The massage parlour

This summary is not available. Please click here to view the post.

The Opera

He was fifty-two years old and had not taken care of himself for a minute in his entire life. His swollen feet caused him pain in every single step he took. His back would not leave him rest whenever he was seated. His inflamed stomach and constant heart burn were never-ending reminders of a life of excess to which he had happily surrendered all those years ago. Every single one of those three hundred steps that took him to the central gallery of the Opera brought him doubt; why was he here? This was the thirty-seventh time he had taken this path. The last time he would. The opera season was almost over, the company will leave town, likely on its way to present the show in far away countries. His daughter was unlikely to come back. Her voice will probably be discovered and soon she will be booked by a big time producer and will never look back. She will experience moderate success, marry a trumpetist from the orchestra, have two children and will never talk about her growing up. She was leaving easily, as she had nothing left in this place holding her back. By the time he took twenty steps he was sweating and his breath was completely agitated. He had learned, since his first visit, to come with extra time to climb that painful mountain, to refuse the help from the ushers and to avoid eye contact with the tourists who would not offer help but would offer plenty of pity. 

His mother died when he was sixteen, and since his father had abandoned them long time before, he was forced to live on the streets. He befriended a Romanian accordion player who reminded him of his own father. They shared the tips as they shared a shipping container down at the docks, it was a place to pass out and escape the cold winters. The Romanian musician offered to teach him how to play, but every time he skillfully refused, changing topics; he never told the musician that his father had taught him how to play and was fairly good at it. His theatrics and his way of presenting attracted people and tips, that was good enough. 

The metronome

The metronome in Lètna Park overlooks Prague from the distance. It was built in the early 90's to replace an old statue of Stalin. Since its inauguration it has been intermittently cycling in an attempt to keep an allegro, it often lies still, mocking its creator. 

December in Prague is not a particularly cheerful time of the year, it is not terribly cold but the temperature manages to stay constantly around zero degrees, which in combination with the scattered snow and the gloom of rain clouds makes the overall feeling of the city, well, gloomy. To overcompensate, I think, big Christmas Markets are set up, not only on the main square, but all around the city; full of cheap figurines, hipster crafts, spiced wine and sausages, these markets were meant to provide people refuge from the gloom, but ended up turning into yet another tourist attraction. 

Prague is home to the second largest community of Vietnamese people outside of Vietnam, right next to San José California, they learn the language, they adjust to the country just fine but end up making very tight communities. It is now, not uncommon to see second or third generation Vietnamese speaking, what sounds to me, perfect Czech. All of them seem to converge once in a while in Sapa or 'Little Hanoi' a wet market that feels taken straight out of Hanoi (except for the cold), Sapa was founded by Vietnamese immigrants and it now stands proudly at the outskirts of the city; a place of refuge for those who know where to find it. People gather here to do their shopping, pray at the Budhhist Temple or eat some Phò, which ironically feels more fitted to be eaten in cold weather than in the tropical heat where it was brought to existence. 

His name was Dùc, Vietnamese father and Czech mother, his parents died when he was a kid, and the community refused to take him in (unsure if it was because of his Czech mother or his dick father), thus grew up in foster care and in the streets, he never really learnt Vietnamese, he grew up resenting his own people and the only real connection to them he has kept is Phò. 

A turist.

He had commissioned his assistant with the task of finding him a house in an exotic country where he could retreat for a year and have some "adventures". Ever since he was a kid, he had dreamed about escaping his dull life as the son of an overprotective and rich mother, who had never in her life left the comfort of her mansion in East Boston other than for the "bare minimums" that is; shopping and attending balls.

Finding the house was not an easy task, even though he was not as picky as his unbearable mother, he had grown accustomed to certain commodities and was used to splurge grandly every now and then.

Morocco was the chosen destination, it was friendly enough with foreigners while still giving the illusion of exoticness, and the very nature of the houses and their innate secretiveness provided a perfect environment to conceal him when he didn't want to be bothered or just wanted to be, let's put it this way, eccentric.

The house was located in the heart of the Medina, a difficult place to reach in the middle of a  maze of streets. A four story home built around a ten by ten patio, all decorated with Moroccan tiles in white and blue. The ground floor had a big lounge room perfect for an afternoon tea. Each floor had two mirroring rooms, each decorated in the traditional Moroccan style but with a different color scheme. It was perfect to receive his friends and party hard, friends who, giving one excuse or another, never showed up.

The roof-top-terrace had a grill and an amazing view of the Medina and the near-by mosque from up high, t was possible to hear the hypnotic prayers emanating from it five times a day.

Even though she tried, her mother could not stop him from going, so, instead she had handpicked four servants to have him watched 24/7. He was never to be left alone, never to walk by himself in that ocean of filth (as she kindly referred to the place).

The dead body

He laid back on his bed and left his head hanging off the edge; making the world upside down. He looked up (or was it down?) and to his surprise, he saw a dead body hanging outside his window, one floor up. The body moved harmoniously with the wind, and oddly enough, at the same rhythm as the first few notes of Hotel California being played on a piano over and over again by his neighbour. 

The body looked young, a man, roughly thirty, clean and well dressed. He wondered what would drive a man that looked this good to end his own life in such a crude way.

"Had it even been suicide?" he thought to himself."Let us consider the possibilities."

And what interesting possibilities had gone through his mind; homicide was, of course, the first. He probably had problems with a drug dealer who had come to settle down a debt. Or perhaps it had been an involuntary homicide; a fight that went wrong. A crime of passion should never be out of mind, he was probably cheating and was cut in the act. Later to be thrown out the window.

"What is his name?" he thought to himself." He looks like a Carlos."

The Market

It had been a couple of months now since insomnia had taken over his life (again), and as usual he hopelessly spent the first week rolling around the bed in hopes of defeating insomnia and catching some rest. It didn't work.

One hot humid night while he was lost in his thoughts and the cigarette smoke, he saw some bright lights across the river lighting up in sequence from left to right, turning that gloomy building into a bright spot. 

"What the fuck could that be?" he thought to himself. 

He lived in a very quiet neighbourhood, everything was closed after ten and by midnight you would never see a soul outside. It was now 2:30 in the morning and he felt intrigued, what could that be? This thought was quickly lost while his mind drifted away following the spirals of smoke emerging from his cigarette. He stayed like this until the sun started to rise, the warmth on his face brought him back from this trance. It was then when he felt the strike of hunger; he walked to the fridge only to find it empty.

Several nights he spent in the same manner, same ritual, same thoughts. On the seventh night the lights turned right on schedule and a weird red light shone in the very center, it seemed to be directed at him.

"Weird," he thought to himself while sipping the last of his green tea.
"I should get another one"

He took his orange bicycle down the elevator, briefly glancing at his reflection in the elevator mirror.

"I should get some sleep," he thought to himself when noticing the dark eye-bags that probably had been on his face for weeks.

Our Legacy

And suddenly it was time to leave again, this was pretty much routine for him, after moving so many times he knew what he had to do and was very efficient at it.

He sat down in the middle of the empty flat in between his two half packed suitcases and contemplated his routine:

- Pack
- Taxi
- Check-in
- Flirt with clerk
- Security
- Waiting
- Boarding
- Take off
- One or two single serving plastic meals
- One or two beers
- Sleep
- Land
- Wake up
- Passport Control
- New place
- New people
- New food
- New friend
- Rinse and repeat

For a minute there, he thought he was an emotionless bastard that didn't mind moving and leaving people and places behind. But the truth was, that in fact, after all this time he had learnt that it was not because he didn't give a fuck but because he knew for a fact that their paths will eventually cross, it is just a matter of time. And that we are never truly apart, we choose to have relationships with people that share our vision of life and sometimes our paths, we are doing, in parallel, very similar things and that keeps us united.

He took a deep breath and continued packing with a smile on his face, knowing that he was taking a bit of his friends and leaving a bit of himself in  them, and this very exchange is, for a lack of a better word, our legacy.

Untitled

He had left a long time ago and he never turned back; it was probably because he didn't feel attached to people or maybe his ability to meet new people and make new friends. Most likely it was because his mind was never bored, he kept himself motivated with new things, activities and experiences, and whenever boredom was around the corner, it was time for a new place.

But it was today, out of all days, not a particularly special day, that for the first time in many years he longed for companionship, he longed for the familiar presence, he didn't want to talk or do anything special, it was just a feeling deep in his gut that told him that he needed someone.

A riot of some sort

After the meeting they decided to comeback, but some kind of riot forced the mall to close down, people was getting impatient, bashing themselves against the crystal walls and doors.

- Do you want to wait? (He asked his group), because I know another way.

The old guy made a gesture with his arm suggesting him to lead the way.

And so they embarked down the stairs into a dark corridor, against the flow of people, he was walking swiftly navigating through this maze, and the group followed close by.

There was no people around when they turned right into the narrow corridor. At the end of the corridor there was a dark staircase with an overhead door. When he opened it, an overwhelming smell of flour and yeast surrounded them.

- Bread (he thought to himself)

The door led to a big room with tables and cooking utensils, a bakery or kitchen of some sort, next to it, in a small room, a big bed in front of a big window, he didn't say anything but this was the perfect setup for him, he had dreamt of a place like this in many occasions.

No time! He quickly moved to the door and opened it. 

- Come on, quick! (he shouted)

The door led directly to a balcony with a great view of the city, the sun was setting (this kept getting better and better). She was right behind him, he grabbed her hand and walked through the corridor next to the balcony, plants on both sides made this place a beautiful image. There were wires crossing from one side to the other, he stopped and carefully removed them.

- Your parents should be careful with this (he told her while removing the wires)

They turned right into a white roof trying to get to ground level, while walking on the edge he suddenly realised he had been in this exact place many times in his dreams; he knew what to do. He led her to the far right end of the roof where a hidden staircase was waiting for them. He turned back and saw her parents crossing where he removed the wires; he whistled and signal them to come closer. While they crossed the roof a woman with a purple suitcase passed next to them with a weird look in her face, for a fraction of a second she thought she recognised him, but the thought quickly vanished and she went down the stairs disappearing into the streets.

They all finally climbed down the stairs and stood at street level for a few minutes assimilating what just had happened. 

- So, how many cloves of garlic do you need? (Said her mother) I can go and ask for some.

- Just one or two (said he)

- Are you sure (said she) we need garlic and herbs for the bread.

- Don't worry (said he) we can use dry garlic for the bread, I should have some at my place. Let's go!

Morning

The sight of the early morning sun, the humidity and the smell of papaya were a combination that made him think about his late Father, which he hadn't done in a while. A quick smile was drawn in his face while his heart was filled with warm memories.

A second in Taipei

He was not attracted to her, she was not particularly pretty nor she had a charming personality. But he was intrigued. 

It was late at night when he came back from the craziness of the night market. The night was warm and humid. He sipped his ice cold bottle of green tea and proceeded to light up his cigarette, after a few puffs he popped the bubble in the filter which released the strong menthol flavour. It was nice.

He contemplated the spirals of smoke going up to the street lamps. His mind was blank.

He climbed up the dark staircase, entered the four digit code and walked into the now deserted hostel and proceeded to the bathroom where he took a quick hot shower. He then walked into the dark room, trying his best not to be loud. It was cold and filled with the sound of snoring; he crawled into the small and hard bed, it was just a matter of minutes before he fell asleep.

When he opened his eyes early in the morning, he saw her picking up her backpack, they made eye contact for a second and said good bye. He closed his eyes; it might have been for a minute or an hour, but when he opened them again, she was gone. They will never meet again.

Coffee

What he didn't notice while sipping that short cup of coffee was the little crack on the side of the cup and the look in the waitresses eye; she was looking at him because somehow she knew, she knew that in this, the 54th day of the year, that short cup of coffee serial numbered by ikea with the number 54, contained 54 millilitres of water pushed by a pressurised valve rated at 54 bar through a coffee filter containing 55 grains of coffee (55 you ask? well, life ain't perfect).

4:31 a.m.

4:31

He suddenly woke up with a weird sensation in the stomach (Hunger?)
and fixed in his head, the thought of her.
It was still dark, but he was not sure if it was
because he had closed the blinds before going to bed.
He turned to the nightstand on his left, took his cellphone
and when the screen went on, he noticed it was 4:31 a.m.
This was the sixth night in a row he had woken up
only to notice that it was exactly, four hours and
thirty one minutes after midnight.

He sat on the bed, still a little dizzy, put his hands on his head
and repeated in a low voice - Four thirty one.

A couple of blocks away a man was being punched in the jaw
when he fell down, the attacker took his cellphone and started running.
After hitting the ground, the man quickly stood up stood up, still dizzy
and started chasing his attacker. He will not catch him.

Sitting at the edge of the bed, in the middle of the dark room
he noticed he was hungry.

A couple is having passionate sex, her breathing seems to cut
while he grabs her ass very strongly. They will share an intense orgasm
and will remain speechless for the next fifteen minutes.

He stood up and decided to walk towards the kitchen,
when turning the lights on and feeling a tremendous
discomfort in the eyes, the memories of her came back.

A group of youngsters run naked towards the cold sea, 
the water is uncomfortable at first 
but they will get used to it soon enough.
They will walk home after putting on just some of their clothes.
Two days later one of them will get terribly ill.

He opened the fridge and took a green apple, he noticed how cold it was,
poured himself a big glass of water and started the long journey
that separated him from his bed.

A man, quite drunk, climbs up a table inside a club, puts his
sunglasses on and disguises his melancholy with a loud
- Whoooohooooo!!!!
He will come back home alone.

He sat on the edge of the bed again, only this time
the mirror was right in front of him, he could clearly
see his shape hidden in the dark and vaguely
a spark in his own eyes.

A woman sitting in Lotus-Flower position looses herself in meditation, 
whilst listening to the repetitive chants now in the distance.
She will come back home but will never be able to resume her daily routine.
 She'll leave home soon after.

He engulfed the apple in four and a half bites and drank his glass
of water in four and a half gulps. He let himself fall on his back
while covering his eyes with his hands.

A woman wakes up dizzy at the same time
for the sixth consecutive time this week, she is not wondering anything.
turns around and goes back to sleep. She will not remember
that she woke up.

He positioned himself in the bed under the covers,
and wondered why was he waiting up at this time,
Coincidences?

Millions of people wake up at this exact time, 
start their daily routine.
Some come, some go.
Extraordinary and ordinary things happen.
People notice them all, but will soon, inevitably, 
forget.

He fell a sleep with a thought in his mind: -Coincidences?
4:32 a.m. Tomorrow he will wake up at the same time.
The day after tomorrow he will not be able to sleep.
In a week from now, he will have forgotten that all this ever happened.

I saw you

I saw you in the airport
with that green sweater of yours
I saw you laughing across the table
with that yellow dim light
I saw you in my arms
with my favourite movie in the back.

I saw you at the door
with that sexy black dress of yours
I saw you in the balcony
with that bright yellow sun
I saw you in my arms
with the rain falling in the back.

I saw you at your house
with that big smile on your face
I saw you next to me in the car
with that red sunset light
I saw you in my arms
with the beautiful beach in the back.

I saw you mad at me
with that angry face of yours
I saw you sad many times
with your watery eyes reflecting the moon
I saw you in my arms
with a little music in the back.

I saw you in my bed
with that beautiful silouette of yours
I saw you happy many times
with your watery eyes reflecting the moon
I saw you in my arms
with the cold desert in the back.

I saw you say good bye
with that warm embrace of yours
I saw you part away
while I myself had to go
I didn't see you in my arms
with the cold fluorescent lights in the back.

Now I see you every morning
just when I wake up
Now I see you every day
while the monotonous life goes by
Now I see you every night
when the pillow is all I can embrace.

Sometimes I see you through the screen
when we have time talk a bit
Sometimes I see you in my mind
while the memories come back
But until we see each other again
I guess this will have to do.

Surfing

Abrió la puerta y asomó la cabeza al obscuro corredor que abria el camino al viejo y oxidado ascensor. 

Se armó de valor y se encamino al ascensor, presiono el boton y mientras esperaba, se preguntó porque no había tomado las escaleras, ¡Solo eran cinco pisos! (-Fuck that shit, I'm too lazy).

Al abrir la puerta del ascensor el inconfundible aroma a cigarrillo inundó el ambiente recordándole inmediatamente la habitación donde solía dormir hace años. 

- Piso cero, se dijo a si mismo mientras presionaba el botón.

Rápidamente se puso sus lentes obscuros antes de salir por la puerta, era un día gris pero el brillo del sol le molestaba en los ojos, no se había dado cuenta de la gran cruda que tenía. 

El traje de neopreno estaba húmedo y frío, una sensación muy rara en la piel. Mientras cerraba la cremallera del traje, notó un pulsante e intenso dolor en el hombro (seguramente la concentración de cristales de ácido úrico en las articulaciones, muestra clara de los años que ahora llevaba encima).

-Suck it up!, se dijo mientras soltaba la cremallera.

La tabla era larga, casi tan larga como la distancia que había que recorrer hasta el mar. La playa estaba desierta, tan solo un par de surfers a punto de entrar al agua. (Este frío y lluvia es pésimo para pasear en la playa, pero es perfecto para el surf).

Lo único que no estaba cubierto por el neopreno eran sus manos, pies y cabeza, situación de la que se daría cuenta en unos segundos, momento en el que sus pies entrarán en contacto con el agua helada.

El mar parecía iracundo, las olas no eran muy grandes pero venían con fuerza y golpeaban de manera constante. 

Remar le costaba trabajo, el hombro aun sufría y había que mantener el equilibrio, incluso con las olas cruzadas. 

Después de unos sólidos quince minutos de remado constante logró llegar a un lugar donde parar a descansar, pareciera que el mar le había puesto una prueba que había pasado (Aunque la verdad es que probablemente solo era el final del set de olas).

Recostado en la tabla y viendo al horizonte notó que empezaba a llover, una tranquila lluvia que en combinación con la calma del mar creaban una imagen surrealista y relajante. Perdió la mirada en las ondas que las gotas de lluvia creaban en el mar. Por un momento, todo se detuvo, ni un sonido, ni un movimiento. Podrían haber pasado tres horas o tres minutos.

De la nada las olas regresaron, como un recordatorio de que, inevitablemente, la vida se mueve, que esos pequeños y perfectos momentos no duran para siempre. Pero con el movimiento de la vida siempre viene emoción, lo desconocido siempre llega con aventura. 

Después de horas en el mar y un intenso sabor a sal en la boca, decidió salir y encaminarse a casa.

Mientras descuidadamente cruzaba la calle, algo lo tiró al piso, un sonido hueco y después, nada.

About the immortal dream

At the beginning three creatures 

came to be out of the emptiness

of time and space.

Immortal and powerful 

these beings soon grew bored,

and out of boredom they created

what we now now as the universes.

Among their creations

there was the human, 

a bright creature, stupid sometimes

but creative and resourceful.

There was but only one problem, 

whenever a particularly interesting individual

arose, it would soon after, 

inevitably die. 

A problem that was quickly solved, 

a paintbrush which would grant immortality

to whomever was portrayed

by means of this brush.

You might have heard of such a brush, 

it once immortalised in canvas

one particular individual known to man

by his name, Dorian Grey. 

Highlanders, cavemen, vampires and gods.

Fountains, explorers, drinks and bites, 

the gift of immortality was quickly immortal by itself, 

by means of myth and legend.

Legend that would, in time

fuel human imagination and desire, 

magic turned into alchemy, 

and alchemy into science.

Science and technology

were then applied in pursue 

of the purest of all dreams

the dreams of immortality.

And when the dream was finally achieved, 

and against all predictions, 

it was given to all men kind, 

not only those with means.

A few hundred years later, 

the now immortal humans grew bored

and in time, boredom became

insanity.

As ending ones life was not an option

due to the corner stone that was morality,

and the real reason, fear of death 

fed for millennia.

In their boredom they realised, 

that immortality was more of a curse

than the gift they always

dreamt it would be.

That those beings were not offering a gift

but spreading the curse they had, 

in the hopes it would make them feel better.

It did not.

In spite of their awareness of that fact, 

the now immortal humans created other beings, 

in the hopes that this would amuse them, 

or at least make them feel better. 

Not realising they were just continuing 

a cycle that would, in time, 

repeat itself forever. 

Dia 42

Ayer en un momento de locura o estupidez decidí caminar desde Oviedo hasta mi casa, cuando empece era un de noche, la carretera obscura, ningún coche a la vista. Aun me pregunto porque decidí caminar, lo mas sensato que se me ocurre es que quería despejar mi mente. Pero en realidad no creo que haya una respuesta realmente sensata. 

Visiones de desesperanza pasaron por mi mente durante esas primeras horas de obscuridad. Un sentimiento de tristeza, enojo y soledad invadieron mi mente. Por un momento me sentí vagando sin rumbo, perdido, sin saber si el camino que había tomado era el correcto. Dicen que la noche es mas obscura justo antes de amanecer. (Don't panic)

De pronto, un poco de luz, un leve destello de color rosa se dejó ver en el horizonte. Poco a poco empecé ver un poco mas allá de mis botas y un metro delante de mi. Esas visiones de tristeza, pronto se convirtieron nuevamente en arboles a mi alrededor; aun ocultando figuras obscuras y terribles tras ellos, pero de alguna forma protegiéndome. ¿Que estoy haciendo aquí? He conocido tanta gente nueva, he hecho cosas divertidas y nuevos amigos, pero deep inside, sigo sintiendo un pequeño vacío que no he podido llenar, me siento solo. 

Después de un tiempo, el sol ha dejado de dar colores brillantes y se ha escondido tras una gruesa capa de nubes grises, la carretera sigue solitaria, solo soy yo caminando y el ocasional coche que pasa rápido y se aleja aun mas. Empiezo a sentir el cansancio, he caminado por horas y aun no parece que estoy acercándome a mi destino. Me empiezo a dar por vencido, empiezo a buscar algún espacio entre los arboles o tras algún arbusto donde pueda acostarme y descansar un poco, dormir y olvidar todo esto. Pero cuando duermo es peor, tal vez por eso duermo tan poco. Empiezo a sentir el peso de mis pies, mi paso se ha reducido a un patético arrastrar de botas. ¿Porqué decidí tomar este camino? 

Me pierdo en mis pensamientos, espirales eternas que no llegan a ningún lado, por mas que las recorro. Pierdo la noción del tiempo y la distancia al estar inmerso en mi cabeza, la ciudad se acerca poco a poco desde el horizonte. Gradualmente la ciudad y lo conocido me empiezan a rodear, de pronto me doy cuenta de donde estoy, mis pies me están matando, tengo hambre.

Me desvío un poco de mi camino a casa (what's a little bit more), compro una hogaza de pan recién horneada y un poco de jamón ibérico. Al llegar a casa me siento frente al televisor a comer, el pan aun caliente derrite la grasa de bellota del jamón. Una mordida y lo único que puedo pensar es lo bueno que esta esto. Por un momento todo esta bien. Y supongo que así es esto de los placeres sencillos de la vida. Nos hacen olvidarnos por un segundo cuando la vida apesta.

Cierro las persianas hasta dejar mi cuarto en una penumbra total, me meto en la cama y noto lo grande que esta. Abrazo mi almohada y con un suspiro me quedo dormido (Un suspiro es el aire que te sobra, por la persona que te falta).

No pienso nada antes de dormir, no sueño nada, mi cabeza esta libre de pensamientos y esta en paz. Descanso.

Estornudos

En un mundo donde estornudar es ilegal, y al ser sorprendido en el mucoso acto te dictarían acto de formal prisión, con veinte años sin derecho a fianza; las cárceles se vieron abarrotadas y sobre-pobladas justo después de un brote de influenza. Mas del treinta y cinco por ciento de la población fue encarcelada, y en el momento en que los pañuelos desechables no se necesitaron mas, la gente se levanto en armas para exigir su libertar a excretar mucosidad por la nariz. Un movimiento global, que sobra decir, colapso la sociedad como se conocía.

A little work of fiction

It was yesterday when the last person who would ever need shoes to walk was killed. The best and last of the shoemakers just found this out from the prison cell he was taken to last night after he fell asleep behind the steering wheel of his old Corvette, crashing into a store and killing a civilian. Out of depression and lack of meaning in his life, the now pointless shoemaker will tomorrow hang himself with the shoelaces he had been saving for such a special occasion; long, yellow and plastic tipped shoelaces he stole from a pair of Doc Martens when he was just a teenager. No one will attend his funeral. Little did he know, the civilian he killed that dreadful night was no other than the very last person who would ever need shoes to walk. His tombstone will read: "Here lies James, the last of the shoemakers, may the Walker guide him home".

The old couple...

The old couple sat on the Metro, held hands and admired the small pocket knife with a tacky image of the Eiffel tower in it. They were wondering why a pocket knife was a popular souvenir in all the tourist shops around Paris if carrying any kind of blade in your luggage could cause you problems and what not with homeland security.

The blade was thin and sharp, something very rare for a chinese-made low quality knife.

The image of their first date came to their minds, the young couple sharing some wine under a tree after a bike ride, carving their initials into the tree, with an old fisherman's pocket knife, wooden handle and a thin, rusty but sharp blade; a very dull scene that could very well have come from a cheesy Hollywood movie. In fact they were unsure if this was actually a memory or just some image recreated by their twisted mind after many summers wacthing movies, but they really did not stop to think this throughly, after fifty years of marriage you take whatever blurry memory you have in your mind and cherish it like it was the last.

They looked at eachother with the same crazy and twisted glance they have used so many times in the past, it was as they were both having the same idea.

The metro was filling up but they did not seem to care. Stations passed one after the other.

A blood pact. She decicively took the knife and cut her finger in a clean strike, passed the knife and without hesitation he did the same. Their thumbs touched and their DNA was being mixed in a red spot that was getting bigger and bigger.

The same twisted glanced was shared between their eyes. They loved eachother.

Images of dark basements and meat carving came to mind, fuck they enjoyed that.

They both held the Eiffel Tower blade and stabbed the asian girl in front of them, for a couple of seconds she did not realized what had happened, until the searing pain in her belly started and she could do nothing but scream. Confussion ran across the Metro wagon, the old couple was already at the door. They have reached the next station and off they were, slowly walking up the stairs into the rainy night in Paris.

Was this the start of the new killing spree they were waiting for all these years?

- They are 5 euros - Said the store attendant with a thick french accent while pointing at the pocket knifes.

The couple shared a sad glance and walked away, they felt too tired to do anything fun anymore. And so they came back to Alabama, to sit on the porche, bake pays and grow cucumbers, mundane chores that brought them little to no joy.