Headache

Thursday, January 17, 2008

Headache

Goddamned splitting headache. In the traffic jam, the river flooding one street behind us, with nothing to read and I can’t listen to music because the radio is broken and I forgot my MP5 at the office. My eyes are burning in pain, so I can’t even look to the beautiful drops of rain flowing out the glass. The rain is so intense. Instead of worsen the headache; the noise begins to calm me down. Calm me down. Down the street, the water is flowing. People started to get out of their cars and run away. When the water begins to enter in my car – this cart is antediluvian – sincerely, I think: this is a good way to die. To lie in peace. But Dawkins was right. I don’t have kids, so some genes probably forced me to open the glass. The cars packed in the street was levitating in water, hitting each other. People are crying, some of them talking in mobiles, desesperately jumping on the roofs of their cars. I just come through the door, the water almost entering in above it, and launch me over a pickup truck bonnet. So I jumped in the roof of a Minicar which is dragging down by the stream and, quickly, I jumped into a tree. After all these years, I realized that climbing all those trees in school was more important than learn biology. Hugging a massive branch like a lover, one of that idealized lovers who save our lives even if they’re despised, I watched people and cars and trash and tears going down in a choleric tributary to the new avenue. It took only about four minutes to happen. The Sims players who grew up into engineers and reached the power probably programmed a population control here. Two hours later, redeemed by the firemen like a frightened cat, a nurse who appears to be a lovely grandma helps me and warm me with a blank. The headache was gone, but few days later, I found that I cached a leptospirosis.

At home

At Home

Looking towards the window, the leaves and flowers of the old tree shaking gently with the wind, he thinks how warmly this bedroom could be in the afternoon. His nephew and Sarah, his daughter, came upwards and kiss his cheeks, one at each side, when he bends over, calling his name and jumping all over with dirty hands of chocolate. They don’t know what happened. They’ll just get acknowledgement of the incident more than a decade after that night.

Just before a shower, he told to his mother what happened. She becomes angrier because he leaved the hospital without telling her. Grandma, grandma, can we eat some cookies with milk? Worried about the children, as always, she looks at him with a recognizable face that means “We will talk later” and he just says OK. This tacit truce gave him some peace, at last, in the end of that long day.

After the bath, he laid down in his bed, turned on the TV and the children sited down using his torso as a back rest, happy to be around so late watching the news with him. When the report about the flood was screened, none of the three understood what happened, even paying much attention to it. He slept with Sarah and Paul the nephew fighting for a Spider Man comic book above him.

Marksman

Thursday, January 17, 2008

Marksman

He became to be a degenerated bastard. That what he wasn’t meant to be, but it happened. Cutting ants’ wings, burning them, throwing salt in snails and smiling in the sun, he looks like a typical old school sadistic child. But he becomes gloomy when his mother, who was looking for him, found her son acting like the perfect jobless piece of shit that he became since he was put in temporary dismissal after torture a kid to death. That filmmaker from Brazil would make him look like a hero. But no, here the criminals should be arrested in a red carpet. After lunch, he went to the district, with the excuse that he must open his heart to his friends. After some small talk with his old colleagues, he was able to go inadvertent to the cells corridor. There, he shots everyone behind bars that he could. When his friends approached, Robert shot his own head. His last think was, like reassuring to himself: “Someday this gruesome immolation will be recognized as the first benign suicidal shooting in US”.

How Come?

Tuesday, November 06, 2007

How come?

It was in 1987. I was skateboarding down the hill with an old fella, Markus, when all of a sudden a car came out of nowhere and almost hit me. And I was ON the sidewalk. The driver abruptly maneuvers to enter in a garage. He didn’t stop and barely paid attention to me. It was like two minutes ago, the remembrance is clear and livid. Shaking, I rest against a wall for awhile. Markus is laughing; he’s still a jester and I miss the motherfucker, but he’ll move to North again and will live farther. Engineers are dispensable toys for their companies. Anyway, I don’t say a word and he stops to laugh, then he just say “Come on, it was nothing” and we stay seated in silence looking to the palm trees. Don’t know what he’s wandering about, but I’m thinking about suicide. It doesn’t make sense. If you are desperate, it’s better to live on the edge and have some fun; probably this is a better way to die. But I want to live. Skateboarding on the sidewalk wasn’t supposed to be perilous. Tremblingly, I decide to rise and pay attention to a funny and obnoxious noise, which is annoying me. It looks like someone gasping. Markus then perceives that I’m curious about something. “What are you doing?” he asks in a low voice, maybe foreseeing some kind of trickery in my behavior, but I was naive in my early teens. Paying attention too, gazing at his feet, suddenly he is all smiles. “People are getting laid right here”. Then he moves down, scale on a rock and find out a window slit, since that old houses are next to the pavement apparently to expand in big backyards. It doesn’t matter. He could see them, which are what counts. With gestures, Markus asks me to keep quiet and to wait a little. Then he step down and look into the street and look forward to me. It’s unbelievable. She is a pretty brunette, has big tits and long, black hair. The guy is a Neanderthal and I avoid looking into him. We couldn’t see the act per se, just the heads and the nude torsos. That bosom is looking at me. Markus protests and I get out, astonished. I wait three minutes and come back to ask to see HER again. Ten seconds later, I’m contemplating those beautiful breasts when she sees my eye and give me a smile. Smiling and looking at me, she collapses. “It’s over”, I say to Markus, but he refuses to believe in me and climb the rock again, just to see them put their clothes on.

Next day, on school, we were celebrities. We told everything to everyone, minus the fact that she knew about me. Nobody knows, neither Markus. They came back there, never saw anything at all anymore, but discovered her name, age, occupation and even the identity of that Neanderthal: he was a cop. Ashamed, I never returned to that street. I saw her one more time, in a supermarket. She was pregnant, self-confident, embraced with another guy and, of course, didn’t recognize me. A Goddess.

Sit down giant baby

Friday, September 21, 2007

Sit down giant baby

Outro conto em que experimentei escrever diretamente em inglês. Se alguém notar algum erro por favor me avise! Obrigado.

Just before the restoration of his money, Jerry was thinking about suicide. He never have had any chance, he can’t stop thinking about that, over and over again. A perfect loser.

The parents were loose nuts. They spent all the money in drugs and alcohol. But they were deadheads too, so the kid grew up in a love atmosphere. They backed up a lot of his wishes when he was a brat. When the bike shop went bankrupt, both of them flee. After all, the dream wasn’t over.

He can’t blame on them. They not accept it when he rebelled in the wake of the hormones, ironically desiring to be a disciplined regular guy, and deny all of his accusations. The mother bought everything he desired. The father did everything Jerry wanted. The rest of money was invested on booze and marijuana and speed, but they never cared about possessions. Hippies, in the true sense of the word. When they left, everything belongs to Jerry, who couldn’t be charged on their name. Thankfully, the county didn’t have medieval rules and manners at that time, as well as a minority of places in that forgotten middle of nowhere.

The judge stipulated a new home for the abandoned kid. He was adopted with his Nintendo, toys, bicycle, anger and fears. At his teens, he only knew how to read and something about math thanks to his mother, but never went to school. He just drifted around the trailer park and has lots of fun. It was the end of the eighties.

The nineties were a nightmare. His new “parents” put him on school. Jerry never was a punching bag, despite his lack of sociability, because of his physical condition. But, in a small town, he had to study with small kids, from the start. Even if that was way more humiliating, he reopened the bike shop and sworn to honor all the debts. The people of the surroundings started to patronize him, because of his efforts. A kid with sense of duty. Or a fool who thinks that the feudal system is still legal. It depends from the point of view.

When he just became independent, after years of zero earnings, just paying the obligees, the bank make a mess with his account. A system error, they alleged. Well, ok, but they don’t fix the error, and even, subtle, tried to blame Jerry for the forfeit. He almost gave up and shut the doors down. Then, in a sort of a miracle, he saw a letter under his blankets. His mother – his biological mother – sent him a letter. Rosalyn, who adopts him, can’t disguise her jealousy, but she put the letter on his bed scrupulously. Mary was living on the road. She just relates banalities which sounds and smelled like the arriving of a sweetened zephyr in a sweatshop. This good sensation lasted for awhile.

All of a sudden, he becomes bitter and angrier as ever. His father just says a hello. They traveled through the country doing odd jobs and turned their back for years. Screw them. He came back to work and worked hard. The bank, finally, releases his money with a bonus, to avoid legal trouble. Nowadays Jerry is an example of a good American in his community, and his raybans and moustache became the face of terror to the illegal immigrants in town. As an officer, finally he earned all the respect that he always deserved.

Inexcusable

Tuesday, October 30, 2007

Inexcusable

Outro conto em que experimentei escrever diretamente em inglês. Se alguém notar algum erro por favor me avise! Obrigado.

Just before the restoration of his money, Jerry was thinking about suicide. He never have had any chance, he can’t stop thinking about that, over and over again. A perfect loser.

The parents were loose nuts. They spent all the money in drugs and alcohol. But they were deadheads too, so the kid grew up in a love atmosphere. They backed up a lot of his wishes when he was a brat. When the bike shop went bankrupt, both of them flee. After all, the dream wasn’t over.

He can’t blame on them. They not accept it when he rebelled in the wake of the hormones, ironically desiring to be a disciplined regular guy, and deny all of his accusations. The mother bought everything he desired. The father did everything Jerry wanted. The rest of money was invested on booze and marijuana and speed, but they never cared about possessions. Hippies, in the true sense of the word. When they left, everything belongs to Jerry, who couldn’t be charged on their name. Thankfully, the county didn’t have medieval rules and manners at that time, as well as a minority of places in that forgotten middle of nowhere.

The judge stipulated a new home for the abandoned kid. He was adopted with his Nintendo, toys, bicycle, anger and fears. At his teens, he only knew how to read and something about math thanks to his mother, but never went to school. He just drifted around the trailer park and has lots of fun. It was the end of the eighties.

The nineties were a nightmare. His new “parents” put him on school. Jerry never was a punching bag, despite his lack of sociability, because of his physical condition. But, in a small town, he had to study with small kids, from the start. Even if that was way more humiliating, he reopened the bike shop and sworn to honor all the debts. The people of the surroundings started to patronize him, because of his efforts. A kid with sense of duty. Or a fool who thinks that the feudal system is still legal. It depends from the point of view.

When he just became independent, after years of zero earnings, just paying the obligees, the bank make a mess with his account. A system error, they alleged. Well, ok, but they don’t fix the error, and even, subtle, tried to blame Jerry for the forfeit. He almost gave up and shut the doors down. Then, in a sort of a miracle, he saw a letter under his blankets. His mother – his biological mother – sent him a letter. Rosalyn, who adopts him, can’t disguise her jealousy, but she put the letter on his bed scrupulously. Mary was living on the road. She just relates banalities which sounds and smelled like the arriving of a sweetened zephyr in a sweatshop. This good sensation lasted for awhile.

All of a sudden, he becomes bitter and angrier as ever. His father just says a hello. They traveled through the country doing odd jobs and turned their back for years. Screw them. He came back to work and worked hard. The bank, finally, releases his money with a bonus, to avoid legal trouble. Nowadays Jerry is an example of a good American in his community, and his raybans and moustache became the face of terror to the illegal immigrants in town. As an officer, finally he earned all the respect that he always deserved.

Murder

Monday, November 05, 2007

Murder

Maria’s eyes shrunk. Forced to live in his father’s office after the demise of her brother, she began to look like a small boy. You’ll be able to do whatever you want, they say, money gives you power and money is here. 23 years, sulky and with furrows on just one side of her face, Maria was tired of instructing the probationers and started to play with the Photoshop during the working hours. The mother, Irene, caught her sinning and gave her a good scolding. I can’t dream in America, the arts don’t make a living; listen, I once dreamed about it too, but it’s just a teen fantasy. Within two months, Maria’s pupils disappeared.

Tomatoes on my face

Nobody loves me. Even my family, they barely look to me when I’m home. It’s horrible, I know, but in my last birthday I started to take advantage of that. I went to a brothel, alone. I started to “date” a bitch there, but I never fool me or she. Yesterday, I just break with her. I don’t know why, since we’re never close, but she cried.

Enforcement

Waste of time. She kept think about that. Three days before, their friends invite them for a fishery. During all their conjugal life, it was like that. Someone decides something in a bar, she faces the consequences. Everybody, when thinks of Sheila, remembers a girl who likes to swim and to play chess. That was in the college days, when she graduated in journalism and won a lot of college championships. Now she works a lot at home, don't receive any money from nothing, look to her kids with despair and follow her husband in all sorts of stupid activities in the weekend, away from pools and chess tournaments. Everything changed in the trip to Paraguay, where she read a self help book. Now she is cooking pastries and found her vocation: be rich.

Chagrin

Naomi can't stand that. Can't support it. Can't talk about it. After Marylin's death, a lot of Brazilians started to write e-mails to her about the santicty of her daughter. She had to create an account in Orkut, which is a foolish thing infested with Brazilians who write in español to her. She tried to discover what that means in an online translator, but finally, when a boy write to her in English, she discovered that people speaks Portuguese. With the message of the boy and the automatic translator, Naomi figured out that her own daughter was some kind of a gothic chanteuse. She recorded her songs alone in her room with a computer and used Myspace and the goddamned Orkut to spread the music. Nobody cares about her in US, but she was able to create some kind of a cult in Brazil. If she just can discover the password, she'll cancel Marylin's profile and all the crap people write about her in Orkut. Now even journalists from big Brazilian newspapers phone to her to ask about her personal life, because of Marilyn's (who was known as Lady Dark Blues) lyrics. Marilyn sang about Naomi at last in three songs. But Naomi never have acknowledge of that and never really knew Marilyn since she becames a teenager, even living with her since her birth until her suicide (she was 20 years old, that was so unfair), but Marilyn seems to knew everything about her mom.

Bourgeoisie nightmare

Friday, January 11, 2008

Bourgeoisie nightmare

Nothing was there when we arrived from Japan. The burglars had stolen everything. Everything, literally. The house was empty, except for some newspapers in the kitchen and a package of toilet paper in the bathroom. LCD TV, blu-ray, DVD, CDs, sofas, carpets, Porsche replicas, X-Box, computers, bottles of wine, Rolex, jewelry, whisky, cameras, even the surveillance system, all is gone. They took even the cutlery, the medicines and the shampoo. Someday I think that I’ll be strong again, but now I’m lost and mortified. I’ll go to bed with an extra dose of Valium now.

Perception

Friday, November 09, 2007

Perception

Yesterday I was listening to Blisters, Mario’s first band. They wrote out of tune compositions in bad English. I can’t imagine why someone will ever listen to that, except for their close friends, but they had a fan base in other cities. People even chant the grammatically incorrect lyrics. Good times.

Cynthia hates the band, like all the girls of our crew. She was a green-eyed beautiful blond, presumptuous and frivolous. Mario dated her at those times. After two months, anybody can’t stand her whining chat. I pretended to listen because I surmised an easy fuck. Mario seems a little upset, but never said a word. After two excruciating months listening to her committing all kinds of blunders, like I did, he broke up with her in the middle of a Blisters’ set, just before they started to play a Mineral song. Ironically, nowadays probably someone will know the fuckin’ song. I lost Cynthia in the middle of the crowd. When I went to the club’s bathroom, a playboy was fucking her on a cabin. So I came back to the middle of the crowd and started to sing an Afghan Wigs tune alone. Total nonsense. A Chan Marshall look-alike seemed to understand and approached me. I forgot her name, but I’m always grateful to her because she opened my eyes to cool chicks, which are, usually, prettier than plastic blondes. I never cared about Barbie bitches anymore, until the day I met my future wife. What a mistake.

Hostility towards recognition Part I

In November I was so stunned by my daughter’s birth that I didn’t notice that my greatest foe was planning a catch 22 to me. Jet announced a fight in those bad neighborhoods in the west part of the town, near the place I was born. The rumor spread with the quickness of an old Tyson’s jab and people started to ask me about it. I was so tired of fighting and was dreaming of being part of the legalized MMA. I deserve that. Then I could concentrate on my repair shop, summing enough money to looking as a regular guy to my children when they start to grow up. But, oh boy, I couldn’t quit whether people don’t trust on me anymore. My name is my capital. Therefore I can’t avoid this last fight, even it is against my will. Jet hates me since I defeat him and broke his nose and two of his frontal teeth. The fight was in a park, nearby the train station, at 4:00, so just the gamblers were there. No girls, luckily no bums, none of our friends. Nobody saw it, just the people who put the money in and our agents, so wasn’t all that humiliating. I’ve already lost fights in terrible conditions. Anyway, probably because I was greedy enough to accept a fight in my own city, now my opponent knows who I am and I’ll have to deal with that. Fuck, he is stronger than me now, well skilled in ju-jitsu and he trained hard all these years. Meanwhile, I was happily spoiling my girlfriend. People keep talking, fascinated, about street fight. What a stupid name. Since I started to do it, because I’m not displined enough to be a professional fighter, I fought in mansions, closed bars and mainly in warehouses. Without testimonies, just us, our agents, the gamblers. Eventually some crazy bums, when it happens in open spaces like abandoned amphitheatres. It is usually quiet. A sadistic voyeur pleasure. Forget the screams, angry faces and other bullshit that you see in the old movies like Danny the Dog. Nowadays it’s worse. One day I saw a sick fuck masturbating above the blood shed. You have to ignore it or face the facts. I never went to school, never get adapt to a regular job and never go through all the steps in martial arts. But I know so-so almost all of them and wasted my adolescence in gyms and fights in the schoolyards. In the wake of adult life, what else I could do for living? I was the right guy, in the right place, for the perfect job. My first fight was with a fella named Gecko, I don’t know why. I don’t know why they put me to fight with that guy, why he was nicknamed this way and I don’t know how much I earned because my “agent” invested all the money in anabolic steroids to me. Well, to him too. Anyway, the secret is: you must don’t acknowledge anything. You could see the face of the gamblers, if they don’t care about it, but don’t ask their names and pretend, for fucks sake, that you’d never saw them, if you unadvisedly bump into those fuckers in the streets. You don’t know who your opponents are too. I only know their nicknames (sometimes, even this wasn’t permitted) and we’re always brought from distance places. This avoids things to get personal. I really like this approach; it’s an excellent way to travel around the world. Israel, Dubai, India, Malasia, New Zealand, Japan, Thailand, Australia, England… Canada too. How could I travel to those places being a John Doe? Being an anonymous punching bag guarantees me a lot of pleasures. The disadvantage is that someone ends dead in a fight, which is not uncommon, nobody will know about that. Despite this, they usually drop the fighters in a hospital, without money, to simulate a robbery with beating. In December, after solving lot of problems, all that ordinary daily bullshit, I restated my training. And I trained hard. My body felt the gust of anger and almost collapsed. The stroke that I inflict to myself was deserved. I became indolent and there is a price for that.

I forgot your name

Joshua has to decide whether buy a weddind ring for ask her in marriage or saves the money to the future, which doesn’t see bright at the moment. After weighing for a week, he went to jewelry and bought the rings. But, when the shop assistant asked for her girlfriend name to etching in the ring, he, inadvertently, said his mistress’ name, Anna. When he asked Donna to marry him, she saw the wrong name on the ring just after he puts it in her finger. Nowadays Joshua is a janitor where I live and tells the story to everyone, including to his wife, Norma, who laughs in front of everybody when she hear this piece of crap over and over again.

Evil Weevil

That farm was a harmonic site until Duck arrived. Since he installed himself in the log cabin down the river a lot of things started to screw up. At first place, everyone was infected with measles when he was safe and sound, running around with his sickle and telling jokes all the time. Just after that, the cattle and pigs caught measles too, which was very ironical, because it is different diseases for human beings and animals with the same name. The gullible employees in Sprout Heaven became very suspicious with that. Behind Duck’s back – his name is John and he never knew the mock nickname they invented for him – the simple-minded person who lives there until today started to fantasize, blaming him for the impairments. Then, one month after the incidents, the worst happens: someone discovered the storage soybean crop ruined by weevils. It couldn’t happen, with all they efforts and care. But Duck committed a mistake. His sickle was in front of the storehouse, with a hammer above it. Why? It is a provocation, there isn’t another explanation. They almost beat him to death. He was delivered in the police station and charged as a communist on the police files.

Get up to fuck

Since Nelly met Thomas in a supermarket in Germany and after they moved to Australia her life became a Torquemada’s dream. Thom convinced she to tell her parents in Argentina that aren’t nothing new going on, so they went to Spain anonymously and then to Down Under without telling anyone either. When they arrived, she supposed will make a surprise to her parents and relatives, but, before any calls, Thom submit her to bondage unstopped dementia in the attic of the rented lodge. He imagines himself as a kind of cool guy because she can see the beautiful bay view and he gives enough food to her (under a gun presence). Trying to escape three weeks later, she cuts her own throat with a knife managed by the mouth. When in home, Thom was stumped with Nelly’s newly acquired bondage skills.