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that dangle before his eyes -- all back, that and an expanding rage that threatens to consume thought. Bastard bastard bastard is all that rings in his head, and he turns on the young man, who is already staring into the middle distance, lips in a half-pout, as if his patience has been pushed to the limit by a senile elder. You don't even face me, the warrior fumes. I am less than an insect to you, you do not care to even face me. His hand tightens at his side, at the knife tucked at his belt. With one stroke, he could sever head from body, but then the look on the man's face would remain, berating and torturing him. Perhaps a slower death, a limb or two, that would change the man's expression, in fact it would be quite satisfactory if the man cringed a bit, maybe even begged for mercy. That would be much better. Did you hear me? the young man says. His expression bleeds indifference. Callousness is  |
not a shade with him, it is his entire being. And not even intentional callousness, that could be understood, admired even. The warrior has no doubt that when the man returns home at night, when he wakes up in the morning and lights a fresh cigarette, when he makes love to a woman, when he rabble-rouses with friends, that there is a place in his head that he will always remain, a Buddha in his own way, and it is intolerable, unfair. Hard breaths contaminating his body, the warrior unclenches his fists. Someone who is him and not him snaps back at the young man: This is my money, not yours. I paid money to get in here, so what's wrong with you? What? he thinks as soon as he has said these words. Why? Money? Why did I think of that? The room is spinning now. The young man's  |
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