by Sharon Toma
Between two roars of thunder, a bellowing, yet again this hoarse scream from the human beast in everything that's bad and unhealthy. A language that's new becomes common to all those poor devils that stagger on the streets of the city, a miserable fork in hand, this bottle of a vulgar chemical mixture. As mad insects, lost in a smart child's Machiavellian maze, they bounce off the walls, off the partitions, bounce and start all over again, in despair, in an other direction, the same really.
These pathetic drunkards, these rats and cockroaches of the civilization, are no longer but real disjointed and brain-ridden puppets, they meet, go away and meet again, each and all on the city's pavements.
One of them is called Jay. An old bald man, exorbited and red eyed. His hands are excessively swollen, to such an extent that he can only hold the bottle with the tips of his fingers, as like a fashionable person trying to be smart. Nothing like that at all,really. His tongue burned by the corrosive and acid liquid, this piece of minced meat really, has lost all it's mobile liveliness, this agile mucular force, this first communicative talent ever given to Man. And when, motivated by whatever thought or instinctive pulsion, the cracked and bloody lips open, a strong, hot and prickly odour escapes and comes and seizes all your senses.
A little like the foam that bubbles in the deep dens of a mystical beast, one of those bad winds that, before, Grandmothers spoke of to their terrorized grandchildren. The inconscient warning, or simply the primitive female intuition that senses the oncoming danger and warns her own of what's in line.
In those days, these old women didn't have an inkling of the fact that, in the future, there wouldn't be terrorized children or legends anymore, and that these young innocent heads would be precisely these sickening beasts that devour the last dreams and hopes of the world.
Jay's vague stare doesn't express more than his mouth, which, under the sudden abdominal convulsions, spits heavy sounds, deep, phlegmy, the organic noises that now set the new means of communication in Mankind. The only evolution in the downfall : this new means of verbal xchange is economic of words, facial mimics, any type of expressive effort and especially reflection. Man, in his new way of communicating, is quite like the pig being slaughtered : a furios scream, instinctive, expulsed from the bossom that is no longer alive. The animal reflex, the last spur of life in every dying creature.
"My name is Death". In a flash of light that enlightens the street and the man's morbid eyes, Jay bursts out laughing, mouth wide-open on the stumps and white pustules that cover the lining of his mouth. A real devilish laugh, one of those laughters that characterize the IMMORTELS. But Jay has nothing really to do with Harry Haller*. No, and even less so with Goethe ! More likely would be to believe that the deadly liquid's vapours that run throughout his body have hit the porous brain. Probably, but...
No, not Goethe. I beg you, not in this world. Faust░ hadn't met with filth!
And yet... "Ten thousand ways, I'm alive"