashion. He checked the time. 5:12 a.m. already? Nevermind. The bracelets were next. First, the blessed rosary bracelet. He would've liked to brag it was a trophy from an ex-girlfriend, but in truth she was nothing more than a friend who gave it to him as a gift. It had been five years since the last time they'd met, but she was probably somewhere in these parts as well. Everyone was. Scattered from their rotten home in search of the bare minimum, friendless, unnoticed by any man, unnoticed by any time or place. Or was that just him?

Anyway.

Three bracelets with red jasper, moonstone and tiger's eye. Blue apatite to top it off. Marcus would've laughed before, but he felt on himself numerous times that these crystals did indeed change him into someone else, someone wiser, someone possessed of greater wit. Once, he had been given a tiger's eye stone as a gift. Unaware of what it did, the next day he woke up and simply conquered, arranged a meeting at the mechanic's, opened up a contract with the local gym, then ran a bunch of other miscellaneous errands all day with such confidence and energy it left everyone stunned, himself included. With these crystals he felt unstoppable. He felt like he could see all, know all, do all. And were those not the properties of God? Omnipresence, omniscience, omnipotence. Of course, he could never attain such perfection, but he could imitate it, and the crystals helped him do just that.

One of Marcus's oldest obsessions was the God-King Xerxes from Frank Miller's 300 comic books, and Zack Snyder's subsequent film adaptations. Like with Freddy Krueger, he researched intensely just what it was, by what means had this fictional character become a god, and how the process might be replicated in real life. The closest he'd ever gotten to a definitive answer was „menstrual blood of virgins" but by then he was venturing into a territory too crazy even for him. Eventually the obsession faded like they all eventually did, once Marcus realized being a god was a lot of work. But still those three bracelets were a kind of an answer, something to elevate him, if not above others then above his own inglorious and shabby self, if only slightly.

Today he decided he would be wearing the white leather jacket his cousin had given him a week ago. Not the most appropriate work attire but Marcus couldn't be bothered. Last Wednesday, a colleague had offered him four hundred euros for it. Most likely a joke, now that he thought back. The jacket was seventy, maybe eighty euros on Amazon, by the cousin's own admission. It shamed Marcus to admit that for a moment he did seriously consider the offer before refusing. When he told the cousing about it later that same day, the guy laughed and said, „Should've sold it!"

Marcus's footwear were heavy black work boots, dirty and stained white where the abominable sweat from his feet had left its mark. Not breathable at all. If he could not find the right boots for the Michael Myers cosplay, these would have to do. He'd have to alter the boot imprint, though. Simple enough, he figured, just heat the soles with a lighter to distort them.

He had to prepare his backpack. He had ordered it from Samurai Tactical, having been unable to find the one he truly required, a black backpack seen for only a few scenes in the prologue of Tenet. This one was alright, though. It was starting to get old but he had grown attached to it. Given the opportunity he probably would not replace it with a new one, not until it was beyond salvaging. Into this backpack he stuffed his black Adidas sneakers, just in case he needed to change. Next, black bluetooth headphones, deodorant, a water bottle, and last but most definitely not the least was his greatest weapon, a JBL bluetooth speaker.

That last one was a gift intended for his little brother. For the last two months though, Marcus would take it with him to work. With his brother's permission, of course. It had been charging all night and now was ready for another week of brainwashing.

Yes, brainwashing. Two months ago, Marcus had grown annoyed with the music his coworkers played. One Greek guy for example, an outstanding guy in every respect, but when he wasn't blasting Greek music as loudly as possible he was blasting the same five rap songs on repeat. Another guy from somewhere in Africa, when he wasn't blasting techno music or the most mind-numbing remix of a remix of a remix of a far better song, he was listening to some... Marcus didn't even know how to describe it, truly. An audiobook? Some kind of radio series in english? The other day he was on episode 230 and Marcus tried his best to discern the plot from what little he could hear while working, but it was a fool's errand. Some kind of drama about... fashion? And corporations? And all of it read by an awfully saccharine woman's voice with no change in intonation, no pauses, like an artificial intelligence spouting nonsense over a speaker for hours.

No one seemed to complain about the loudness, the cacophony that three, four, five speakers playing at once could often cause. Marcus knew they would do exactly that if he played the music he enjoyed. And so he would endeavor to indoctrinate them into the metal music. It took two months to brainwash someone, as he knew from personal experience. The plan was to start off with the basics of metal. Black Sabbath, Judas Priest and so on. And as time went on, he would gradually shift the intensity of the music every two months until at last they'd reach the final destination: Meshuggah.

It was time to go. Well, it wasn't, but whatever. There was one last thing he needed to do, though. He had bought superglue yesterday and printed out a picture just for this. When he got down the steep, creaking wooden stairs and left the building, he turned around, stood on his toes and glued the picture as high up on the door as he could. A sigil to ward off evil.

Next thing he knew, he was getting a fine for driving 30 kilometers above the speed limit in a nearby village. There was a spot on the road that just dropped off like a rollercoaster and Marcus enjoyed speeding down that particular stretch of the road. A bummer, but it was his fault, really. He sent a message telling his mom about it not fifteen minutes after it had happened. He thought he'd be feeling a lot more panicked about it, more frustrated, more angry, but in all honesty? It didn't bother him one single bit. His payday was coming up, he'd be ready with whatever money he needed to pay the state. And if the situation got truly desperate, he would sell off those Hugo Boss shoes he had bought, or get some money from the emergency deposit his family kept.

Zen. Pure zen, throughout the day. Of course he had been wearing the crystals, but not even the crystals could always keep his mood up. This was most odd, but he enjoyed it. He only really dreaded the eventual and inevitable drop. This too shall pass. Sooner or later, something would come along and bring him down.

He went to work, he worked, he went home (this time respecting the law). He drove his mom to her workplace and drove her back, sparing her the unnecessary walking. She had been feeling very much under the weather, physically and mentally. His cousin, the one who had given him the jacket, was at the party for his brother's confirmation ceremony and was feeling sick. He had spread this sickness to almost everyone there. Everyone but Marcus, which was particularly odd because Marcus was sitting right next to him the entire night and was not exactly known for having a perfect immune system. If he, prone to illness as he was, did not get sick then, how strong was he? Or rather, how weak was everyone else? Well, his mom definitely could not handle this bout of sickness. So he told her jokes, funny stories from work, when they got back home he turned on some funny cute animals for them to watch. Anything to lift her spirits up. It seemed to work, thank God.

Later in the day, two neighbors called him. They were clearing out stuff from the building's collective shed, used by everyone for everything. Marcus only kept his tires there, and a box with the Michael Myers mask and costume from the last year. One of them, a gypsy, offered him thirty euros for it all. The mask alone had cost him about ninety euros but Marcus accepted the money for several reasons. First off, that stuff was simply no longer of any use to him. The mask in particular had been distorted by his heavy breathing so that the neck was elongated and resembled a bell. Secondly, it was incriminating evidence. He didn't want to have those in his possession when the time came for the first incident, as he called it in his mind. He would get a new mask, new coveralls. Maybe work on them, customize them. But there was time.

The first and foremost thing in his mind was arranging a meeting with the doctor, maybe next week. It was concerning the pain in his groin. He didn't feel it right now, but the cause was still there. If it didn't hurt now, it would hurt eventually. He wanted to be Michael Myers because he wanted to be strong. To be strong he'd have to exercise, except he couldn't because of the pain. He needed surgery, as soon as possible.

When he went to sleep that night, he drifted off and dreamt that he was in his room, watching himself lay in bed. Only the guy in bed seemed a little older. And when this older self opened his eyes, sensing Marcus's presence, Marcus could see in his wide awake eyes wisdom, and hard won wisdom by the looks of it.

„I know you're there," the older Marcus whispered, and the younger Marcus began backing away. „Don't be afraid. Here is it."

It. What was it? The older Marcus lifted a finger, and it danced on the tip like fire, only it wasn't fire. It was knowledge, and it was love, it was the same wisdom that was in the older Marcus, and it was power, true power. It was all of those things and more, it was the answer, it was the missing piece of the puzzle, it was all Marcus had ever truly needed. As if a fragment of God had chosen to present itself to a wretch like himself.

The older Marcus dissipated. All that was left was it, floating in the darkness of the room. The next thing Marcus knew he was burning but it did not hurt and he was wearing the costume fully assembled exactly how he had imagined it and none of it was burning away and he went forth breathing smoke and fire he went forth among the monsters worse than himself and he

he

he woke up. It was Thursday.