The Country from Hell
Mobilized by your fear, you whip the bat out of your belt. You send it flying through the air with a high-pitched whistle.
The angels are with you. The brownish blur of the bat connects midair with the brownish blur of the dog, whose astonished scream billows through the room. It looks left and right in confusion, some venomous drool dripping from the end of its nose. Not waiting another moment, you send the bat straight down onto its head. Its legs splay out underneath it; its powerful chest heaves with disbelief. It emits a whine, which turns into a defiant growl as you bring the bat mercilessly back down. This time there is blood. The dog struggles to its feet, realizing now that it cannot live. It whines piteously, turning its snout up to the ceiling. It staggers left, then right, leaving a trail of blood behind it, crying now as though it were a puppy and not the killer beast who had just a minute ago been so sure of its conquest. The heaving chest begins to tremble, a river of vomit appearing at the teeth, dripping down with the blood in a macabre cascade to the floor. You can't stand this anymore. Taking the bat firmly in both hands and closing your eyes, you approach the dog and just start hitting it. Again. And again. Its cry weakens to a mournful moan. Again. The sound is now almost inaudible under your own heaving breath and the resounding cracks of the bat. Finally, the job is done. The dog lies shattered at your feet.
You stare down at it in morbid fascination. The dog's paw shakes, coming gently to rest on your bright white sneaker.
"I'm sorry," you whisper to it, bending down to stroke its fur. A tear has come to your eye and you know now that you were never meant to be a criminal. You must get out now.
Turning around, the first thing you see are two black boots. Looking up timorously, you find yourself looking into the watery eyes of the man who must be Powdernose. He is pointing a small pistol at your face.
"That was very sweet," he whispers in a smoky voice. "I'm sorry too."
It doesn't occur to you to beg for your life. Though your own end is now staring you in the face, all you hear in your mind are the light moans of that dog, begging for a mercy that doesn't exist.
No mercy. No exit.
Prophecy fulfilled. You wonder how many more seconds until the day definitively ends inÂ…
The angels are with you. The brownish blur of the bat connects midair with the brownish blur of the dog, whose astonished scream billows through the room. It looks left and right in confusion, some venomous drool dripping from the end of its nose. Not waiting another moment, you send the bat straight down onto its head. Its legs splay out underneath it; its powerful chest heaves with disbelief. It emits a whine, which turns into a defiant growl as you bring the bat mercilessly back down. This time there is blood. The dog struggles to its feet, realizing now that it cannot live. It whines piteously, turning its snout up to the ceiling. It staggers left, then right, leaving a trail of blood behind it, crying now as though it were a puppy and not the killer beast who had just a minute ago been so sure of its conquest. The heaving chest begins to tremble, a river of vomit appearing at the teeth, dripping down with the blood in a macabre cascade to the floor. You can't stand this anymore. Taking the bat firmly in both hands and closing your eyes, you approach the dog and just start hitting it. Again. And again. Its cry weakens to a mournful moan. Again. The sound is now almost inaudible under your own heaving breath and the resounding cracks of the bat. Finally, the job is done. The dog lies shattered at your feet.
You stare down at it in morbid fascination. The dog's paw shakes, coming gently to rest on your bright white sneaker.
"I'm sorry," you whisper to it, bending down to stroke its fur. A tear has come to your eye and you know now that you were never meant to be a criminal. You must get out now.
Turning around, the first thing you see are two black boots. Looking up timorously, you find yourself looking into the watery eyes of the man who must be Powdernose. He is pointing a small pistol at your face.
"That was very sweet," he whispers in a smoky voice. "I'm sorry too."
It doesn't occur to you to beg for your life. Though your own end is now staring you in the face, all you hear in your mind are the light moans of that dog, begging for a mercy that doesn't exist.
No mercy. No exit.
Prophecy fulfilled. You wonder how many more seconds until the day definitively ends inÂ…
