He walked outside under the cool, humid moonlight clothed in nothing but a ragged tarpling and a cup. His mouth was full of blood and he relished such moments as the purity one can only expect from a birth. He was one. The water kissed his ankles as the tide rolled in, slowly washing the kilm from his ankles. He always wondered if he had what it would take to kill her, but tonight he found his answer. Starting with the head and methodically taking off each additional appendage, he cut. Under that Mexican moonlight…he showed her.
It was a quarter to 4:00 as he sat in the airport smoking his cigarettes, drinking beer after beer at the bar. With a table facing the window he watched the planes take lift off the tarmac. This was nothing new to him. As he stared out, the day began to roll out before him in all it’s punishing sun. Soon it would be blinding. No matter, he would face the bar…would face the crowd. A mob of greasily painted faces all wanting to be somewhere, anywhere but here in Mexico City. Fuck them. He spun around, dragging the ash from his cigarette across the length of the ashtray. “This country is fucked,” said the Gringo, as he stamped out the last bit of Carolina tobacco, the smoke exhaling from his mouth. He exited the cantina, grabbing his black coat and bag in the process. Vamanos.
8.26 am – Paris, France. He awakens to the neighbors, fighting about the price of the garbage pickup. Such trivialities the Gringo has never had to endure. What kind of life is one spent worrying about such bullshit. To settle is to wither, and to wither is to die. Always keep moving. That is what James told him many years before—during the days of his training, the days before the darkness. But what of those days now. A nomad wanders. France had become a sort of second home to the Gringo over the past two decades. In as much as he could call anywhere “home.”
He walked outside under the cool, humid moonlight clothed in nothing but a ragged tarpling and a cup. His mouth was full of blood and he relished such moments as the purity one can only expect from a birth. He was one. The water kissed his ankles as the tide rolled in, slowly washing the kilm from his ankles. He always wondered if he had what it would take to kill her, but tonight he found his answer. Starting with the head and methodically taking off each additional appendage, he cut. Under that Mexican moonlight…he showed her.
It was a quarter to 4:00 as he sat in the airport smoking his cigarettes, drinking beer after beer at the bar. With a table facing the window he watched the planes take lift off the tarmac. This was nothing new to him. As he stared out, the day began to roll out before him in all it’s punishing sun. Soon it would be blinding. No matter, he would face the bar…would face the crowd. A mob of greasily painted faces all wanting to be somewhere, anywhere but here in Mexico City. Fuck them. He spun around, dragging the ash from his cigarette across the length of the ashtray. “This country is fucked,” said the Gringo, as he stamped out the last bit of Carolina tobacco, the smoke exhaling from his mouth. He exited the cantina, grabbing his black coat and bag in the process. Vamanos.
8.26 am – Paris, France. He awakens to the neighbors, fighting about the price of the garbage pickup. Such trivialities the Gringo has never had to endure. What kind of life is one spent worrying about such bullshit. To settle is to wither, and to wither is to die. Always keep moving. That is what James told him many years before—during the days of his training, the days before the darkness. But what of those days now. A nomad wanders. France had become a sort of second home to the Gringo over the past two decades. In as much as he could call anywhere “home.”