The Country from Hell
You refuse to live in a country where people can be robbed in broad daylight, yet no one lifts a finger to help. Dropping your toaster on the ground, you run headlong towards the tourists and their attackers. In the corner of your vision, you see a few spectators standing slackjawed with surprise. Mugging is business as usual in Iad. But interfering with a mugging-that's something to go tell the boys at the bar about.
You push your way into the center of the circle, distracting the would-be crooks just long enough to shout to the tourists, "Go! Go!" The man and woman scuttle off, leaving you surrounded by six very unhappy-looking punks, their gold chains swinging back and forth as they shift position, waiting to pounce.
Then, it happens.
Before you know it, you are pinned to the ground, with the ringleader pummeling your head. It hurts for only a second before you go numb. You feel one final smashing blow, like the entire Black Sea has been emptied on your face. Then, there is nothing. It is just like the way it was before you were born
Painfully opening one eye, you see that you are still in Mighty Michael Square. But it seems much quieter now. The hustle and bustle of the day has flown by without you knowing it, replaced now by the calm of dusk.
"Ahhh " you moan.
Two smiling gypsy eyes peer down at you.
"So you're alive then," he says softly, helping you to sit up. It hurts so badly, you can't make a sound. "That was quite a knock you took there, brother. But you took it well. Surviving in this country, it gives you strength."
Looking tentatively around, you see that the gypsies have dragged you behind their carts and stands, protecting you from further abuse out in the middle of the square. Knowing Iadians, no one would have hesitated to step right on you if you'd happened to be lying there bleeding in their path. You look to where you'd left your toaster when you ran off to commit your act of stupid gallantry earlier. Of course, it is gone. The gypsies probably took it as payment for keeping you safe. Ah well, let them have it.
"We're packing up now!" shouts an older gypsy to the one who has just helped you. He looks sympathetically at you, handing you his open bottle of custia. You take a tentative sip at it, almost enjoying the obliterating sting of the alcohol on your sliced lip.
"Thank you."
The younger one hoists you to your feet.
"Can you make it home, brother?"
"I feel good enough to fly."
Staggering out of the square, all you can think of is your moldy bedbug-ridden bed. How nice it will be to sink down and drift off to the smell of deep-fried turpentine, to wake up tomorrow to that same perfume and start another day, maybe another day just like this one.
No, no good deeds tomorrow. You would never survive at that rate.
Another day wasted in Iad is at least another day over in Iad. You blindly sleepwalk the rest of your way home.
You push your way into the center of the circle, distracting the would-be crooks just long enough to shout to the tourists, "Go! Go!" The man and woman scuttle off, leaving you surrounded by six very unhappy-looking punks, their gold chains swinging back and forth as they shift position, waiting to pounce.
Then, it happens.
Before you know it, you are pinned to the ground, with the ringleader pummeling your head. It hurts for only a second before you go numb. You feel one final smashing blow, like the entire Black Sea has been emptied on your face. Then, there is nothing. It is just like the way it was before you were born
Painfully opening one eye, you see that you are still in Mighty Michael Square. But it seems much quieter now. The hustle and bustle of the day has flown by without you knowing it, replaced now by the calm of dusk.
"Ahhh " you moan.
Two smiling gypsy eyes peer down at you.
"So you're alive then," he says softly, helping you to sit up. It hurts so badly, you can't make a sound. "That was quite a knock you took there, brother. But you took it well. Surviving in this country, it gives you strength."
Looking tentatively around, you see that the gypsies have dragged you behind their carts and stands, protecting you from further abuse out in the middle of the square. Knowing Iadians, no one would have hesitated to step right on you if you'd happened to be lying there bleeding in their path. You look to where you'd left your toaster when you ran off to commit your act of stupid gallantry earlier. Of course, it is gone. The gypsies probably took it as payment for keeping you safe. Ah well, let them have it.
"We're packing up now!" shouts an older gypsy to the one who has just helped you. He looks sympathetically at you, handing you his open bottle of custia. You take a tentative sip at it, almost enjoying the obliterating sting of the alcohol on your sliced lip.
"Thank you."
The younger one hoists you to your feet.
"Can you make it home, brother?"
"I feel good enough to fly."
Staggering out of the square, all you can think of is your moldy bedbug-ridden bed. How nice it will be to sink down and drift off to the smell of deep-fried turpentine, to wake up tomorrow to that same perfume and start another day, maybe another day just like this one.
No, no good deeds tomorrow. You would never survive at that rate.
Another day wasted in Iad is at least another day over in Iad. You blindly sleepwalk the rest of your way home.
