The Country from Hell
The image of the bar seeps out of your sight, replaced by the dingy lot outside, its trashcans illuminated by a full moon.
The Frosty stands a few feet away from you, laughing as he sizes you up.
"Ehek vügyák musli!"
"Sorry, I don't speak Barbarian."
"Másorövilyhannósivanök! Hahahaha!"
"Fuck you."
"What your problem, little boy? You like not when I says you man with nose like a penis?"
"Get out of my country, you motherfucking pig!"
Suddenly, the Frosty jumps at you, while seeming also to be moving in slow motion. His worn pants stretch over a surprisingly muscular leg that springs him towards you like a wild animal. You barely understand the meaning of the shining object in his hand until it is sunk deep into your booze-drenched gut. From somewhere far away, you hear one of the Frosty's friends yell to him in that forever-foreign language of theirs. It doesn't seem fair that what may be the last words you hear on Earth are all but meaningless to you. No, no, it's appropriate. Life itself is meaningless.
Now it is just you and the full Iadian moon above you. It doesn't hurt. In fact, you feel warm; your hand is warm and wet resting on your pierced stomach. It feels like the delicious inside of a woman.
The caress of moonbeams is almost too much to bear. You smile up at her, teasing you there in the sky, always just out of reach.
"Like two insatiable passions, in darkness shrouded," you whisper softly to the gentle moon, remembering a verse from an old book of Iadian poetry.
Even as the pain begins slowly to travel up to your heart and rip at all your senses, you struggle valiantly to keep this image in your mind. To die in the company of a radiant and eternal woman, wrapped warm in an ancient national verse, what better death could a Iadian ask for?
The Frosty stands a few feet away from you, laughing as he sizes you up.
"Ehek vügyák musli!"
"Sorry, I don't speak Barbarian."
"Másorövilyhannósivanök! Hahahaha!"
"Fuck you."
"What your problem, little boy? You like not when I says you man with nose like a penis?"
"Get out of my country, you motherfucking pig!"
Suddenly, the Frosty jumps at you, while seeming also to be moving in slow motion. His worn pants stretch over a surprisingly muscular leg that springs him towards you like a wild animal. You barely understand the meaning of the shining object in his hand until it is sunk deep into your booze-drenched gut. From somewhere far away, you hear one of the Frosty's friends yell to him in that forever-foreign language of theirs. It doesn't seem fair that what may be the last words you hear on Earth are all but meaningless to you. No, no, it's appropriate. Life itself is meaningless.
Now it is just you and the full Iadian moon above you. It doesn't hurt. In fact, you feel warm; your hand is warm and wet resting on your pierced stomach. It feels like the delicious inside of a woman.
The caress of moonbeams is almost too much to bear. You smile up at her, teasing you there in the sky, always just out of reach.
"Like two insatiable passions, in darkness shrouded," you whisper softly to the gentle moon, remembering a verse from an old book of Iadian poetry.
Even as the pain begins slowly to travel up to your heart and rip at all your senses, you struggle valiantly to keep this image in your mind. To die in the company of a radiant and eternal woman, wrapped warm in an ancient national verse, what better death could a Iadian ask for?
