Justice

The cold night breeze swept past he city, leaving a shiver to every warm-blooded creature. There is nothing to expect from this stereotype of a city. Nothing new to see-- only dilapidated buildings, overflowing dumpsters, abandoned children and old people here and there, and the occasional dead petty criminal. Not the kind of environment you want for the kids.

Police officer Gomez thought the same, so he didn't bother to raise a family. However, he'd occasionally and unwittingly make a child with a hooker he'd hire during his off-duty hours(sometimes even on duty), but he'd just ignore them. His life is good, he often thought. He wouldn't need to dish out money for meals, he'll just come inside an eatery and flash his pistol at the manager, and he'd get anything he wanted, except that young waitress who works during Thursday afternoons. How he wanted to taste young Thursday flesh on a dark alley, but he was scared of the burly father who works at the kitchen. He looks so big that it seems that a bullet won't mean a thing to him.

Anyways, after meals he'd stroll out of the eatery and ride his motorcycle which he had christened as "Moses", because like Moses did with the Red Sea, the vehicles along the motorway would part and make way for him. Those who didn't would drown like the Egyptians, but not in water, but in ghost fees. His life was good, and so was his other friends at the force. Without them, the city would be in chaos and disorder.

There were men far greater than Gomez in the force-- his deeds were merely child's play in comparison to the others. Some were involved in narcotics trade, some were employed as hired guns and some rape children. How Gomez wished he could be like them, but he hated to admit that he was too much of a pussy to commit their acts of greatness.

On nights that he would be left alone, he'd look up and wonder whether he would be worthy to ascend there when the time comes. He had been such a dick, but he had no choice-- his body wants it, his soul craves for it. However, he is a good crimefighter-- he took so much delight in busting petty thieves and other little urchins unaffiliated with big criminal groups. He didn't meddle with the boys from the big ones, because he himself isn't with them. He didn't mess with them, neither did he help them.

A few days ago, he noticed a few persons who seemed to have been following him. He'd feel their stare burning his back. From the city park to the red light district, he could feel them. He'd look for the faces, but they just melted into the crowd; so concealed; so insignificant. For a few moments, they'd be gone, but once in a while, he could feel he's being put under surveillance. He could feel them when he stopped to smoke. He could feel them as he entered the eatery for a free lunch. He could even feel them as he entered the brothel. They're everywhere, he thought.

For days and days, that same feeling followed him. Wherever he went, whatever he did, he could feel a pair of eyes or a pair of ears trained on him. Slowly, he thought he was like a rabbit being stalked by silent yet deadly wolves. He shook that thought off. I'm the wolf 'round these parts, he thought to himself, and his anxieties would vanish.

He kept that mentality, and he wasn't disturbed by the stalkers anymore. They were still there, but he just didn't mind them. As a matter of fact, the thought of having someone watch him made him even bolder-- the cigarette vendor whom he used to give a coin for a smoke would now see a gun and would lose a pack of cigarettes from her wares. Gomez even took a hooker and didn't bother to do the deed in the brothel, instead, he took his pleasure of the woman in a damp and dark alleyway. "You like that? WOO!" he'd ask out loud after he did these things, much to the confusion of his victim.

One day, the stalkers thought they wanted to be noticed by Gomez, so they stepped up the act. Gomez was on his motorcycle and when the traffic light turned red, a dark sedan with tinted windows pulled to his right. He was strangely drawn to this vehicle, and when he turned to look, the driver lowered his window and looked at the cop through dark sunglasses. Gomez tried to approach the driver, but the light turned green and the sedan sped, leaving the gutsy cop dumbfounded. However, Gomez saw the plate number and made sure he remembered it. No one looks at me like that, he murmured.

There was another day when he was walking on the city's crowded and sweaty streets, and he walked past a man wearing a t-shirt, jeans and sunglasses. He was not the sedan driver, but they had the same concealed stare. He felt the sedan driver's aura in this man. Gomez tried to get the guy, but he seemed to have vanished into the crowd. Everyday, he saw men wearing sunglasses looking at him and most of the time, they's pass by him. Everytime he tried to apprehend one of them, they'd simply vanish. It was strange and irritating for Gomez. Everyday he saw one of them, it slowly drove him mad.

He saw them enough for one day that he had some beer and let the alcohol take over the thought of the sunglassed men in his mind. He went to his favorite eatery for dinner, drunk and stressed. To his surprise, the young and pretty waitress was there, even though it was not a Thursday afternoon. Due to drunken wanton, he grabbed the young lady and tried to kiss and touch her in the parts a father would be angry to see.

The girl started to scream, and her huge father came bursting out of the kitchen with a knife, red with rage. The angry father's raging eyes and the policeman's drunken eyes met. Gomez shoved the girl and bared his fists to the huge man, issuing a challenge. The man dropped his knife and took a stance. Gomez rushed to the man with a fist, but the huge man was surprisingly fast and Gomez was drunk. Gomez swung and missed, but the man hit with strong and fast blows. Gomez thought he had the man with a straight, but the angry father parried the strike and hit Gomez with a straight of his own to the face, which sent Gomez to the floor. As Gomez hit the floor, all the alcohol left his system and he was now able to think clearly. The man stooped to Gomez and grabbed his collar and was about to hit him again, but the policeman was able to draw his pistol and shot the burly man in the chest.

From the corner of his eye, he saw three sunglass-wearing men observing him. When he turned around, he saw that the street had a lot of sunglassed men scattered throughout the crowd. By this, he was driven mad and pursued the two nearest him, leaving the father dying and the daughter crying for help while cursing Gomez at the top of her lungs.

The sunglassed men fled as they realized they were being chased by Gomez. Gomez, in his fleeting frustration, ran after the two fleeing strangers, determined to get them this time. It all seemed to be part of some elaborate plan. Even Gomez felt that, but he just let it unfold before him. The two men hastily entered an old apartment building. Gomez charged inside the doors and he saw the two men flying up the stairs.

As Gomez reached the second floor landing, he found out that he had lost track of the two strangers. Just as he was about to go berserk out of frustration, he heard a door close, revealing where his targets are. He raced up the corridor, towards the door.

He kicked the door open, and he saw the two men lying on the floor with their eyes wide open (sunglasses removed, of course) and their mouths foaming. They've poisoned themselves, as if they've served their purpose already. On a corner of the room, Gomez saw something which confirmed his conspiracy theory-- there were pictures of the whole police force pinned up on the wall. On a nearby table, there were thick folders each labeled with names of the police officers, including him.

He read all the folders carefully, and for every first page except the one labeled for him, it was stamped with the word "execution". He looked for details on how the "execution" would be carried out, but there are none, just the extensive profiles of the policemen. In his sober days, Gomez thought that this was coming-- judgment to all their evils. He knew that they deserved it, but why not him also? Was he not evil enough?

He read the folder for their chief, Colonel Marco Marquez, and he saw the date for the intended execution, and to his surprise, it was that day. He quickly made his way back to the headquarters to look for the chief and warn him of his impending doom. Like a madman, he hastily made his way to the headquarters on foot.

He passed by the eatery, where moments ago, he had just murdered an innocent man. However, the eatery is now crowded with people, along with a medical team and their ambulance, and a newsteam with a reporter interviewing Chief Marquez-- just the person Gomez was looking for.

"We shall not tolerate the misbehaviors of our men in the force and we shall give them the appropriate punishment," he heard the chief say to the reporter.

"Chief! You are in danger!" Gomez called to his superior, drawing all the attention to him.

"There! This demon must be put to the hand of justice at once!" the chief then ordered two of the rookies in the force (who knew nothing of the misdeeds of their seniors), to seize Gomez.

The chief saw to it that Gomez would be seen before the camera and the chief preached about what loyalty and integrity is, as opposed to what Gomez had done. Gomez, on the other hand, continued to voice his warnings, but was unnoticed by the chief, who was busy being a hypocrite. Then, as nobody expected, a huge explosion caught everybody's attention.

Somebody from the headquarters called the chief, saying that the headquarters was blown up, with all the other policemen inside. He was about to tell who did it, but he was interrupted by a loud gunshot and his voice vanished. An unfamiliar voice took over and spoke.

"Greetings, Colonel Marquez!" said the voice in a mock greeting. "The time has come for all of you evil ones to be punished!"

And his voice vanished in a crackle of static.

In the blink of an eye, the chief's head suddenly blew up due to a well-placed shot to the head from a concealed sniper. Everybody near him was splattered with blood and brain. The three remaining policemen (which included Gomez), went mad and ran in different directions, seeking for cover. But among the three, Gomez was driven mad the worst.

"WHO ARE YOU?!" he repeatedly asked out loud, then he was knocked out unconscious.

When he woke up, he found that he was in a glass chamber filled with unfamiliar fluid and he was held in place by tubes which ran through his body. He could see a congregation of sunglass-wearing men standing before him and before the whole city. He then realized that he was on a stage, like a freakshow. Beside him were the two rookie cops, and they were spared. However, he could hear what the leader of the sunglassed men was saying:

"Your police force are but a nuisance to you and to all the country," he began in a matter-of-factly manner. "They were supposed to serve and protect, but instead, they punished and enslaved you. We come here today, The Brotherhood of the Just, to bring down the mighty hand of justice upon these evil hearts and lead you, the people, to a peaceful new era. The just from the unjust were selected, and there they are, standing beside the epitome of evil in the force, which in a few moments, would be immortalized, so that nobody else would wreak havoc like these men once did."

Upon these words, a strange fluid was pumped to the tubes connected to Gomez's veins and he was poisoned from the inside. However, the leader of the Brotherhood explained that the fluid would preserve his body perfectly so as to serve as a concrete example to what the Brotherhood, the New Order, would do for the good of the people.

"And that, my beloved masses," the leader announced, "is the beginning of a new era of peace and justice."

A Frenzy of Blood

And I am finally awakened.
To the world I say hello,
But to the mighty sun I am frightened.


And I rise to meet my body's demand.
In the darkness I wait for thy neck,
To taste of your blood drives me mad!


And so there you come a-strolling,
Oblivious to the malign in the air.
So do I inch closer to you, beautiful thing.


And like the fluid air I wriggle to you,
Yet you do not feel my evil.
Proceed to your neck I should and must do.


And to me you turn your head,
I was halted in my tracks.
Your beauteous scream as rich as your blood so red.


For an eternity of sleep, never have I felt this--
This palpitation against the sternum.
Oh, pretty thing, you put me in unease!


You tell me to let you go,
But no, I shall not.
Yet I would not drink from you, oh no.


Please, look me not with those crystal eyes!
THEY DRIVE ME AWRY!
My attraction to you dwarfs my size.


But I won't let this build up inside of me;
So, as much as I hated to do,
Your neck I shall bite, and doom you shall see.


Pray hard, pray always,
That I may not see another you.
You, who hindered my evil ways.

Revelations

What a jest I have been,
Believed I was the master of my universe
Yet I was but a prey of my own fool.
Day by day I turned
A blind eye towards which I don't know
But again,
A patchwork of an idiot I am
Now, as these cryptic message are laid
Before me,
I decipher a word-
"FOOL".
The great tomb was fine
Until Carter opened it in 1922.
Fool was he to dig inside
The remains of a past long gone,
For it brought him a curse
He'd never forget.
Betrayal is an ugly monster
That seeks to devour
Every beautiful thing.
I beg thee, Master of the Skies;
Command thine gray clouds hanging above me;
Cruel fate, set me free.
I am paralyzed by the force
Of knowing. Be it a beauty
Or an abomination, Pray tell,
What should have been done
In the days of the kings.

The Face I Yearn To Forget

Strange being of my acid past
Pray, let me through
And let me live another
Black day with traces of ecstasy.


Cruel mistress from yesterday,
Why did you not
Emancipate me? How come
Thou linger still in my cold, cold heart?


Day by day I seek for justice,
Yet you give none
Of the power you possess.
Am I forever a slave of me?


Yet yours was but a grim visage
Which for a time
Entombed me in cold, hard stone.
Thank heavens, I am resurrected.

Path

To my old self
I shall return.
To my dead memories
I shall come back.

To them I return;
But on what medium?
I yearn to backtrack,
Yet I am confused.

From the future I turn away.
The present I long to banish.
Still I am confounded--
HOW?

Vague thoughts; bizarre memories.
Was I once part of something?
Might be; might not be.
Lead me to the true direction.

The Lost and Weary

Devoid of all emotion;
I march on.


Empty shell I have become;
So to the fire I come.


Have I been a monster?
A thing with legs like a spider?


Have I been a puritan;
Comitting no sin unlike any man?


Or was I simply a broken soul?
Who has never come near to its goal?


Woe to me; woe to my comrades.
For we are all fallen lads.


I am lost; and could never come back.
I am alive; yet I am shelved in a rack.


Art thou listening, beautiful stranger?
Is my salvation in your location there?

THE WEIRD AND PERVERSE THEATRE

Three: The Script

I felt my heart race upon hearing father's footsteps come closer to where I was. I looked at mother's eyes and she looked back, seemingly mad. She grabbed my book and stuffed it back inside the white hen's straw nest just before father joined the fray.

"What are you two doing here? I was calling for you, son," father spoke.

"We were feeding the chickens, father," mother replied, with an uneasy tone, which father easily missed.

"You go finish that, and follow me to the barn. Our carabao needs to be cleaned," says father before he left. Mother smiled at him until he was completely out of sight, then she turned to me.

"Do you know what will happen to you if father sees that?" mother whispered intensely, pointing to what was hidden beneath the straw.
My response came in the form of shaking my head from left to right. Mother sighed and she snatched the book from under the white hen.

"Why didn't you tell me you wanted to read?" mother quietly asked of me, now smiling excitedly.

"You know how to read?" I asked mother with the same excitement that she had.

"Of course I do! I reached high school!" mother replied, trying to contain herself.

"So, mother," I held the book in front of her, "What does this book say?"

She explained to me that the book was called the Bible, the guide to every man's life and that it was God's words. At first, mother read the words to me slowly, showing me how each letter is read. Everyday we would repeat this, after we had done our chores, and when father was away. Slowly but surely, I learned the meaning of each symbol, forming in my mind a new consciousness which told me that new words are hiding inside these wonderful things called books.

Soon enough, I moved from reading the Bible to other books that mom had stashed inside her wooden box by the chicken coop. As I read more and more of these books, I learned of what the outside world looked like, felt like, and even smelled like. Slowly, I realized how dull and monotonous my life was. Little by little, I yearned to see what the outside world looked like.

One day, I was walking along the fields, pondering on everything I've read from the books. I wondered if any of those things could be real, especially those from the Bible. Could someone really split a sea in two? While meditating on those musings, I unwittingly wanderedc into the roadside leading to the town. I looked behind me to see if I was far away from our small hut. It was a good distance away, but I thought it was fine if I walked on, as long as I could still see our hut.

But my little mind was distracted by the sound of tinkling bells and funny music coming from behind me. The sound, as it appeared, came from a colorful van full of colorful things and equally colorful and cheerful people. They wore multicolored costumes, had paint on their faces and lips; and some had facetious hairstyles.

The vehicle stopped in front of me, and the music stopped. From the vehicle, out stepped a stout man in a tuxedo and a top hat. He was different from the other people in the vehicle. He wasn't wearing a colorful costume; he had no paint on his cheeks; his nose wasn't round and red but long and crooked; his hair wasn't red or yellow or blue, rather it was black and reached his shoulders. He did not look funny, but I was drawn to this man.

From the sleeve of his tuxedo, he pulled out a handkerchief. He stretched it out in front of me and had me see both sides of it. He then rolled it into a crumply ball and threw it up in the air. He caught it, and it seemed to have changed its shape, He removed the cloth, and a lollipop was found.

The lollipop was so colorful and looked so sweet that I wanted it.

"You want it?" asked the man in my native tongue.

My reply was an eager nod and an outstretched hand. The man's lips broke into a smile and handed the candy to me.

"Be a good boy," he said, patting my head.

They played the music again and continued up the road. I could only make out three words from the banner hung behind the vehicle--"The", "and", and "Theatre". The other two words looked like "wide" and "parrots". I licked the candy as I returned home, hopping in joy. I got home just in time for supper with the usual dish of dried fish and rice. As we were eating, I told mother and father about the people who gave me the lollipop. I described how they looked like and about the magic the man did for me.

"Ah it's the circus folk," father said. "They usually come to town this part of the year,"

"But next time, don't take anything from strangers, no matter how funny they look," mother warned me.

That was the lesson I should've followed so I would be spared of this hell. Simple words they may seem, but coming from a mother, these words are golden.

I fell asleep right after supper. I dreamt about nice and funny things for a while, then from a dark side of my unconsciousness, out came the circus man, walking towards me, holding another lollipop for me. Behind him were little children wanting the candy too, but the circus man just ignored their calls. He is coming for me; he is coming! He is coming , and he has a lollipop for me.


--The Stage Director

When the Songbird dies

'Twas one evil night
That late November night
Souls that harbor fright
Against candles so bright


Then the Songbird croons
Of songs from past moons


Bones chill, they're aghast
Souls wish to flee fast
Dark trumpets so loudly blast
Dead is he who comes last


And the Songbird dies of sorrow
For in her songs, there's no tomorrow
And the Songbird dies alone.


And the Songbird is dead.
In her memory they offer bread.
"Gone, she is now" they said.
And from the holy land they fled.


The Songbird's gone, she's now in heaven
No redemption for you, my fallen brethren


The Songbird now sings of ethereal hymns
And your mortal eyes from darkness it dims


Her voice now serenades the angels
Your body now in the lowest decomposition levels


She was yout hope, but why did you let her go?
Yes, she was your hope, why were you foolish?


And the Songbird is dead.
She's dead, dead, dead, oh dead.

Doomed to Fail

Walk fast, mortal man,

Thou hadst no time to smile.

Thy sides leak of bitter bile!

Stop not, o mortal man.

Success is not possible

Thou art only a mortal;

Bringer of deeds carnal.

Failure you are only able.

Doomed to fail, only fail!

Mortals hadst no place in hell;

No, not even time would tell

For thy soul is oh so frail.

Surrender, weak creature!

Death entrails thee;

Fury empowers me,

Mortality thy worst feature.

Man's Laughter

Bloodied axe upon me;
And all of them flee.
Before me, a bloodied sea;
I long not to see.
What's this? Heads on a tree?


Laughing softly they go;
For my blade does not know.
Red sweat struck upon their brow.
Freely now does blood flow.
With this arm, lives I shall mow.


Madness now taking over--
Need not to take cover.
Repeat I shall never;
Evil in me now and forever.
Darkness bind me now and forever.

Orion

Three stars upon thy belt;
Your presence is much felt.
Thine enemies before thee melt.
Those who don't, before thee knelt.


Orion, master hunter; stalker of the damned!
Orion, sword of might; kill all the mad!
Orion, fearless warrior; hunt them from their stand!
Orion, lord of the hunt; come down like firebrand!


Canis Major, Canis Minor--
Loyal servants to thee.
Canis Major, Canis Minor--
Before them, your prey flee.


Orion, master hunter; judgment day is here!
Orion, sword of might; strike with no fear!
Orion, fearless warrior; let no fool come near!
Orion, lord of the hunt; their blood upon you smear!


Your sword tied on thy waist;
Laid waste to insolence!
Impotence not a possibility;
Ability all rained upon you!


Orion, master hunter; deliver them death!
Orion, sword of might; yours is no empty threat!
Orion, fearless warrior; their end is set!
Orion, lord of the hunt; their death they've met!


ORION!

THE WEIRD AND PERVERSE THEATRE

Two: The Leading Man

I was born with a name Juan de Cruz in a sleepy farming town tucked away in a far corner of the country. Since I could walk, my father would take me to the fields, to help him till the soil. When I was a bit bigger, my father taught me to do the heavy farm work for him. Everyday, I did the same monotonous routine; with nothing more and nothing less to do in life. Each and every day, I would wake up as early as the rooster crowed, and I would eat a small portion of breakfast, grab my hat, and work in the fields with my father until the sun sets.

One day, I saw children almost my age returning home via the fields. They were wearing the same clothes and they were holding these strange pieces of paper bound together by some hard material. I asked my father who these children were and what the things they were holding were. He told me wearily that they were students and they were holding books.
“What do students do?” I asked my father enthusiastically.
“They learn new things,” Father answered bleakly.
“Do they go to fields too?” I asked some more.
“Some of them does, but most do not,” Father answered with the same lack of energy.
“Can I be a student too?” I asked father.
“No, you stay in the fields and help your poor father,” Father answered, emphasizing his negation on the idea.

Since that day, I waited for the children to pass by and I borrowed some of their books. I looked at them and they were filled with strange symbols—the likes of which aren’t found in the fields.
“What are these symbols?” I asked one student.
“They are letters and they are meant to be read,” explained one of them, trying to contain his laughter.
“Is there something funny?” I asked, ignorant that I was being ridiculed by the educated children.
“How old are you, boy?” asked the female student.
“I don’t know,” I truthfully replied, and they all burst in laughter, rejoicing at the fact that I was illiterate by that time. Laughing, they strode off to their pampered homes, forgetting that I still have their book with me. Thinking of vengeance in my little mind, I swore never to return this book and I will use it to teach myself how to read.
I pranced merrily home, barefoot, with the mud clinging on to my feet. I tucked the book inside my wide straw hat, fearful that father might scold me when he sees the book. When I came home, I saw that mother and father, together with my six brothers and two sisters, were eating supper with their bare hands.
“Juan, come and eat with us. We have fish for dinner!” mother invited me, but I told her I would eat later.
I sneaked to the back of our house, where the pigs and the chickens were kept. In the chickens’ coop, I found a white cloth and with it, I wrapped my little tome of knowledge and tucked it under the white hen’s nest.
“Keep the book safe and I would reward you,” I whispered to the chicken, and the animal looked at me blankly, wondering what a human could be doing this near to her face.
I soon followed the family to supper and had my tiny portion of fish and rice. With those morsels of food I had lived, and with those I do not wish to die. Being the eldest among the siblings, I tucked my brothers and sisters to sleep and put the gas lamp out. The night in our tiny village was silent, yet it would be filled with strange sounds from time to time, like the frogs croaking, owls hooting, rats scuttling, and the simultaneous groaning of mother and father. But I would just ignore these sounds and I would get to sleep shortly.
Since I kept that book, I started to have strange dreams of pale-skinned men from a distant land coming by our house and inviting me to join them. I don’t know why, but I seemed to follow them. All the nights afterwards were filled of these strangely disturbing dreams of the aliens in our doorstep, who were grinning, yet inside, they are licking their teeth with gusto.
Morning has come, and I went on my usual routine, but when I saw mother with the can of chicken fodder, I volunteered to do the work for her, for fear that my stash might be discovered. With this gesture, she was pleased with me, not knowing of my subliminal intentions. As I went to feed the chickens, I checked if my book was still there. Underneath the white hen, there lies my cherished book, undisturbed in the caresses of the white cloth.
“Juan,” I heard mother’s voice suddenly call out from behind my shoulder, and she saw my book. She looked really mad.
“Mother!” father’s voice called out from the house and he seems to be coming to where I am.


--The Stage Director

THE WEIRD AND PERVERSE THEATRE

One: Opening Act

I ran and ran some more. Through these damp and dark alleyways I run; running away from Satan's resident sadist. I don't know how long I was running; it must've been an hour already. At any given time, I could fall down, given the amount of blood leaking from my side, like a broken faucet spouting water uncontrollably. I also fear the possibility of infection, because I had been doused in this tub of putridity earlier. The scent of blood and the rancid trail I am leaving as I flee served as an indelible marking, which leads my pursuers' hounds to my faltering body.

I took one more step and a wave of mortality swept over me. I felt a portion of my soul escape my fragile body. But I mustn’t die like an insect under a heavy boot—and another wave, one of adrenaline, swept upon me and somehow, my senses were heightened. Because I paused for two golden seconds, my pursuers gained on me. I could hear their rabid dogs barking in a frenzied rage from a distance. Using all the remaining strength in me, I made a mad dash towards the end of the alleyway, where the happy sparkling city awaits, unwary of the cries of the oppressed.

“There’s the dog!” I heard the foreign devil shout in his native tongue.

I then heard the leashes dragged upon the damp alley as the dogs were ordered to run after me. I tried to pick up speed, hoping that the city lights would bring salvation upon me, to spare me of this hell.

Bark. Bark.

The dogs sprint, excited by the prospect of an easy prey.

Splash. Splash.

My heavy feet crashed on the little brown puddles on the alley floor as I near the warmth of the city lights.

Yelp. Splash.

I looked back as a dog yelped. One of the three dogs slipped on a puddle and splashed. He tried to regain footing, but the dog slipped again.

BANG.

“Stupid dog!” growled the foreigner as he shot the fallen dog, his loyal servant.

I was a few steps away from the light, and as my frail frame touched the light, I felt a searing sensation in my left calf, and I was pulled to the ground by powerful jaws of two Doberman dogs.

The city folk looked as they saw me being mauled by the dogs. I had a glimpse of their eyes, and they weren’t concerned about me; they were merely scared. Scared because the dogs might turn their attention to them or pieces of my tattered flesh might splatter all over their expensive clothing. Pfah, this city folk! They are worse than the dogs themselves! A high-pitched whistle rang through the chatter of the city night, and the dogs released me and sat upright. From the dark alleyway came their master, the foreigner with his brown shirt clinging to his pale skin because of sour-smelling sweat. The fat foreigner huffed and panted, because he wasn’t used to running for he had servants to do his bidding for him.

“You wretched rat!” the foreigner said in my native tongue, with his thick foreign accent painting the words with a heavy coat of bigotry.

The foreigner took a moment to catch his breath, and from his belt holster, he drew a pistol, cocked it and pointed it between my eyes. I was sweating cold, but I wasn’t afraid; I was going to die anyway.

“Ungrateful pig,” he muttered in his own language, unremorseful, as though he was about to kill a fly. As Jacques the foreigner slowly squeezed the trigger, I closed my eyes and I remembered how this nightmare began.


--The Stage Director.