Birthdays

(Today’s my father’s birthday, so in honour of that, I wrote this little piece of fiction. Congratulations!)

H walked down the street when a man stopped him, looked him up and down and said, “Happy birthday, sir.” H stared at him. He was a tall man, dressed in a dark suit, wearing a tall hat and holding a polished wooden cane. Next to his left eye he held a monocle.

“What did you say?” H said with surprise.

“I said,” the man began. “‘Happy birthday,’ sir.”

H took a step back, frowned and opened his mouth to say something; however, after a moment of indecision, he closed it again. He gazed at the suited man for a couple of seconds and contemplated the particular situation. But before he finished thinking about the strange scene, the man touched his hat bidding goodbye and walked past him.

H stood there for a moment, going over what had just happened. But suddenly he remembered the appointment he had with M (she’d invited him for breakfast), so he shook his head and resumed his step, quickened the pace. Soon he reached a crosswalk that stopped him cold and made him look with annoyance the hand-shaped red light above him. He sighed and looked at his watch; anxiously he gazed at the seconds’ hand of his golden watch, moving fast. All of a sudden, a hand touched his left shoulder. H turned around and saw a young woman standing in front of him. She was short, had long dark hair and wore gym clothes. She was looking at him, smiling.

“Congratulations,” she said.

H, as he had done with the monocled-man, stared at her with surprise. “Why do you congratulate me?” he said.

The woman widened her smile and said, “Why, for your birthday, of course.”

The light turned green and everybody around them began to cross the street. H stood amidst the chaotic gait of businessmen and passer-bys, wondering what the hell was happening. He looked at the woman, then to both his sides and back at her. She had grey eyes and now her smile had been replaced by an idle sense of uncertainty; whether she should walk away or wait for the birthday-man to say something. But H said nothing; he frowned, stepped past her and quickly crossed the street. When he reached the other side he glanced behind him but the woman was no longer there. He began to run.

The diner’s name was Rick’s and H came to its doors sweating, breathing heavily and with a deep cut on his trousers. He rested his body on the metallic bar of the door. He breathed deeply and looked at his reflection on the glass. He somehow fixed his hair and dried his face with his sleeve. Then he pushed the door and walked into the diner. As he crossed the threshold, dozens of people jumped and yelled at the same time: “Congratulations!”

H stood motionless, his mouth locked; his eyes wide open, not blinking. Confetti and pointed hats flew everywhere, the restaurant a sea of blue, red and yellow. A few children inflated balloons and blew them up right away; older boys made strange sounds with their hands and whistled loudly; adult couples simply grinned and clapped mildly. Behind the counter, cooks and waitresses looked at H in sincere happiness, some of them showing more teeth than they should have.

A piece of cake splashed on H’s face. H immediately woke out from his state of estrangement, slowly he raised his left hand and began to wipe the chocolate cream off his face. He stared at them: two teenagers at the right hand corner of the entrance lobby, laughing, celebrating the bullseye shot. H smirked. As he tried to wipe all the meringue off his hair, one of the waitresses went to him and handed him a small towel. H took it and cleaned his face carefully. Then he made a thankful gesture, gave her back the towel and gazed at the crowd. M was standing right in the middle. She was smiling and held in her hands a big chocolate cake of which a piece was missing.

“What happened to your trousers?” She asked, tilting her head; her pony-tail rose, floated in mid air for an instant, and fell back on her back.

“Nothing,” H said, his voice shallow. “I fell down, it’s nothing.”

“Come, let’s go sit down,” M said, walking towards him. She took him by the arm and led him to a table.

They sat on a booth facing each other while the rest of the crowd went back to their tables. One of the waitresses went to their table and asked what it was going to be. H said nothing. The waitress looked at him and then at M, who simply smiled. After a couple of seconds she intervened and said that a couple of scrambled eggs and a tall, pulp-less orange juice would be fine. The waitress wrote it down and walked away.

“So?” M said, grinning widely. “Happy birthday!”

H stared at her intently just as he had done with the hatted man and the grey-eyed woman. This time, however, he said nothing. Instead, he thought about what had happened and tried to remain as far away as possible from metaphysical thoughts. He nodded a few times and whispered to himself, “What-the-hell…”

Then, out loud, he said, “Thank you. Thank you very much.”

H smiled.

It was not his birthday.

On the phone…

You got it? Excellent… What? Don’t fuck with me, man. No, of course I don’t wanna do that. ‘Cause it’s fucking insane. Why don’t we– What? Really? Well… we could give it to Stan. What do you mean ‘Stan who’?! Stan, man… you remember him, right? No? Well, Stan’s the man, trust me. Yeah, I trust him. He’s gotten me out of some deep shit. No, of course not literally, but he’s some cool dude. We do it behind the Chinese place around the corner. Nah, its cool, man, nobody’s there… What? The girl? She’s not a problem. I got someone taking care of her right now. No, I ain’t gonna kill her, what’s wrong with you? I sent my boy to buy her a cup of coffee while we do our shit. Of course, he’s got something that kind of girls just can’t resist. Nah, not money, charm; he’s one sweet talker. The deal goes red at midnight, remember? You got to be there exactly at that time, don’t show up early and fuck it up. Yeah, right, you better not fuck me this time. When? Remember that time you were supposed to blow a fucking door? Yeah, you needed to press a fucking button and you didn’t ‘cause you were too busy getting a blowjob. Ah, yeah… now you remember, you fuck. Midnight sharp, you bring the squeezers and red tape. Just bring some fucking red tape. ‘Cause you don’t need to know, you just need to bring it. Fuck, man, just show up with red tape, what’s the big deal? Are you retarded or something? Then you’ll get a signal and they’ll tell ya what to do. I don’t know the signal. I don’t. It’s a giant penis. Yes, a giant penis. Fuck, man, yes, of course I’m fucking with ya. Someone will show up and tell ya this– Nah, no hooker is gonna show up, just some guy. Well, you want me to tell ya? Then shut the fuck up. He’s gonna tell ya “Give me the tape, retarded monkey.” I’m not kidding… He’s gonna call you “retarded monkey,” that’s the key word. Well, if you wanna do that, do it. Go ahead and blow that guy’s brains, do it, but they’ll probably chop your balls and force-feed them to ya if you do that. Yeah, to Frankie, you remember? Frankie, short guy, bald, black, he thought he could fuck Lamar’s daughter. Exactly, that guy… No, not that Frankie, the other one. No, man, fuck, that Frankie got killed by a ice-cream truck in valentines. Never mind, you be there, ok? You fucking be there, I got to go now. What? How the fuck should I know? Second date I think… What? I guess so. Yeah, I know he’s only fifteen. You don’t need to meet him. ‘Cause it’s not something you can teach. He’s got it, you ain’t. Shut the fuck up and get ready. Don’t you fucking do that…  I’m telling ya, man, don’t fucking do that. Dude? You there? Fuck. —-

War Stories

You’ve probably heard this story before, right? You know, the one about these two squadrons in World War I. Yeah, you know, these two squadrons, one was German and the other French. They were deep in their trenches and it was Christmas morning and so, given that the current situation was super depressing, the French commanding officer came out of his trench and yelled out, “I offer a truce, in light that it’s Christmas morning!” Or was it the German? I don’t really remember, and I know you’re going to get on your high heels about who was the benevolent son of a bitch, so suppose both commanding officers, at the same time proposed the truce.

Well, obviously, both squadrons accepted. Bear in mind that these guys had been in that field fighting for over three days. Now, you probably don’t have the slightest idea, and neither do I, but being there must be a bitch. You know when you got a rash and you can’t scratch yourself down there because you’re at the dentist and he’s trying to pull out some bad tooth? Well, that has nothing to do with anything, but these bastards were there for three whole days, watching their friends get killed by other men. It’s brutal. They were down there for 72 hours, thinking about their girlfriends or their wives and thinking that they’ll never again be able to hold them or kiss them or have a nice blueberry cake, because some guys are gay, you know? And there’s nothing wrong with being gay, really. No, there’s nothing wrong about remembering your wife and thinking about cake. Well… where was I? Ah, yes of course, well these guys were in the shit, deep in it, covered all over the place, and it was Christmas. But the field where they had been engaged in deathly combat was coated in snow, so that all the white had covered the dead bodies and it looked awesome. So, they both agreed a truce, and got out of their trenches and recovered their squadron’s dead bodies and brought them back to their trenches. But then, as you are surely expecting, out of some misplaced sense of brotherhood or deranged Stockholm syndrome (I know this has nothing to do with anything, but I know what the Stockholm syndrome is and I just wanted to show it off), some of the brave young soldiers, from both sides, began to talk to each other. Now, these were French and German people, so they spoke more than one language. And so they began to talk, about how it was back at home, about what they were doing before they came here, and all that heartwarming stuff…

Anyway, before anyone knew about it, they began to play football (no, I don’t know where they got the ball, maybe it was just there, some poor kid dropped it, or the gay soldier had it in his backpack, just in case). No, I’m not talking about the skull-breaking American Football. I’m talking about the proper, foot-the-ball game, where you got to kick a ball into a rectangular frame (I refuse to write “soccer” outside a parenthesis). They used the snow to draw a pitch on the field, and they began to play. They had fun and they scored goals, and they took their shirts off to celebrate, and then they put them back on because it was freezing and if they didn’t they would die. And then it was half time, and they had lunch. They had sausages, because that was the only thing they had. No, that’s not to say they had a gay orgy. And they talked and showed each other pictures of their beloved ones, and again all that heartwarming stuff.

But then the second half started, and suddenly the game started to get physical. Out of the blue, the game began to mean something. Suddenly they fought every ball with passion, and they yelled at each other for bad misses or misplaced passes. Now, don’t think that this was due to the fact that they were at war and that they suddenly remembered that they were representing their countries, because that had nothing to do with it. They were proud people, and they were young and football is a very animalistic sport. I mean, you got twenty-two subnormal men chasing a ball, kicking it with their feet… When you think about it, it’s pretty primal, pretty retarded.

So, as expected, they began to fight. Out came the goalkeepers, and the coaches, and the crowd came into the field. Okay, there was no crowd, I made that up. But it got pretty bad, some of them boys lost several teeth, one or two were knocked down, and there was one guy that actually broke two ribs. But that guy was the dumbest of the lot, he was French, of course, and while running away from a German, he fell into his trench and there you go.

Well, obviously after a while they stopped the fight and shook hands again, and with toothless smiles they grinned at each other and laughed at their stupidity. It was a tie game. At least that’s the official version of it. Even though we all know that the Germans probably won, because… well… they are Germans. They’ll mess you up.

Anyway… after the game they spent the rest of the day together, yeah, you guessed it, the same heartwarming stuff. But it was winter, and so it got pretty cold at around four or five when the sun came down. So at that time they all said goodbye, they hugged it out, and went back to their respective trenches.

Now, I just told you this whole story because, supposedly, when the two commanding officers were saying goodbye, they engaged in this little dialogue.

“Well, Captain, it’s been an honor,” the French commander said.

“The honor was all mine, Captain,” the German commander said.

“Oh and I’m sorry about the fight,” the French went on. “In the end, it’s just a game, right?”

“Yes, Captain,” the German smiled. “But to which game are you referring?”

My initial intention was to end this little piece of mindlessness after that last thing the German said, but I felt that I was being too serious and brainy. Though, to be completely honest with you, I just felt sickened at the idea that some bohemian, guitar-playing, dumber-than-a-toilet architect-wannabe would finally link the two neurons in his brain and realize what the fuck I was talking about and actually use that pseudo-epiphany to lure some submental baton-twirler into bed.

It would bother me so much. I can almost see it, this guy, in his deep, masculine voice, going “You see, Mandy,” – these girls always have the stupidest names, right? But I’m sorry if your name is Mandy, not because of what I just wrote, but because your actual name is Mandy – and then he’d say, “This story here, even though it’s written in this humorous, light-hearted way, it’s actually a reflection on how pointless war is, it’s just a game. There’s so much suffering, so much death, and for what? Nothing! There’s so much beauty in the world, dammit! why can’t we focus on that? There’s so much beauty in this world… so much beauty in this country, in this city, in this crowded town-square, in these magnificent buildings, in this café, in these hands [caresses her hands], in this face [touches her face], in these beautiful brown eyes, these porcelain cheeks, this honey-coloured skin… in these soft lips… these strawberry… silky…. delicate… soft lips…” And they would kiss, and the girl would think “Oh my God! This guy’s so cute! Oh my God! Oh my God!” and when they’d finished making out or whatever, she’d go back home and go, “Oh my God! Oh my God!” and she’d call her friend, Sharon, and yell in that squeaky, irritating high voice, “Oh my God, you won’t believe it! You won’t believe it –eevit –eevit! I met this guyyyy! He’s so cute, and he’s really smart, and sensitive, and, like, totally gets me,” and they would talk for about five hours, give or take, and then they’d have to hang up because Sharon’s dad would come into her room and hit her. Too dark? I’m sorry… let’s say her mom would come into her room and tell her that dinner was ready.

But this is Mandy we’re talking about, so she’d be too excited to do anything else but be in a state of total euphoria, and so she’d star jumping on her bed and again with the “Oh my God! Oh my God! Oh my God! Oh my God!” until she’d finally hit her head, get a concussion and shut the fuck up.

So, there you go, the German officer was implying that war is also a game. And he’s right, it’s a game. Somehow a more sophisticated, technical, and less retarded (yes, it is less retarded despite whatever you damn hippies say!) game than football. But it’s still a game. Something we use to fill our lives with purpose and meaning. Something to hold on so we can safely say “Heil mein Führer!” or “Pour la France!” or “Viva la Revolución!” without feeling stupid. But hey, in the end, it’s like anything else, you know. Whatever works is fine. And it works for them, so who the fuck are we to judge them?

So, there you go, it’s quite a story, isn’t it? Fun, charming, touching, and with a little twist at the end that makes it somewhat less stupid. So, in conclusion, fuck you bohemian, good-looking man! Now you need to find other ways to lure woman into bed –ha! But hey, it’s not all bad; you can always try this line: “Hey, could you come here, sit on my lap, and take a picture with me? [Why?] ´Cause I want to show Santa what I want for Christmas.” [Drum-beat] You didn’t like it? Go fuck yourself.



Lousy Editing

I don’t know if you’ve noticed but lately people seem to be making a lot of mistakes. They begin a sentence and right in the middle of it they change it they modify it succumb to a different slightly different radically different concept or idea. They think that believe that if they somehow manage are able to shove into your despicable introduce many several the greatest amount of ideas into your pea sized into your brain they’ll manage to squeeze their way to success to money to pussy to getting better jobs and respect. I profoundly gravely meticulously disagree with such philosophy such way of thinking and I truly think these people are jackasses these people don’t know what they are really doing. I’m not a cynic I try not to be a cynic but I can’t help but thinking believing agreeing with those that send out letters of anger and hate of anger, hate, despair to the magazines that print out these so-called opinions these inane observations this bullshit. I don’t know about you I command you to join me in this fight against these people that don’t even know what the fuck what the hell what in the name of our Lord they’re talking blabbing on about. Who do they think they are? Who are these people? This is what I want to know what I need to know what we need to know. We need to learn where these people these animals these beasts are living are hiding are lurking so we can track them down and hunt them like dogs like mongrels like the terrorists that they are!

Living Dream

Once upon a time there was a man, and one night that man dreamt a dream, and the dream was alive.

It was a woman, a beautiful woman. She was tall and she was skinny, and she had eyes about the colour of the moon. In the beginning she was there inside a lonesome room, and she was in the dream, and she was the dream. She began to see, to feel, to taste the pleasant waters of the Platonic seas. There they were because it was only a dream. But alas! It wasn’t only a dream. She was alive, and the dream was alive, and one day she noticed a sphere floating just above her bedroom cot. The only thing there’d ever been had been that room, the only thing she’d ever known had been that room, and she loved it deeply. There’d been oceans and meadows and clouds in the skies, but they all had existed inside that charmed room. It was warm and it was cozy, but there it was: the fantastic lure of the shining, pallid sphere. At first it was nearly the size of a apple but soon it began to grow and grow until it covered half the room. It began to have color; joyous colors. And she longed for that sphere and the infinite space that it contained. Ah, bear in mind this sphere was enchanted!

Soon after, she began to think. But the thoughts felt heavy inside her mind; as if they were big fish she was trying to pull out of the waters; deep, turbulent waters. She thought of music and she thought of dancing, and her porcelain cheeks became filled with rivering tears for the make-believe kingdom that escaped her in that sphere. Her curly hair began to grow and grow, all while she sat with her hands upon her knees, studying that golden sphere.

Suddenly she saw something, deep inside that glowing orb. It was a man. There upon the pillows sinking, he was resting and he was sleeping, and the lining covered all but his dreaming face. And she smiled a smile so wide, so pure that the room’s boundaries began to crack; first the roof and then the walls until there was nothing there but she and he. And she betook herself to linking, fancy unto fancy, engaged in guessing what this man’s presence meant in there sleeping. But the beauty and the warmness in her heart was stronger by far than the judgements in her mind, and she let the cathartic ecstasy fill that room and cast away the intolerable thoughts.

After some time she grew weary and fell asleep. And she dreamed about that man, who still is dreaming, still is dreaming, on that cushioned bed inside that golden sphere.

And her joy from out that dream will never part, will never leave, and the man was in that dream, and the man became the dream.

Working People

John discovers by accident that in his office there’s a drug dealer doing business right under their noses. He decides to go talk with the boss to point him out and make things right.

“I don’t understand, sir… Why won’t you do something?!” John yells out. The boss roars, howls and shouts problems and complications and kicks him out of his office. But John doesn’t give up and goes to the police. “What do you mean that you’re not doing anything?! Don’t you see that…” he gets kicked out into the street wrapped in curses and violent warnings. But John doesn’t give up and goes to the press. They throw him out black eyed and bleeding from mouth and nose. John still doesn’t give up and goes to the president: two broken ribs and five missing teeth.

John tries to convince himself that he must not stop fighting because of morality and ethics and because that’s what he believes in. And it comes the day when John, seated on his favourite leather armchair, turns and with a frightened stare studies everything around him. He looks at the wooden furniture, at the oil paintings of fruit and roses, at his whisky resting on the coffee table, at the picture of his family at the beach… and he realizes that they’re all varnished with the white dust with which everyone toils. It suddenly becomes clear that he also depends on the bastard in his drug palace. And suddenly he gets the feeling that everything around him –the Christmas tree, his wife’s black dress, his youngest daughter returning from ballet, now running towards him– shrouds him under a blanket of corruption and decay. However, he quickly pulls himself together and, spurred by a sudden feeling of determination, he finishes his drink and slams the glass on the table, cathartically dusting the white powder off his thoughts. At least I won’t have to kill myself in protest – John thinks happily – down at the town-square tomorrow.

References

The first time they met, they both dreamt the same dream and they looked at each other’s eyes across the fields of a castle in the sky. When the dream was over, on a stone it was written, ‘When I saw you I fell in love, and you smiled because you knew.’ The second time they met, they sailed on a boat for several years, and when they returned to land, bidding farewell, on the sand it was written ‘Whoever you are, here is your master; He is, He was, or He will be.’ The third time, during a formal dinner party, accompanied by their spouses, they greeted each other happily and then they never saw each other again in their lives; on the sky it was written ‘There are no messages, only messengers, and that is the message, the same way  love is the one who loves.’

The last time, two clouds found each other during a storm, and one whispered into the other, ‘Nothing is ever forgotten, even if you can’t remember.’

Fire Trucks

It wasn’t natural for him to sit down on a public bench at midnight on a Sunday. Resting with his arms on the backrest, Mark slowly crossed his left leg over his right, took out a cigarette and accepted the warm smoke into his lungs. He looked up at the heavens, exhaled the grey fume and whispered to himself, “And what did I see? A band of angels coming after me…” He lowered his head and drew in the cigarette; far away, getting closer, he could hear the screeching sound of a fire truck’s siren.

He kept on smoking, calmly, just as the roaring, red truck finally emerged at the other end of the street. He saw it driving towards him, he saw it speeding up, he heard its tires bust and he heard its breaks squeal. The fire truck went down, violently tumbled on the street’s asphalt and crashed against a solid cement pillar. He didn’t know why the explosion seemed so incredibly beautiful; its bursting, orange light illuminating his face for a second as he let out a puff of smoke.

He didn’t know why it seemed so natural –but not less spectacular– hearing one more time the distressing sirens far away, while he stood beside the whimsical ruins of, glaring and violent ruins of, night.

The Wicked Witch of the West and Dianne

Just the other day I remembered in a dream the story of The Wicked Witch of the West, although to be honest it was the image of the witch that I remembered, more than anything else. In the dream, nothing coherent really happened –as seldom happens in dreams–, however, her figure and personality were very different to the ones in real life. I’m not sure if that was because I understood her in a completely surreal environment –as dreams are–, or if it was the consequence of a mental or spatial disturbance, but I imagined her in such a way that her mien reminded me of that of everyday people who walk around parks, go to the movies and chat loosely at coffee shops. Of course it wasn’t a linear or total transformation, but rather the two witches juxtaposed and gave the feeling that from either perspective –that of the violent and hostile Witch and that of the nice Witch seated in a coffee shop– something was out of place. All of this happened five nights ago.

It was not until yesterday that the memory came back into my mind and I conceived the following idea for a story. Let us imagine the figure of The Wicked Witch of the West, completely green, holding her long, twisted broom, wrapped around her inseparable black dress and pointy hat; with her sharp nose and spiked chin; her fingers long and thin, her nails black and jagged; smiling a euphoric smile. Let us imagine also the idea that follows her image, that is to say her confusing gestures, her penetrating stare and her screeching cry. Now, without any further explanation than one that a dream would have, lets drop her with Dianne, her best friend (that’s her name in the dream, don’t ask why).

The following might seem like a negligible detail, which some would think that could well be omitted from this note; however, being dreams the subconscious act of expressing those small, seemingly unnecessary details, it is of great importance that Dianne is English, and that her friendship with the Witch be staged in the streets of a small English town. Naturally, as this is a kind of fiction that would resemble more to the arching of a spoiled cat’s back, with sudden impulses and unthinkable logic, the passage would have to be written in the space of a single chapter (say, the fifteenth of a book of twenty).

Let us take the picture of Dianne and the witch, seated on a wooden bench in the middle of a park. Let us imagine them talking and laughing about something or other when suddenly, right in front of them, a dog appears –a small one, almost like a fur ball of unorganized white hairs– along with a prominent woman. The dog, seeing the weird, scary figure seated on the bench, stops, turns towards the Witch and begins to bark violently, with that strong, disturbing pitch that small dogs can reach. And so we come to the crucial bit of the scene: shocked and stunned by the barking –which sounded like hundreds of bricks crashing through glass– the Witch begins to bark back at the dog, moving her little green hands rapidly, and shaking her head. This moment, Witch and dog barking and groaning at each other, even if in a spatial plane it only lasts a few seconds, it should be elongated to the maximum in the reader’s imagination, for it denotes a genuine union, a sincere interaction, finding each other in that instant where the counterpart becomes the opening to a reality without rules.

Let us take, as another example, the following segment of a conversation between Dianne, her boyfriend –say, Mark–, and the witch.

“Has it been difficult to make new friends?” Mark said, reaching over the coffee table for a couple of cookies.

“It hasn’t been easy, to be honest,” said the Witch calmly. “It’s another atmosphere, new people… being “wicked” doesn’t really help much. But we’re getting there, we’re getting there.” The Witch smiled.

“But we try to have a nice time, right?” Dianne said, turning towards the Witch. “We go to the cinema, to the park; we play with the children sometimes.”

“Yes, yes… we go often to the park, plenty of impressionable children everywhere, very fun,” the Witch said, taking a sip of her coffee.

“And what kinds of things do you like best? What do you like to do around here?” Mark said.

“Well, cinema, I like cop-and-thieves movies; people that steal stuff you know… Also I like to go shopping, clothing and shoes. I’ve bought many, many shoes, red shoes, while I’ve been here,” the Witch said and grabbed a cookie.

It is essential to develop this passage taking in consideration that writing it, transforming it into the symbols of our language, is only the exercise of expressing a dream, that is to say that the chapter itself must have that degree of spatial and emotional disturbance that makes everything seem a little twisted, a little like a watercolor; as if we were looking at it through a kaleidoscope. Likewise, we must try to throw away any impulse of giving the scene a political or social message. Because what’s important is the connection between the reader and the Witch where the norm is something other than mere opinions, the norm is those emotions that make us laugh, cry, be angry, be in that state of love where a breeze from Wonderland begins to affect our thoughts.

These images –the Witch and the dog, the Witch having tea, the Witch on a rollercoaster– are the key of the story, moments that transcend the common chronological narrative; the ones that make everything makes sense. That is why we must emphasize, through examples, scenarios, dialogues, a feeling of not being fully submerged in a circumstance or context. We must make that being somehow to the right or left or that having our eyes a little more open or closed shine through every adventure that the Witch and Dianne share; as if a Nightmare were to stand in front of a mirror only to find Serenity looking back.

Office Party

The fourteenth floor was a mess. Yesterday’s dull, grey walls and isolated cubicles had been transformed into a colorful zoo where half-souced people danced and ran through the hallways in their underpants. What had started as an innocent costume party had mutated into an overblown mayhem of music, alcohol and uninhibited flirting. Still, some of them kept their costumes on; the orangutan chased across the corridors a man-sized chicken, and, at the back, next to the photocopy machine, a rabbit and a caterpillar were engaged in an intense make out session.

Suddenly, the phone in cubicle twenty-four started to ring.

At the poker table, Steve removed yet another article of clothing and received his cards. He stared at them and smiled. He looked up and glanced at beautiful, semi-naked Sarah from accounting; at too-much-hair-in-chest Carl, from customer services; and at fully-naked, grinning Mary, who nobody knew where she’d come from, but seemed to be having a good time.

“Okay,” Steve said, smiling, finishing his drink. “I’m all in!”

The phone in twenty-four kept ringing.

Mary looked at Steve gravely, pondered for a moment, smiled and then said, “I call!” She revealed her cards and won. For a moment Steve pretended to be upset, but after a couple of seconds of Mary’s innocent smile, he went on to remove the rest his clothes.

At last, Mark-from-downstairs picked up the phone.

“Steve!” He yelled at the top of his voice. “It’s Mr. Peters!”

Steve, while in the process of taking off his boxer shorts, turned and yelled back, “Who?!”

“Peters!” Mark said, louder.

“Fuck,” Steve whispered and, half-tripping on his boxers, raced up to the phone.

“It’s Peters man… he’s asking for you,” Mark said when Steve arrived, his orangutan head in his right hand.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck… If he finds out about this he’ll fucking chop my balls off,” said half naked Steve. “What does he want?”

“He wants to check if everything in the office is alright, and if Linda has finished a financial report or something.”

Steve turned and saw Linda. This is not good, he thought, not good at all. Linda, sweet, innocent, twenty-two-year-old Linda, with her good looks and athletic body, ran through the cubicles, a wet towel in her hand, chasing Lenny, the fat computer genius, yelling, “Don’t run fatso! Get over here!” while she whipped the towel at his round, over-sized buttocks.

“Well… ask him why he needs to check that?” Steve said, the vodka beginning to act up on him.

Mark cast a dubious peer at him, then cleared his throat and brought the microphone to his mouth, “What is this, if I may ask sir, in reference to?”

Mark nodded a few times, changed the phone to his other ear and continued nodding. For a moment he remained still, his eyes moving from side to side. Finally, he removed the auricular from his ear, covered the microphone and said, “Well… you were right, he says that if you don’t answer the phone he’ll cut off your genitals and feed them to a lion.”

“Jesus Christ! Oh fuck, fuck, fuck,” Steve said, the booze finally taking control. “I’m gonna lose my job! I’m gonna fucking lose my job. Fuck!” He grabbed a tray full of papers and threw it against a wall. He sat on a chair and began to sob. Then, quite suddenly, he stood up and ran as fast as he could towards the bathroom.

Mark saw him disappear down the corridor and smiled. Then he remembered the phone. “Mrs. Jones, your son is in the bathroom… No, no, everything’s alright…  I’ll tell him you called… Don’t you worry… Sure, sure… I’ll take care of it… you too, have a nice evening… bye, bye.” He hung up and grinned. Then he put back his orangutan head and shouted, “Oook, Oook Ooooooook!” and began to chase the gigantic chicken once again.