Lights,
.
Camera,
.
Cut.
.
A bright stage in the middle of an unnamed, unimportant recording studio wakes from its fifteen minute slumber, the time it takes for guests to change in between interviews. An unremarkably unkempt man takes his designated seat, which still appears to be warm from the Ursine ori-baron's rear, who threw a tantrum before storming off-camera. His interlocutor, an equally uninteresting newscast straddles a poor chair in front. Her hair is perfectly inoffensive, which nicely matches the neutral suit she's wearing. Before addressing the man of the hour, she makes sure to stuff any price tags still dangling from her clothes deep into their respective pockets and sleeves. The man in front could start speaking now, he could speak without being asked. He could speak from a piece of paper he had prepared earlier, or he could speak from the camera lens, which displays an endless stream of perfectly inoffensive phrases and topics, which the viewers enjoy very much. The man could even put on a recording of himself speaking about what he had for breakfast and no one would bat an eye.
NEWSCAST: The loudest man in all of Lungmen, dear viewers. Ladies and gentlemen, everything besides and in between, I present to you, the shining star of Columbian rock, foreign, yet our very own.
Bright stage lights close in on the man, putting him on display like a pretty animal in a zoo. He is, however, a human, not a beast, thus will not bite any fingers forcefully trying to slide underneath his clothes after the interview. He does not speak, because a question had not yet been asked.
NEWSCAST: Mr. Nuffer, I'd like to start off by congratulating you on your latest performance. It was very loud.
VICTIM: It was loud, yes.
Gasps of awe and murmurs laced with admiration sound all across the studio. The invisible audience finds the sound of the man's voice more interesting than his words.
NEWSCAST: How do you do it, Mr. Nuffer? How do you always keep it this loud?
VICTIM: I can only thank my sound crew. They always know what knobs to twist and which buttons to press to make it as loud as possible. They control my pedal boards, so that my guitar always sounds good. And loud. It needs to sound very loud. I can also thank my dear fans for attending. Their excitement really cranks the loudness up to eleven. I love it when they brawl. I like seeing blood spilling in the mosh pit, because it makes me feel nice and safe on top of the stage. I like feeling safe.
NEWSCAST: That is definitely one way to keep it loud.
The audience laughs in a very obnoxious manner. A couple bouquets of roses are thrown towards the bleak woman, which she doesn't react to. The flower stems are wet and sticky and remain glued to the newcast's face. She lets them slide down her boring suit on their own.
NEWSCAST: Mr. Nuffer, I heard about a recent scandal involving one of your band members. The drummer, Lars Behler, is that correct?
VICTIM: I suppose. I did not know the man's name. It is, however, very scandalous, the thing he did.
NEWSCAST: And what DID he do?
The audience holds their breath. They were very excited, though they did not know the drummer's name either.
VICTIM: I don't know. As I said, I did not know the man.
NEWSCAST: That is very terrible. Behler assaulted a woman. Over three hundred women have taken him to court this past week.
VICTIM: That seems reasonable. We keep changing drummers on a daily basis, because they can't stop themselves from touching groupies backstage. I do that, too, but they never change me. It is a very bad thing to do.
The audience claps and sheds tears at his powerful statement against sexual assault. The newscast can't stop herself from wiping the mascara running down her face. She is very emotional, because she is a woman.
NEWSCAST: You look very good, Mr. Nuffer. How do you do it?
The man looks spectacular. His heavy lids perfectly encapsulate the sleepless nights spent over a bottle of gold and mix with the girlishly-purple bags that hang beneath. His disheveled hair is a stark contrast to the elegant suit someone forcibly shoved onto the pile of bones and skin, and it looks very nice. It is very fashionable. Liberi are now in fashion.
VICTIM: I am a Liberi. There are not many famous Liberi in Lungmen. And that's why people come up to me and say "Congratulations on making it big". They are shocked that a mere Liberi could achieve so much. We are usually destined to serve, right? Serve the Law, serve in some Lateran monastery. They say "You are so talented, you were born with natural skills". Then we lock ourselves in the bathroom and snort Columbian puff. Or we inhale dumbed-down ori fumes. They are surprised I know of these things. And that I'm rich. I'm very rich.
NEWSCAST: Is there a secret to achieving your beautiful complexion?
VICTIM: I drink a lot. I also find myself staring at a mirror into the late hours of the night. Perhaps the early hours of the morning. It's quite relaxing, but then I fall asleep during music practice, and the new band members yell at me. And then they get replaced for yelling at me, and my producer pets my head. It makes me feel very safe, whenever he touches me. I love feeling safe.
NEWSCAST: I see! Would there be an alternative for some of us who cannot afford such luxuries?
VICTIM: Everyday, I drink a liter of real, regular water in liquid form. I also eat fruit and vegetables from natural fruit and vegetables. I tend to avoid fast foods and cigarettes, because they are rich in calories. I exercise a lot, yes. I exercise and I groom myself nicely. I wax my body hair and pluck strands from my nose and ears. My wife sometimes comments on it and jokes around. She calls me a faggot. Of course, she holds no resentment towards gays, but only giggles around about their certain, amiable, comically endearing and distasteful effeminacy.
The audience laughs, because they find the statement hilarious. The guitarist's wife must be a great comedian, they think.
NEWSCAST: Uh-huh. (She shuffles around with her notes and papers. The audience is dead silent and soaks in every single word that flies their way, while also silently noting down each phrase, as if a great philosopher was speaking.) You have undergone quite the internal transformation, wouldn't you say, Mr. Nuffer? You were once just a shy, guitar-plucking boy, now you're the loudest rock star on Terra. You sing about great heroes and disgusting cowards, of angels and devils, of deceit and hatred. Amidst the creeping vines of capitalism, our little "here and now", the era of bright lights and sweet words, of the "here, already, but only in 1120 anywhere else", the "cash first, soul second". Why, Mr. Nuffer? What do you get out of it?
VICTIM: I get a car. I get a car, a normal car for everyday use and another one, equipped with everything I need to scale any mountain I'd like. I also get a big house and a wife. We were brought together by our shared love of myself, and I want to spend as much time with her to discuss the topic for as long as I can. But, oftentimes it's difficult, because I drink a little, and when I drink, I also snort Columbian, and then I get sleepy and irritated, so I snort some more. And more and more, until she can't really understand what I'm saying, and that's bad, because I also sing in my songs. I sing about great heroes and disgusting cowards, of angels and devils, of deceit and hatred. But I can't really do that when I'm sleepy, so I snort some more to wake myself up. That's before I sing, after I sing, sometimes even when I'm singing. Even before coming here, I had to pour myself a white path down to the door to awaken that salutary feeling of being myself and things around me actually happening; I don't feel anything, I don't sleep with my wife. I don't have a wife, I lie on national television to hide the fact that my non-existent wife is right about me actually being a faggot. The great nation of Yan dislikes anything with more than three colorful stripes, and so does my producer. He likes things that sell, and I sell a lot. But I only sell when I act "normal", so I do. I hate myself and I hate faggots, but I'm not sure why. Do I hate them because I am one, or am I one because I hate them? And then I get tired of thinking and I sell both cars to buy more booze so I can calm myself down. Night comes, I hop into bed with my "roomie" and my imaginary work-wife and drift off to play guitar the next day. I fall asleep on set, I'm a bit of a sleepyhead. People yell at me and immediately get replaced. It's like a claw machine, it drags them out by the collar and drops off a fresh batch. And then they get into a scandal, but that's okay. I don't know them, so it's okay. I will continue selling and I will continue feeling safe.
The audience gives a small ovation at his bravery. It is a very brave statement, admitting openly that the guitarist loves his wife on live television. Most members cry tears of joy, some spit on the ground and walk out.
NEWSCAST: Let's flip the subject. Apparently, you were of quite a small stature as a child and it changed the older you grew. And to finish off, one last question. What does an ordinary day look like for someone like you, Mr. Nuffer?
VICTIM: It's a difficult role to play. I'm no actor by any means, I pluck guitars for a living. I read a lot. I actually plan on sitting down soon, and reading all the interesting title-pages and the authors' names of the books people talk about. Especially that famous Houellebecq. I'm scheduled with Hellinger next week. Or was it next month? My roommate probably remembers. And when it's all done and I'm tired, I'll hop into bed again and hug my invisible work-wife close.
The audience melts on the spot, loud "Awwww"'s and "Ahhh"'s are heard.
NEWSCAST: That's quite the week you have ahead of yourself! Your manager promised us a little treat at the end, isn't that right, Mr. Nuffer?
Murmurs arise from all around the studio. People are eagerly awaiting the promised surprise.
VICTIM: That's right. He promises things to people and people listen. He once promised me a wine cellar. Do you know how such a cellar is built? It is quite a piece of history. Each little bottle holds its own picturesque tale and a symphony of collective efforts, advanced processes, procedures, recipes, human labor, patience and knowing the ins and outs of time-smithing. And time, time, it takes so much time. I'd like you to imagine, but only if your imagination doesn't break under such a weight.
Both leave their comfortable chairs behind and stand before a map of the entirety of Terra. Their voices take on very matter-of-fact tones and the two start pointing around the map like weather forecasters.
VICTIM: Here. Kazimierz. Grand knights fight for honor and for glory. They fight to keep a dying tradition afloat. Their personal vineyards and wineries house all the necessary components to start the lengthy process of squeezing and fermenting the life-giving substance I thirst for.
NEWSCAST: The poor, common Kazimierzianin works diligently. His work ID number settles at around one million, seven and a half hundred thousand, thirty six. He sticks the grape seeds back into the fruit flesh and envelops them in glass skin, while simultaneously risking his life just by being there, and it's a life mostly void of any reason or purpose, anyway. He doesn't stall, he doesn't wait around. Fifteen million other, identical Kazimierzians wait to take his place the second a massive wine-jar topples over his head and drowns him in the fruits of his labor. He hurries and gives it his all, because he doesn't want the foreman to see the weariness in his eyes, because if he does, the Kazimierzanin will be moved to a different, less labor-heavy, less inspiring job in reassembling cherries or putting strawberry tips back on.
VICTIM: At dusk, he returns back home to the tiny flat amidst a sea of other flats that look exactly the same. He sits in front of a television broadcaster and watches the Major, he dreams big and then eats his chicken soup. Rosół, he calls it. And then it's off to bed, off to dream-land, where he fights grand monsters that hold great candles in both arms and kills beasts born of ink that rule the highest summits. In the morning, he forgets everything and goes back to work, where he continues making me my beloved, Kazimierzian wine.
The audience feels well educated. The man's words are wise, because he is smart. He is talking about places they have never been in, so he must be very well-traveled, which means he's insightful and trustworthy.
NEWSCAST: That is right. Mr. Nuffer, a song, please.
The stage lights once again focus on the guitarist and he is delivered his instrument. The guitar is unplugged and it roars like a mighty Aslan. The audience hears the loud noise and immediately cheers, because it is loud. They like loud sounds because they are different from the never ending tirade of "annoying pop" that ruined the modern music scene. They are actually unfamiliar with what the modern music scene is, but an internet essayist or two have used that phrase in a work they read, so they feel smart repeating those words whenever an opportunity arises. The audience loves feeling smart and being in the company of equally well-educated individuals. Individuals who hate the popular "annoying pop" and love the new, fresh "loud noise." The guitarist stands in place and basks in the lights, as the guitar plays for him. He puts his hands in the pockets of his elegant suit and lets the performance draw out on its own. Soon, his fierce guitar-playing is joined by his rasp, melancholic voice, yet his lips remain closed. The audience cries tears of intelligent sorrow at the underlying themes that lay not in the lyrics but each pluck of the instrument.
The audience cheers and cheers and they just can't stop cheering. They cheer so much their faceless heads fall down and roll towards the stage. They shower the guitarist with flowers and unintelligible words of awe, but devour the newscast. She is quickly dismembered and taken off stage, as the guitarist gives one last standing ovation, while the words of his hit song "Coward in Uniform" screech out.
.
.
"Frozen wastes I see,
.
Far beyond belief,
.
Sea of rotten souls,
.
Crashes 'gainst our walls,
.
I have taken more than any should ever have,
.
Sent them down or up, covered up in brass,
.
Licking up my wounds, comrade with no arms,
.
Deceitful and bleak, gray beyond belief,
.
Angel of winter, angel of gray, angel of desire, backstabbed my dismay,
.
Poured tar o' black over my body, with a tyrant by his side,
.
Mightier than a mountain, gouging out my sight,
.
Never worth his time, a friend to use and cast,
.
Who was laughing then? Who is laughing last?
.
Standing there above them, the worst one of all,
.
Cleaning his cylinder, never fired a shot,
.
Never saved his men, never carried fears,
.
Only cared 'bout himself, 'bout catching our cheers,
.
When it all went to shit, he was nowhere to be seen,
.
Prolly' took him far away, his legs, with that tail in-between,
.
Those horns atop his head weren't built for no war,
.
But for catching the eyes of another cheap whore,
.
So run away in fear, you subhuman piece of shit,
.
Run away far, let your name be there, be seen.
.
Let it ring across the land, let it transcend your human form,
.
Let your name forever be known,
.
As the Coward in Uniform.
.
Coward in Uniform,
.
Coward in Uniform,
.
Coward in Uniform,
.
Coward in Uniform…"
.
.
.
.
.
.
Andy kept staring. His eyes were registering the reality he found himself in, they were glued to the screen and unable to turn away. His ears soaked in the words, but wished they wouldn't understand the meaning. They wished something would turn them into one of those brainless audience members who'd rather listen to the guitar clatter than the message. It all sounded so familiar, but so foreign at the same time. As if a person bursting with hatred tried retelling a warm, well-known bedtime story to a bunch of children, but decided to play sadist and scar the poor kids for life by twisting it into something vile. Something untrue, something incredibly disgusting and false.
Yet, he could only stare. The girl next to him took on a similar task. She was staring intently at the large flatscreen, eventually stealing a glance or two towards the boy. Her wine-glass remained completely untouched, so did his. Isaiah and Lewie, however, had already downed around a bottle each.
"Aaaaawh, you crushed that interview! Look at you, all professional and fancy up on that stage~!" The man in silk chirped to his "roomie", as his legs shifted even further to make themselves as comfy as possible in the Liberi's lap. Nuffer did not mind at all, seemingly, already zooted out of it. There was snot running down his face, mixing and blending with lines of finely ground, white powder, like the fluffy snow of the frozen wastes he sang about. He did not protest, either, when his lovely roomie pressed a loud, wet kiss to his cheek and giggled. Both Andy and Sora shuddered at the sound and shifted even further towards the other corner of the couch. When did these two lovebirds even make it across the stump-table? Why were they sitting there…?
"That's nothing." Nuffer mumbled back, unaware of the lips glued to his face.
"Ooooh, it's something. And how you talked about our trip to Siracusa…? And how you mentioned me as your creative inspirations…? Oh, Nuffie…"
"That's nothing. That's all nothing. That's not even half a good performance, I can do better. Way better, I can do a lot better." The guitarist mumbled, more to himself than anyone else. His words flew like a raging stream slithers down a steep mountain, all of them rapid and jagged in places. One chased another out his throat, all formed by the funky powder-monsters playing amidst the ruined remnants of his mind. "I'll do you one better. Andy… Andy, where are y-... Ah, here. Andy, you wanna hear a performance? Greatest performance of your life, huh? You liked my playing, right?"
Andy did like it. He used to love hearing him sing, back in those snowy barrens, where no life but themselves could bloom. Where no music but their own existed, where heroes died and were remembered as nothing but false images in people's minds. False images, Andy thought about that phrase a lot. He rotated it in his mind and looked at it from each angle when his paranoid mind wouldn't let him fall asleep. The constant insomnia had almost even caused him to resort to relapsing back to his frequent visits to the red-walled hallway and the room at its end. He could almost feel her warmth, then.
"I did, yeah." The boy muttered out. Dark clouds of doubt had already started forming the moment he stepped foot in this household, but now they submerged him fully in their rain of bubbling, soul-shattering tar. He wished he'd have just stayed at home that day.
"Yeah? Yeah, fuck, I'll give you a performance." The guitarist exclaimed in excitement and gathered himself off the couch. His "roomie" squealed in protest as his legs were forcefully removed from the man's lap. "You deserve that, Andy. You deserve a live performance, you know? This song's about you, after all! Ha!"
In just a few steps, his long, spider-like legs crossed the empty plains of the stump-table, which he turned into a makeshift stage for himself. One of the many guitars that once lined the walls now rested in his arms, hanging off a strap wrapped around his neck. It wasn't plugged in, nor was it connected to any noise-making effects pedals, yet the guitarist seemed to have already been feeling the violent music coursing deep through each of his arteries. It was silent, yet so loud. Loud, just for him and no one else.
"Uh-huh…! Coward in Uniform, y-yeah…! Coward in Uniform, Coward in Uniform…!"
What was lacking in instrumentals, he made up for in vocals. Wails and wails, not much of the chirpy, warbly voice from the war-time performances was left. Now, void of any automatic tunings or mechanical computer-singers, Nuffer's raspy screeches kept grinding against their ears like a fork against a chalkboard. Lewie squeezed his knees together and bobbed his head along, superficially fueling the guitarist's stage-lust. It was also his performance, now, as the silk-wearing, violet Vulpo joined in and shouted the words, without knowing the weight any of them carried.
"Coward in Uniform! Coward in Uniform! Coward in U-..."
"Isaiah, please stop."
Andy mustered up the courage to speak, yet his voice came out quiet. Very quiet, like a pained whisper. Despite that, the loud performer heard him through and through.
"... Stop? Why stop? What, you don't like my number one billboard hit? You don't like my music?"
"No, it's not about that, it's-"
"- You like pop, huh? You put on the radio when you wash the dishes at your nine to five? You like what they play, huh?"
"No, that's not what I'm talking about."
"You're one of them "music lovers" who take their top rosters off the all time charts and listen to what's popular?"
"No."
"No? But you're clearly fucking lying."
"I'm not lying, calm down."
"I'm not calming down."
"Isaiah, please just calm down."
Each plea was futile. Each word, like chickpeas thrown against a wall. The guitarist did not listen and his voice grew in genuine resentment.
"People like you ruin music, you know?"
Lewie went silent altogether. Sora curled herself up into a tiny ball at the very edge of the couch. She was trying her damn best to sink into the hard cushions and disappear completely, vanish without a trace.
Andy, however, kept staring. Not at the TV, but at his friend. Their eyes were locked, his, filled with regret and a slither of something far more primal building up, and the guitarist's, full of those tiny, dust-monsters dictating his every move. The angel let his lips part and his voice form his scattered thoughts into a cohesive pile.
"I don't ruin anything, you're just not thinking straight."
"Oh, you don't ruin anything?" Isaiah snortled and broke out into a fit of cold, unfeeling cackles. "Here. Take this. Take it, take it." The guitar left his hands, shoved into the angel's weak arms. It felt strangely cold, as if it hadn't been properly cared for in years, not just from a technical or hardware standpoint. "You'll play us something. Show us your superior music abilities, since you think my music's bad. Show us how to play."
Andy clicked his tongue. In front of him stood the Non-Isaiah ghost. A shell of a person once dear, now possessed by some evil spirit, clearly. There was no other explanation, no words to explain what was happening.
"Look, stop doing this. Please, just stop…"
"Stop what? I'm asking you to play, since you hate my f-ucking style of music so much. Play me something better. And it better be original-..."
"I'm not playing you anything."
Andy stood up as well, clutching the guitar tight. The skin at the very end of each of his fingers turned bone-white, as they dug into the fretboard.
"Play us SOMETHING! You barge in after seven years of playing dead, you better play me a nice reunion serenade!"
"I didn't barge in anywhere!"
They both stood atop the wooden stage surrounded by couches. The fake fireplace had long stopped electrically crackling, leaving the room almost completely silent but for Lewie's occasional gasps of shock and awe. Sora did a pretty good job at making herself look as small and insignificant in this situation as possible.
"Oh, you didn't? You didn't throw over a dirt pile and crawl out of some grave to haunt me, did you? You were dead and buried with the rest, you were a couple lines in my songs, now you're here. What do you really want? Royalties?"
"What?"
"What do you want, Reiff? I asked you a question."
"I wanted to see you! That's all I wanted!"
"You wanted to see me, so you dragged your little blondie-plaything to my doorstep?"
His accusatory gaze fell upon the poor girl. Lewie's eyes met hers, as she desperately searched the room for help.
"... She's not a "blondie plaything." Look, wh-... What the hell even happened to you? What's wrong with you?"
"What's wrong with me?" Isaiah questioned, unable to notice any faults at play. The powder-monsters playing by his eyelids did not let his sight fall onto the white paths lining the area between his lips and nose. "There's nothing wrong with me. Do you see anything wrong?"
"I see a whole lot of wrong."
"Really?"
"Yeah!"
"You don't say? Wrong? What's wrong?"
"You're all wrong! Look at you!"
"I'm looking, tell me what's wrong. C'mon."
Isaiah stood proud, his arms confidently resting atop his chest. The gentle fabric woven in between his bathrobe and the dirty tank top flew freely through the air, like the gentle waves turning to turmoil and violently crashing against the rocky coasts of Iberia's horror-infested shores. Andy threw the guitar back at him, making him stagger back in amusement.
"You're wrong all over! You sit at home and… And what, you make millions off of war songs? And you… "Coward in Uniform", seriously?"
"I'd say it fits." The man summed up while the guitar cradled nicely in his arms.
"Fits what? You… "Angel of gray", all that about tar, is that about me? Is that me?"
"Of course it's you, you fucking moron! Who else? It's you, you piece of shit traitor, you left me to fucking rot in that outpost and ran off… Somewhere! I don't know where."
The words oozed like tar itself, they bubbled up and filled the room with a nose-wrenching stench that permeated through everything it reached. Andy was left struggling to understand the meaning or purpose of those baseless accusations, the mind-claws ruling his mind scavenged the sea of thoughts and memories in search of that memorable night, the moment he snuffed out his very first soul-candle.
"Piece of shit traitor"? What are you even on about?"
"About you. You, that fat bastard Droz and your perfect, flawless "Lieutenant" Ricketts. You lot, you all ran somewhere and left me to die! But guess what?" He paused for dramatic effect, which really did not fit the current mood. Lewie and Sora could only stare at the heated exchange, utterly wordless. "I am the one who made it! Not you, not Droz, not that piece of shit, Ricketts, ME."
Something twitched inside the boy's mind. That wasn't how it went. That couldn't be farther from the truth. They did not run, they took the attack head-on. They saved lives. They did the right thing, they fought. And they fought bravely.
"Shut the fuck up." Andy mustered the only cohesive response that came to his mind, twitching silently at the electric-shock the Law sent down his spine. "Shut it. That's not what happened."
"Oh, that's not what happened? So where were you? I kept looking for you, yelling and screaming, but the only thing I got in response were a couple white flares. And those fucking devil-dog scum bastards rushing in with their flags. Oh, and the sky tearing apart! And where were you? You ran off, somewhere, everyone knows. You, Droz-..."
"We didn't run anywhere! We… We went to the trenches, we shot… There were two privates there, one dead, one bleeding out, w-..."
"Yeah. Yeah, of course they were. Because you're so Lawful and innocent. And Ricketts too, right? So right, so perfect. Never took responsibility for anything. We did actually find him, you know? We found him in a pool of his own piss and blood in the trench after reinforcements came. That's your hero, seriously? Running, getting into a scr-..."
"He wasn't running! He saved our lives!"
"He was RUNNING away and stumbled into a bunch of dogs in the trench. That's what he was doing. And you two? Where did you even go? Where did that worthless, fat sack of shit go, h-"
"Don't call him that."
"Why? That's what he was. You know how many "Fowlboy"'s I had to endure? Your Lawful, angel superiority. He was always better, always a better class of human than me. Tell me I'm wrong."
"Droz wanted to go back for you. That was… That was one of the last things he wanted to do before he died. He… No, WE saw the outpost falling apart and he wanted to go in there and look for you."
"..."
For a moment, the guitarist stood still. Something glimmered in his eyes - a familiar glint, void of the powder-monsters' strings. A genuine sense of hesitation. It shimmered and flickered, winked and flashed. Just as fast as it appeared, it was gone. Blanked from existence, replaced solely by a slate of pure hatred.
"Fuck you, you're lying."
"I'm not! I'm not l-..."
"You're lying. You were always lying. You two were… You were snickering behind my back, calling me "Fowlboy" or whatever, you…"
The angel's entire body was just about boiling by this point. Emotions spilled from within his brain, erupted like a volcano, suddenly woken from its ageless slumber by a streak of slanderous claims.
"WE WEREN'T! WE WERE YOUR FRIENDS!"
"Yeah, "friends", bullshit. You were two losers who latched onto the only person you could make fun of. That's what you were." A moment, he took to cackle to himself. Despite the overarching coldness that laced his laughter, Andy felt his skin burning. "You know what I had to do, back home? Back in Laterano, when they brought us all back, they asked me to go, visit that fatass' family. You know, their disgusting Law-hovel. I had to tell them, I had to look his pretty, angel parents in the eyes and tell them their whale of a son got ripped apart by some devil and no body was found. I had to tell them, and you know how they reacted? You know how awkward it was when I stood there and a grown man was shedding tears right before me? When his… Batshit crazy grandma shoved two barrels down my throat and started slurring me out? How it turned into a shouting match and I had to run? Yeah, you don't. You don't know any of that, because you weren't there. But that's alright. I mean, Ricketts' dead, Droz's dead, you're still a fucking loser, you're a bum, and I'm rich."
"..."
Andy kept staring. No words could convey the tremors shaking his inner core. Images were falling, shattering all around, as if someone let an elephant into the room hidden deep within his mind, where all the innocent ideals and naive pictures of the past were kept.
But the man kept going. He took a long, deep glug of red wine and wiped the residue off his lips with his sleeve.
"What do you even do? Look at you, you look like a hobo. What do you do? Fast food? Let me guess, dishwasher. Yeah? And this?" He pointed towards the tiny, soft ball curling up in shame on his couch. "That? That's who, a friend of yours? Girlfriend? How'd you score one of them "idol" girls, huh? You tired of industry boys playing with you off stage?" He addressed the poor girl, who only shook her head in response. "You don't make music. You stand on stage and look pretty, you don't even sing most of the time. Someone more talented writes your songs, someone more fashionable dresses you up, someone more knowledgeable fixes your tech issues, someone more mature sets your life course. They own you. And it's shit music. It's shit music for the proles. There's no depth, no feelings, no nothing, you're just that, you're an image for people to make money off of. See, Reiff? You had an image of that piece of shit, Ricketts, to jack off to, or whatever the fuck you did, and SHE'S an image for losers all across this fucking city to crank one out as she jumps aroun-..."
Thud.
Gasp!
Lewie jumped a little in his seat. Sora squeaked and hugged her legs tightly to her chest.
Andy stood in place with his hands clutched tightly into fists. His entire body was overrun by uncontrollable tremors, shaking him to the very core, to that volcanic pit of boiling, burning lava that rested within, brought upon the surface by the guitarist's voice. He cut the man's tirade short by slamming a fist into his cheek as hard as he could.
"..."
Nuffer blinked a few times. One hand slowly left the guitar's fretboard and raised to his cheek, where a small cut had opened a tiny ravine across his skin. The pit quickly filled with blood which mixed nicely with the white powder and took it downstream, down the steep of his neck and into the soft fabric resting below. He seemed slightly confused, but mostly unphased.
"... And you hit me. You hit me, why?"
"Shut the fuck up." Andy's words slithered from behind the pearly rows of his teeth, which remained tightly clammered against one another. "Just shut up."
"No. No, I'll…" Nuffer wiped the blood off and gripped the guitar tightly. "... I'll hit back." He tried to reason. With a tiny wind-up, he staggered in place and threw the entire instrument towards the boy. It barely even grazed him, he barely even had to dodge. Sora squeaked again at the sound of wood and strings crashing against the ground and Lewie stood up in protest. The mounds of rings sprinkled into his furry ears clinked in protest.
"Hey! HEY! Stop, both of you-"
"C'mon, hit me." Nuffer smirked and opened his arms wide. "Hit me, dishwasher-boy. Hit me, be like Droz."
"Fuck you. Fuck you, Fowlboy." Andy took a step back and rubbed his knuckles a little. The man had to have a strong jaw, it genuinely hurt. Not as much as it hurt him, for once.
"Come on, be a man. Be a man, don't be like your favorite fallen-angel scum. Hit me, don't run."
"..."
Andy lowered his fists. It wasn't worth it. This creature was not worth it in the slightest.
"... C'mon." He turned to the poor girl and reached out. With a shy sweep of her gaze across the entire room, she nodded a little and stood up.
"Yeah. Yeah, take your stage-whore and go. And don't ever fucking show up here ag-..."
"Don't. Don't call her that."
Sora tugged a little at his sleeves, trying her best to pull him off the table-stage.
"It's okay, let's just go." She mumbled, holding onto the boy's coat.
"Reiff, your idol-whore is telling you to do something. Be a good dog and listen, yeah? Go." Isaiah smiled as wide as his face-muscles let him and pointed down at the girl. "C'mon. Up, up, up."
"..."
Without a doubt, it was not worth it in the slightest, yet the thought remained. A want, a need, a desperate dream, born just a few seconds ago.
"Andy…" She whimpered a little, and pulled his thoughts far away from that tiny pit of violence. From yet another night spent down at the L.G.D. station, possibly from another few nails poked through his halo.
"Reiff, hear how desperate she is? C'mon, go. Go, or she'll find some other loser to latch onto. Or a rich, old sag? Which one is it, nowadays? You idol girls go for young losers or old moguls these days? I'm a bit out of the loop with how it is. You know, you LOOK like one that'd go for the young, stupid ones, though. Yeah, you're not really built for them old creeps, no. You're a bit… Well, not that I'm an expert, but you're a bit lacking, 'casue from what I've seen, those old fucks really like them more… Hmmm… More plump, you know? No, and you're a bit on the other side of the sp-..."
"LAW, PLEASE, SHUT THE FUCK UP."
Enough sand had escaped the hourglass of anger that bubbled within, enough last straws had already broken numerous camels' backs. From the bleak sea of milk that was his mind, all reason and rationality had sizzled away and dissipated into the warm, primordial darkness that ruled above, the space between his brain and skull. With nothing but pure, eye-irritating red staining his vision, the boy let his imagination run wild. He let his wings glow bright, let his halo accompany the kaleidoscope of lights. Each nail protruding from the ring shone along, shook with hatred and rage, split his brain like an axe splits a stump, sent shivers and pain down his spine. Just like Croissant had once shown him, he threw himself forward and haphazardly wrapped those lanky-arms of his around the man's torso. Just like Croissant had once demonstrated on the boy, he raised him a little into the air and slammed down with all his might, right off the table-stage. They both rolled onto the floor, Andy on top, Nuffer, still zooted out of his mind, beneath, straddled by his weight. A fist flew into his face, followed by another. Andy remembered that one time him and W had a similar, equally intimate and personal encounter that ended with half his ribs shattered and a broken nose. Not this time. The man didn't even fight back that much, he was more shocked than anything. Must've been all that powder, still coursing through his system, still letting the powder-monsters pull the strings attached to his limbs and thoughts. They did not allow him to feel pain, did not allow him to shove the boy off or fight back. They just sat and watched, sat and enjoyed the show. Enjoyed every punch, every moment when bone crashed against meat, when blood was drawn and when it flew across the room. Andy was blind at that moment. He wasn't beating Lungmen's loudest rock star, he was beating the false, fake image of a face so dear and familiar. He was beating the demon that had taken over the poor Fowl-boy, squeezing him right out of his lungs, through the neck and up his throat. This wasn't him. It wasn't him. He wasn't hitting Nuffer, he wasn't hurting the bard in any way. This was someone else.
Yells, wails and screams rang all around, joined together in Mr. Nuffer's newest hit single, titled "I'm Fucking Dying On The Floor Of My Own House." It featured an underground, lesser known artist on drums, a certain Andrew "Ricketts" Reiff, who revolutionized the modern Columbian-rock scene by completely ditching the instrument set, all the toms, snares, cymbals, and instead using the main vocalist's face as his bass-drum. The lyrics were criticized worldwide for their simplicity, as they mostly consisted of mindless "Ow-h"'s and "Bl-eh"'s, but what really stuck out amongst listeners all around Terra was the chorus, where fellow musician Lewie Whatshisname made his very first vocal debut. "CALL SECURITY! CALL SECU-... GET OFF! GET OFF HIM! PLEASE, PLEASE CALL SECURITY! SOMEONE CALL SECURITY!" became an instant classic amidst true fans of the artist, as well as newly gathered listeners that were drawn by his pure, genuine delivery and creative lyricism. He called back to the current phenomena amidst modern artists who claim to go against the general rules set by the "oppressive governments", yet fall back and become fully dependent on said governments and their "oppressive forces" as soon as something beyond their control happens to happen. Rumors say that an up and coming Lungmenite idol-singer "Sora", signed with Monster Siren Records had also apparently been present during the recording of the home-version (as the studio-version had later been re-recorded many times to smoothen some jagged edges, yet none of them managed to encapsulate the feel of the first live-performance), but whether that fact is true or not is up for debate. The original recording, however, was unfortunately cut short by a security team barging into the precinct and escorting the drummer-guest outside. It is believed that they delivered their own drum-breakdown on Nuffer's front lawn, using Reiff's entire body as their instrument. After that, he was unfortunately kicked from the band and never heard of, ever again.
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Blink.
Lungmen at night. A sight those gray ovals of misery have witnessed many, many times. The lively rivers of concrete, canoes of steel and concentrated ori-power roam those currents and skid along the rapids, stopping only for the divine lights that flash above, or the vile, uncivilized animals that dare cross and interrupt their never ending migration downstream. Each canoe lit up the one in front, let the headlights' lazy gaze spill onto the reflective paint jobs, hundreds if not thousands of LMD sunk into sticking out to seem different enough from the rest. Maybe, somehow, someday, if I pour enough of those silky, smooth, blue dollars into my little canoe, maybe someone'll notice me and say "Hey, man, that's a great canoe. I really like the color." And then I'd say "Oh, thanks." That's how our interaction would end. I'd forget about it in the next fifteen minutes and move on with my life, the thousand dollar paint-job will move on with me, and it will keep moving on until it washes clean off the hull and I'm left compliment-less again. That is, until I sink more LMD into my little canoe.
The twin moons above shone brightly. Their sleepy eyes tore apart from one another for just a moment to gaze down upon the rock-cancer ridden planet. What they saw was an image of true horror, better left undescribed. However, they centered their gazes on a gray, bleak boy, who sat on the curb of some street in Lungmen, all surrounded and covered with snow. His head, his freshly earned bruises and little wounds, they all melted under the snow's soothing embrace, which remained tightly pressed to his skin, courtesy of his hands and a blonde creature by his side. The creature sat uneasy, sharing the boy's burden and remaining largely silent. She did let out a sigh or two every once in a while, letting her frustrations take flight into the cold, night air. The boy, however, never took offense. Never reacted. He kept staring and staring, staring at the concrete river flowing by, the lazy canoes passing by and the vile animals crossing the deep, shallow waters. Contradicting statements, contradicting elements, all locked in this contradicting life. What life was it, where every little part, each piece and cog worked actively against him? The machine turned and wheezed, but not for him. Against him and against everything he stood for. As if it took offense that the little, gray street cat had the audacity to keep on living on borrowed time, time that it oh, so generously had gifted him. The machine fell silent, giving voice to the steel canoes' engines and klaxons that clashed for a better spot in their broad river. Breaking through it all, the blonde creature dared part her lips to make her inner turmoil known.
"... There's a saying, Andy." She offered her five Lungmen cents, letting a handful of snow slide down the boy's battered cheek. "They say, in situations like these, that's its best to "never meet your heroes."
"..." The gray cat kept to himself. It was foreign to him, that saying. The more he turned it around his head and stared from each side, the more it became clear just how many situations it was applicable to. The blonde creature might've been naive and not the sharpest, but she made up for it tenfold with this certain sense of common understanding that she could establish between nearly anyone. She knew the rules of life and went against them to settle for something more - a future born not from abiding to dead, forgotten idols of bitter hatred and authority, but one blooming from the land that gave equally and took just as much in return. A land where green was green and blue was blue, where gray was gray, not red and battered all over.
"... Thanks" He whispered back. The girl nodded and offered a smile. It was difficult not to smile back, not with the strange spell she suddenly put on him. A spell that worked just as swell as a warm cup of coffee would, or a gentle prickle of pure adrenaline. It felt similar to the one gesture he received a few weeks or months ago, a gesture sweet and genuine, the only one quite like that, that's ever graced his pitiful life. The embrace of a caring Forte, the feeling of her soft, fluffy, apricot locks cascading down his fingers, playfully twirling around his skin and soothing his aching soul gently. Each inch of her skin pressed firmly to his own, each bit of warmth that formed between them locked shut inside the hug. The gray cat had never felt anything similar in his entire life, so he held the memory very, very close to his heart. A bit too close, at times. The proximity sometimes forced its reign upon the other inhabitant of his tattered, sewn-together heart, one that matched it in color and shone bright through all of his dirt-covered, dim, bleak days spent in Kazdel. Clashing for control, conquering the lands of his heart for superiority, the inner turmoil brewed on and on, neither side willing to let the other have its way. The saffron protector of the land, the apricot conqueror, ready to take and reign, it was all too much for him.
Too much to ooze from his brain, not enough gray-matter to assign to solve the conflict. Andy let out a sigh.
"But that wasn't "my hero", or whatever." He muttered, catching the girl's divided attention.
"..." She blinked, staring up at the bright lights of Lungmen's commercial area in the far distance. "... You disliked each other before this?"
"No. I don't know who that was. That wasn't him. I never knew any Nuffer's, to begin with." His voice murmured along, as the boy grasped a metallic object resting near his gut. It left the war-torn sweater's safe embrace and breathed in the night air, the nine millimeter pistol once dubbed the dead poet's name. "I never once knew him."
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The gun's grip felt cold in his grasp. Somehow unfamiliar and distant, as if eager to turn on him any moment. Eager to bite. Andy slid his fingers along the steel finish, feeling each little crevice and unevenness, each soul-candle the gun had snuffed out and each drop of blood it had spilled. Yet, it was real. It was exactly how he always remembered it. How he wants it to be and how it will still be, even when he, himself passes on. This was his Nuffer. The true, forgotten poet of Kazdel.
Sora remained silent. Soon, the boy stood up and helped her to her feet.
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"... Let's just go. Anywhere's fine."
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"Anywhere?" She asked, only to plant and bury the seed of positive thoughts inside the boy's mind. She truly did not care whether he wanted to visit some fancy restaurant or the trash-pile graveyard in the slums.
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"Anywhere. Ice cream?"
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"Ice cream sounds good. My treat, alright?"
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"..."
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His pockets were empty, either way. All he could pay her back with was a shrug. Maybe a smile, through those pale curtains of curls and blood. A smile stretching on its own, tugging at the corners of his lips and forcing them upwards with no resistance from the boy. Why would he? Why should he? Ice cream with a friend sounds nice. An actual friend, for once, today.
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"Alright."
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The blonde creature offered one back. Soft and gentle, like the very snow they stepped on. It was enough to fill him with a strange sense of warmth. A sense of hope for the day to end on a positive note. For a truck to come speeding down the concrete river right when they're about to cross, and hit him just hard enough, not to paralyze the spine, but to make him forget the events that had the displeasure of happening earlier.
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He truly wished he'd never had come there in the first place.