English translation HERE!
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a very skilled assassin
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The way she'd creep up on you and just appear from behind like some cat, you'd think she was some trained assassin or something I felt her punch my shoulder and then her other hand falling on my nape and squeezing "Hey, lucky boy. You should be so damn glad you ran into me." In the fist that hit my shoulder she held a bunch of crumpled bills and brought them before my eyes "What's that?" I said "Our tickets to the bar down the street. And you've the honor to accompany me there. Drinks are on me today. But you do owe me, don't think otherwise, okay?" "Where'd you get that money?" I asked. "Why's it so dirty?" "I stole 'em from Ol' Horn Nose while he was taking a shit." "What?" Ol' Horn Nose was the homeless guy who roamed around the block, usually begging in front of the supermarkets and pharmacies She brought the fist to her nose and smelled the bills and then shrugged "You can't be serious," I said. Of course I didn't believe her but just then the old man rounds the corner and spots us and points his crooked finger at us and screams Immediately two cops round the corner and approach us with big strides but by the time they get to us there's only me The assassin girl was gone I haven't seen her since but she does cross my mind every now and then Especially when I pay with cash at the bar
value of time
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his eyes looked fresh out of a hardcore crying session I walked up to him and asked what was wrong He showed me his phone and what I saw were pictures of some dismembered kitten, head and legs and tail cut off "The fuck?" I said He shook his head. "My girlfriend. She thought I gave my cat almost as much attention as I gave her. She couldn't have that." "Shit, man. I'm so sorry." "My mother gave me that kitten before she left for Italy…" "Gods… you… You reported your girlfriend, right?" Just then his phone rang and he was quick to pick up. It was an alarm. He looked at the screen and took a few big steps away from me. "Sorry bro, you took too much of my time. I gotta get home now." "Wait," I said, "Aren't we going for some drinks?" He ran away from me as fast as he could. "Sorry, I can't give you that much of my time. My girlfriend's waiting for me. Bye." Well, I went drinking by myself. Unfortunately it did not get the images out of my head
strongest drug of all
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Here we go open the beer can bring it to the lips have a sip and... There it is that PSA starts running on TV about a great part of the population caring for nothing but how to get high The numbers are alarming Getting high has become as much a science as it is an art and a banal thing Everyone seeks to escape reality with desperation therefore the strongest drug of all is suicide so potent it can get you high even if you just think about it I had my share but managed to change my mind early I no longer think of suicide but make others do it and that still counts as getting high since they're all characters in my writings
bald cat market
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He started writing at the age of thirty-eight and most of his early poems were about starting late, being a late bloomer He said he'd spent those thirty-eight years figuring out what not to be and in the process of figuring that out he did a lot of living changed countless jobs and locations and lovers enemies customs religions political views philosophies opinions and now it was time to document all that with as little fiction added as possible he began and went on fueled by the saying "Since I started so late I owe it to myself to keep going." He kept going And the young fresh writers the budding talents the prodigies shit-talked him for being a delirious old fool who mistook fiction for reality And they rated and reviewed his works and referred to them as being dull garbage that belonged into the trash can "Oh, poor fool," they said. "He's just trying to sell the world bald cats. That's what he's trying to do. He strips them of fur, of the beauty that makes cats desirable, lovable. Behold, his works are so raw, the writing so simple, so lazy and devoid of any description. He tells the reader that there are curtains before the window but fails to show what color, shape, smell, effectiveness of keeping the sunlight away from a housewife's eyes while she examines the cucumbers brought in with the last trip to the grocery store. Raw and dry that's how he is raw and dry and that deems his works not worthy of our attention. Though we are a bit sorry for the old fool. No matter what the voices in his head told him there is such a thing as being too late to begin and this is it. See? He's like an eighty year old playing hockey with the pros, athletes in their prime." What those who haven't done enough living fail to realize is that in this world there is a market for literally anything and everything. And a market you can't find is just a market that has but to be started and the customers will come. There are lots of people who love bald cats and even prefer them over the furry ones. No market has ever died because of the customer only because of the merchant. As long as you're that merchant who doesn't give up you'll sell your stuff eventually
creative and desperate
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He went nine years without doing it. Five of those were spent in prison so it was just normal but the other four he spent desperately trying and failing He did look fine before he got into hardcore drugs and crime Well, there was this cute drug dealer down the block from whom he kept buying only to get to see her and try to strike up a conversation He didn't care that she was pregnant He called up almost daily to meet up and buy but he wasn't too good at conversation. Had no game, as others would put it And on the other side she wasn't so good at putting the products together She constantly laced the weed with some other shit and one such shit was so bad that when he smoked it he got all horny and creative and desperate He grabbed a black permanent marker and drew a cunt across his left forearm It wasn't good enough so he cut it open with a razor and began to lick at it and finger it around the bone and eventually fuck it until he came He came about four, five times until he passed out
gun nut
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the absolute worst part about being locked up in the psych ward was having no access to guns No greater torture for him He spent his creative hours in the workshop drawing chicks with guns and jerking off to them “You're pretty good at this,” said one of the nurses He snorted. “I'm hella good at everything that involves shooting, babe.” “Oh sir, I didn't mean... I meant drawing. You're pretty good at drawing.” “Yeah, fuck drawing. I wanna shoot shit. Say, could I at least get some gunpowder. I just wanna snort it. Nothing more, I swear.” She gave the usual answer. “I'll check with the doctor and see what can be done.” and was gone He wasn't mad enough to believe her He was just mad enough to use the tools in the workshop to shape a wooden gun handle from a small log and staple it to the base of his penis, to make the whole thing resemble a pistol He held the wooden handle and moved it up and down while staring at his drawings until he shot his load at them
a woman named Cactus
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high school dropout out of a job out of options soon to be out of the rented studio apartment he went to the local bar and drank himself to the point he had to vomit to make room for more and next thing he knew he was dating a woman named Cactus Life can get pretty weird when you don’t live it consciously I knew the guy and heard he moved in with his lover and started a new life I really, really hope the headline “LOCAL ALCOHOLIC DEVELOPS SCHIZOPHRENIA, DISMEMBERS GIRLFRIEND PLANTS HER LIMBS IN FLOWERPOTS, STICKS NEEDLES IN THEM” is not about him
Daydreaming as a profession 