The Champion's Manifesto

By Nestrena Stapelia

Why don't the drugs work on her?

 

E-D gets and internship on a Reality Tv Show as a cover for her inofficial job: drug dealer.
Joined by the flamboyant techno-rapper-has-been Roberto and Sebastian, a transhumanistic elitist, she travels through a hyper-real world of paranoia, psychopathy and narcissism where even dogs have plastic mammaries.

But there seems to be something wrong with these drugs.
And there's definitely something wrong with her interest in death.

 

Disclaimer/Achtung:

Do not use this e-book as a moral compass.

 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Pralaya Media
• Release date: May 6, 2021
• ISBN: 9789151972985

Nestrena Stapelia

Nestrena Stapelia is: an anthropologist polyamorous a cult escapee an multi-instrumental musician and has left the dope business

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Nestrena Stapelia

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Copyright © Nestrena Stapelia 2021

The right of Nestrena Stapelia to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Swedish Copyright in Literary and Artistic works act 1960.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means without prior permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead is not certainly coincidental.

May those about to blast, blast.

Thanks to Mr Heins for his advice, the support from Ms López,  and to the musicians in Napalm Death, Obituary, Malignancy and Dark Throne for the fuel.

PART 1

Chapter 1

KALDAVIA, LANDALA NURSING Home, 6 am

HIS EYES REJECT HER existence. 

He is an elderly man in a gown on the floor - or was.

She is a care-worker hunched over him.

Dead faces look plastic after life vacates the body, but there’s something special about the eyes. A tingling cold grows in her chest that crawls throughout her body, engulfing her in a minor orgasm. The French call an orgasm Le Petite Mort; the little death, but for E-D it works the other way round too. Death itself, is intoxicating. 

The door opens. It’s her colleague Beata, clad in a mandatory care-worker shirt, black tights, and sneakers. She is closer to forty and has a voice gravelled by cigarettes. Her hair is cut short and dyed in a screaming red. Word has it, she’s hiding her greying streaks.

In comparison, E-D, a seven-year-younger brunette, comes across as a petite slender elf.

You alright? Beata asks.

Fine, E-D replies fully relaxed, but realizes her mistake. Post-orgasmic tranquillity isn’t appropriate when someone just died. She takes a few steps back and glares at the corpse with eyes wide open. Hopefully, she’ll seem startled. 

First time you see a dead person? Beata asks.

Yes, E-D lies.

We need to connect him to the lift, Beata mutters.

They elevate the body and place it back into bed. Beata’s face looks hard like concrete, but her trembling hand gives her away. It’s partly why E-D finds Death so alluring, it weakens the hardest of us, Death rules supreme, with no one coming second.

He’s probably happy now, tried to kill himself several times, Beata says.

E-D isn’t surprised. Jonathan used to travel the world while commanding a ship, then retired with too much booze and nothing to do. During the autumnal years of his life he was too sick to even drink beer.

We need to get him cleaned and dressed, Beata mumbles.

What about the rest of the chores? E-D asks; We've got cleaning, breakfast, and two more patients.

We'll make a simple breakfast this time. If he goes stiff while naked it’ll be a helluva job just to get a damn t-shirt on.

E-D’s work phone buzzes. Edna always calls at this time.

Sorry Edna, you'll have to wait until the morning staff start. We’re busy at the moment, E-D explains.

You’re always busy!

I’m sorry, we can’t come right now, E-D tries softly.

Edna’s situation cuts into E-D’s heart. If they had more staff, Edna would've been up and about. Now, she’s like a prisoner in her own body and has to wait an hour before someone gets her out of bed. Then, when she’s finally up, she usually falls asleep on a couch to the wailing of the demented.

After cleaning the deceased man and getting him clothed, E-D and Beata leave the nursing home in a small white car to see two other patients. They park the car outside an apartment complex.

Beata shows E-D a coin. Not again, E-D thinks. Beata flips it.

Heads, E-D says.

Sorry, Beata snickers.

E-D sighs. Allan. Again.

SOME WOULD SAY SANITY is about getting along. Being sane is knowing what’s real, what’s reasonable, ethical, and appropriate. It’s there for a collective effort, based on consensus. 

E-D believes Allan gave up on this a long time ago. Even though he’s dependent on others for food and security, he barely acknowledges their existence.

His physical mobility comes in episodes; from moving his arms, legs to all of a sudden going immobile; his tongue included. Whenever he can move, the full opportunity is seized. Usually in a feeding frenzy.

E-D knocks on the front door to the two-room apartment. Allan’s personal assistant, a forty-year-old man with bags under his eyes, opens the door. She greets him in the hall. 

He needs an insulin shot too, the assistant says.

E-D prepares a shot in the kitchen and returns to the hall. Bookshelves stand against every wall, stacked with plastic-wrapped magazines. There must be at least forty years of collecting here. Now these shelves are just a blurry mausoleum of Allan’s past. Even if he had the dexterity to flip a page, his eyesight would fail him.

Before she knocks on his bedroom door the assistant stops her. 

I know it all looks bad, but there’s nothing I can do about it. He refuses to listen to the doctor, so it’s not our fault. We have to give him whatever he asks.

What’s not your fault?

His eating habits.

E-D shrugs, knocks on the door and enters. Allan ignores her presence and continues with his business. She’s appalled with what she sees.  A grey face, his scalp crackled with dandruff. He’s only sixty-five but looks twenty years older. A blob of mayonnaise hangs on the edge of his Hitlersque moustache.

On a table next to his wheel-chair there’s an empty box of blue cheese, a half-eaten sausage, a mayonnaise jar, candy wrapping paper, licorice, a bowl of crisps, and rinds of melon.

This one-party feast is not what shocks E-D the most, but that the man is masturbating with the aid of a plastic bottle.

You could at least wait until you were alone, the personal assistant protests.

Perspiration glistens on Allan’s forehead. He must've been at it for a while, trying to get life into his half-erect cock. He groans angrily, squints his eyes.

Just get on with it, he mutters.

Put that thing back into your pants, E-D demands.

The man abides with a grin. Right now, E-D is piously thankful for her plastic gloves. She wipes his filthy hands, pricks his finger with a needle, and checks his blood sugar level.

His other hand slides over her back.

Don’t touch me, she snarls and takes two steps back. 

Either you behave, or I'll skip the shot. Then you’ll be lucky if the ambulance saves you before you have a heart attack!  E-D threatens. Hopefully, Allan doesn't call her bluff.

What do you mean behave? Allan says with a confused voice, I don’t understand.

Allan's face stays motionless. His eyes meet her but his gaze seems to be somewhere else, far away. Both E-D and the assistant shoot daggers, but Allan is insulated from their disapproval. 

If he were remotely healthy she’d file charges against him, but those with mental and physical disabilities get away with it.  In this case, his sickness is his blessing.

A scornful sigh escapes her mouth, and she jabs the syringe into his stomach.

If the dose were higher, he’d probably die in his sleep.

Go away now, Allan says.

You’re welcome! E-D snaps and hurries out the door as if the gloom about him were contagious.

E-D finds Beata smoking next to the car.

How was he? Beata asks.

He’s a caged animal rather than human, E-D says.

Beata rolls her eyes. He is a caged animal! she mimics in a high-pitched tone.

He’s wanking and covered in food, probably wouldn’t mind if he shits his pants either. And he touched me. No, you're right, animals care about hygiene.

He does that to a lot of people, don’t take it personally. No need to be dramatic, Beata mutters, but they both know the drama is justified. Ending up like Allan, whose only joy in life consists of ravenous episodes of eating and compulsory masturbation, scares them far more than being zoned out on painkillers twenty-four seven.

AFTER WASHING with alcohol rub and changing clothes, E-D fills out her worksheet, 21:00-7:30, and heads for the train station. Time to leave this dust hole. E-D lives in Greyham; one of the bigger cities of Kaldavia but works in Landala; a small town with no more than five thousand inhabitants.

A forty-minute commute later, she reaches Greyham. While leaving the train station she takes out two lidded paper cups from her satchel and crosses the road in direction to Main Square. One cup is empty, the other contains fifteen grams of Blue Hell, a marijuana strain higher in CBD than THC. It doesn't matter what your plans are – once you hit a joint of Blue Hell, you'll be sitting down for the rest of the evening. Fifteen grams isn’t enough to give you a prison sentence in Kaldavia, unless you get caught selling it.

It's said that the sum of all vices remains constant. In Kaldavia – the little use of drugs is compensated by a long tradition of alcoholism, the state being the biggest supplier. Weed is hard to come by unless you’re willing to do business with people who also deal harder drugs.

Back in the 90s, Kaldavian authorities launched an anti-drug infomercial on TV. It showed a young man at a party, a joint was passed around among the teens as the euro techno music oomphed in the background. Suddenly the man got a panic attack, the music changed to a horrific drone, and the man retreated several steps thinking his friends were after him. Somehow, he managed to fall out a balcony while walking backwards – only to plummet to his death.

The intended message was clear: Smoke hash – go insane and die.

A great deal of hash pipe die-hards thought it was ludicrous propaganda, and their musky pacifiers became symbols of rebellion. Some of die-hards, became the inactive memory-depleted bunch they refused to be labelled as. Another few, had psychotic episodes as it turned out excessive smoking could trigger Schizophrenia, if one had the right genetic makeup. The remaining puffing rebels of Kaldavia, who neither went insane or apathetic, remained statistically in the closet.

Ten meters ahead of her, three big statues, belonging to the Potlach Hotel look out over the city centre. They are a modern rendition of Hear no evil, see no evil, speak no evil. These statues aren't monkey-like though, they're human, in happy colours contrasting the grey city centre.

E-D sees Kenneth walk by two beggars at the main crossing. Holding both cups in her hands, she waits while he crosses the street.

You must've had a rough night, Kenneth says as E-D gives him his cup.

Yeah there was a lot to do, someone died.

Sorry to hear that.

It was for the best, poor guy had apparently a death wish, E-D says with a smirk on her face. Kenneth hands her a book. She chuckles as she sees the title, Cooking with Barnaby, and makes sure the money is inside. E-D reckons it's a good end for the day and makes her way home.

AFTER FOUR HOURS OF sleep, a fire alarm wakes her up. 

In the kitchen, a forty-year-old man with dyed blonde hair only wearing underwear turns off the alarm by ripping out the batteries. He scrapes the edible remains of his eggs from the frying pan to a plate, he forgot to put on the fan again.

Roberto owns the apartment. It was originally meant to be his music studio. This was back in the days when Roberto enjoyed a successful career as a rapper in a Eurodance duo called Blast Omega. Then the 90s ended, along with Roberto’s popularity. To maintain the lifestyle, he has grown accustom to, Roberto sold his living apartment and now requires flatmates in the studio flat.

She finds him with his face in his MePhone, presumably updating his Twatter account at the kitchen table. 

Want some breakfast? I made too much, he asks in his typical nasal tone as he sees E-D standing in the door frame.

She looks at the pan; scorched residue in oil.

It’s burned. Could you try to keep it down? I’ve only slept for three hours.

Hey hey, it’s soon twelve, not my problem. What do you think of this move by the way?

He slides down into a split on the kitchen floor, the posture exposing his thigh muscles.

It's all in the hips, he says and bobs in a springy movement, thinking of using it on stage.

Great. E-D simpers. Didn't David Lee Roth do that thirty years ago?

Despite the ten year age difference, Roberto has more oomph than she has, he takes care of his physique, which becomes his main addiction during periods of detox.

E-D looks at the newspaper on the kitchen table. Healthcare jobs lowest pension is one of the headlines. The article brings a disquieting squeeze to her entrails. Nurses today won't be able to live on their pension in the future. She’s two levels below a nurse.

Roberto kicks straight up into the ceiling like a young Van Damme, waiting for her to say something.

She ignores him and paces out the kitchen to the living room.

Tina sits motionless, cross-legged on the sofa, her mouth ajar with full attention directed at the TV. It’s last week’s re-runs of a weight-loss competition. Tina is sometimes her girlfriend, sometimes just her friend, sometimes it’s hard to tell.  They exchange a mere Hello, but that's fine with E-D. Her lack of sleep and nocturnal rhythm has brought on a state of fatigue bordering on apathy. Fuck this. She goes back into her room, has a puff of a joint then goes back to bed.

Chapter 2

ROBERTO LOOKS AT HIS MeBook page with some unease. His latest selfie has only received 143 likes. He read somewhere that the first artwork an artist moulds is his personality, but Roberto disagrees. He expresses his personality through his appearance. Naturally then, it’s the first artwork to bring to perfection before engaging in any other artistic endeavours. The reverse is equally valid: whenever Roberto feels unattractive, it reflects his personality, casting him into an abyss of anxiety. The body needs to be treated and adorned with discipline. The trick is to always make sure one is right on the edge. If you want to look proper, wear a suit, but make sure everyone can see your tattooed arms. If you want to look rock’n’roll, dress like a sleaze, but make sure you’re wearing something expensive. If you have something somewhat at odds with the expectations, the impression lasts longer. It also says that you’re above the stupid rules of fashion. Then, of course, the shoes; they speak more than anything else. Fifty pairs in his wardrobe allow him to express an entire spectrum of attitudes.

Roberto usually starts the day with a few sit-ups and goes out jogging on an empty stomach, followed by a high protein breakfast.

The recent selfie was taken while he did a split in front of the mirror at the gym. 143 likes aren’t a lot though. Sure, the image has only been up forty minutes. But what if people don't like it? What if those 143 people who do like it, are low-level fans, and what if those who matter notice the low number of likes? Perhaps they will disapprove of the picture?

Removing the picture would be a sign of insecurity. It will have to stay.

Frustration mounts.

He searches for ‘Ernesto Mirales’. No results from Kaldavia. But of course, Roberto realizes, Ernesto would never put himself up on meBook, at least not with his real name.

Back in the early 90s, Ernesto discovered two seventeen-year-olds, Roberto and Henrietta, both of them were doing ads for children’s clothes on TV. Together they made the core of Blast Omega. Roberto dealt with the rapping parts, tossed in some kicks and punches in front of the camera while Henrietta did the singing, and Ernesto wrote and produced it all. The song Juice it up became an international hit.

He still gets royalties every time an ad plays the song, and as long as other people pay for his flat – he doesn’t have to work.

At five pm, Roberto still sits on a leather couch in his bedroom. He's not certain where the time went, but it's got to do with MeBook, twatter, porn, and tracking the like-count.

He gets moving.

He finds Tina still fast asleep in front of the TV, mouth wide open. He doesn't like her hair. It's too similar to his own, short, intentionally dishevelled. But his hair is about pizzazz, not lesbian butchiness. He is, of course, a strong supporter of the LGBT community, and he’s got the MeBook filters to prove it. In fact, he understands how they think. After all, I’d fuck myself too if I could, is usually a punchline he delivers any time he gets the opportunity. He just doesn’t like ugly people. 

Back in the 90s, this room stored his VHS collection and video games, but that all changed when he had to get flatmates. They usually left after six months. E-D and Tina seem to be desperate though, going on a year now, both staying in the same room. They are both failures, as far as Roberto is concerned but pay well. The best part is that they rarely spend much time in the flat.

He slams the door loud enough for her to wake up on his way out, then calls for a taxi on his MePhone. Time to go to the rehearsal.

AZORA, INDUSTRIAL AREA. 17:50.

Posters cover the walls in the rehearsal room, overlapping each other. Julian takes a drag on the joint behind his drum set. On the wall behind him there's a cross made out of two boards, and nailed to it, is a cuddly bear, crowned with barbed wire. They call him Snuggles the Saviour. A worn old sofa seems to be sinking in the far corner next to a small refrigerator. Julian and Ambres wear identical sneakers, tight black jeans, and death metal-inspired logos on their t-shirts that look like squashed spiders. Sebastian keeps it tighter; black combat jeans and boots, a shirt buttoned all the way up despite the heat.

The man has sure has vocal capacity, but he lacks the will to use it, Sebastian says with a flat tone, polishing his guitar as if it were a rifle.

We'll give him a try, if it doesn't work, I'll do the vocals til we find someone else, Julian says, sucks hard on the joint and passes it to Sebastian. Sebastian pinches the joint with his fingertips and passes it to Ambres as if it were toxic. He dislikes the stoners’ filthy habits, but at least potheads aren’t as annoying as drunkards.

A pounding noise. It's Roberto kicking the door from outside, he’s locked out.

Are you guys deaf or something? he roars as Sebastian opens the door.

Roberto pushes past him, bumping into his shoulder. They are all roughly ten years younger than him, and Roberto’s four-thousand-euro-leather boots and Jymala pants make them look like two roadies and someone about to go postal.

Roberto connects his microphone, puts in his earplugs.

It stinks in here, he says into the mic.

They work through the first song. Roberto tries to sing a harsh raspy style à la Lemmy from Motörhead while the drummer blasts away with a frenetic D-beat. Ambres and Sebastian drone out angry chords on their instruments.

Roberto waves his hand. When did you change this?

We haven't, Sebastian responds.

Roberto shakes his head. This is not how you played this song the last time.

Last time you were here was three weeks ago, Ambres remarks.

It should be quicker in the middle and slower in the end! It'll sound much better, Roberto says surly. Julian nods enthusiastically.

Take it from the top, Roberto orders and gets into position, practising his split move.

After they finish the two songs, it's time for the break. All have a cigarette outside apart from Sebastian. Ambres talks about a movie he saw recently, but Roberto doesn't care. He's busy with his MePhone. 201 likes for the gym picture, still far too low. 

Sebastian fingers his MePhone as well, deleting old messages, no point in having a clogged MePhone.

Ambres says he wants to change the ending of the last song.

It sounds as if you're singing to a different song, it's a bit too cheesy, he says.

What are you, some sort of amateur? It's supposed to be that way, Roberto counters and feigns a laugh.

Is there any vital information pertaining to our concert? Sebastian asks, changing the subject.

Do you always talk like that? Roberto grins.

Sebastian raises a stoic eyebrow.

It's definite. Two months from now, Julian answers. Some performance artist is going to be the supporting act.

A gig – Roberto hasn't performed live since 1994.

THEY RUN THROUGH THE entire set. The sound of imperfect notes and rhythms brings an acrid taste to Sebastian’s mouth. Roberto waves his arms dramatically while roaring into the mic. Sebastian focuses on his guitar, but the drummer and bassist are stuck in a weed-induced mind maze, playing the same thing over and over – as if they’ve got into some deep mystery about these notes that should’ve been over a long time ago.

Roberto and Sebastian exchange a glance and stop playing. Julian and Ambre don’t. 

Roberto grabs a beer from the fridge.

Fucking potheads.

Had this been ten years ago, the songs would've been finished, he'd have the material ready; ready to go into the studio.

He chugs the beer quickly, gets up, and roars in the mic:

That’s enough!

Ambres and Julian stop playing.

Record the tracks on the computer and send them to me. I'll work something out at home. This is pointless if you fucktards can't nail the songs. Get your shit together guys!

He slams the door on the way out.

A stuffy silence: Roberto’s resentment blasted through the hash-cloud like nitroglycerine in whipped cream.

Whatta grinch, we oughta do without him, Ambres moans.

Not yet, Sebastian interjects, His experience and connections in the music business could be an asset, if we only steer him in the right direction. Besides he’s right. You do need to get your ‘shit’ together.

LANDALA. 23:00.

The white car stops outside Birgit’s Bungalow. Beata tells E-D to go in alone since there’s no need to be two at this one.

She exits the vehicle. A silver metallic 911 Porsche Carrera occupies the carport. The name tag on the door: B. & V. Stroganoff. She knocks on the door and unlocks it with her electronic key. This assignment is one of the easier ones, but it’s also one that annoys her. As expected, she sees a vague bluish light emanate from behind a thin curtain hanging in the door frame to the living room ahead.

Hello, she calls out, almost instinctively. 

There’s no reply, although she can hear someone eating crisps. Birgit’s son doesn’t talk to the staff.

E-D walks through the kitchen and into the bedroom. Birgit, a gaunt woman, lies fast asleep on her back, wearing a pair of glasses, her mouth open. E-D removes the glasses, switches off the TV and turns out the light.

That's it. Glasses, TV, Light.

E-D looks at the woman, wondering how long it would take to suffocate her with a pillow.

It wouldn’t be hard. Birgit would flap her arms at most, she could probably even break her neck through the cushion, considering how frail she is.

Before E-D's depression, she thought she could protest, fight the system, and make a change. Now grievances are met with a post-stoned apathy and morbid reveries, a way to mentally break the rules and fantasize about power.  Her mind wanders to the female serial killers she’s seen documentaries about. Many of them killed patients, so-called Angels of Deaths. E-D understands euthanasia. At least for some of the patients. When Death strikes, the suffering is over, the family can start to move on. Then again, she reminds herself, who’s got the right to make such a call? Who knows how much the comatose patient understands its existence. Whatever the case, there are others E-D would prefer to see dead before Birgit. 

Turning off lights and putting away reading glasses though, Birgit’s son could do instead of having care workers make a detour. If the son just checks on the mother, he could call them whenever she doesn’t need the care workers’ attendance. Then other patients wouldn’t have to wait in vain. 

E-D exits the bedroom and stops in the kitchen.

Hello? she calls out.

No answer, but the TV is still on. Another crunch of crisps.

Enough of this bullshit. What sort of royalty does he think he is anyway?

She walks straight in, pushes the curtains to the side.

Her eyes land on the table, a pair of ziplocked plastic baggies with powder in them. She looks up at Birgit’s son, back at the baggies, then back at him.

They stare at each other for a brief moment in mutual befuddlement. He's a man in his fifties, black hair with greying temples, wearing shorts and a t-shirt, one hand in a bag of crisps, ass parked on the couch, his feet tucked into Kermit the Frog-slippers on the table.

Can I help you? he asks angrily.

Yes. I-, I was wondering-

What? he snaps, as if offended.

Could you call us if your mother doesn’t need help?

What are you talking about? Of course, she needs help.

That’s not what I mean, I mean-

Have you checked on her now? he asks, his frustration mounting.

Yes but- E-D says, hesitating as his eyes go blacker.

-Then leave my damn house! he explodes and points at the door.

OK, bye, E-D says and bolts.

E-D locks the door on her way out and makes it back into the passenger seat.

What's the matter? Beata asks.

She doesn’t know what to say. E-D gives Beata a sort of look as if she’d done something wrong.

I just thought it would be better if he could call us. If he checks on his mother and turns off the light. We wouldn’t have to go up here.

Beata shakes her head. It’s worse! His girlfriend lives there too. Word has it they moved in with his mom to keep the house as long as possible. Waiting for prices go up before selling.

What a piece of shit, E-D says. A part of her wants to tell Beata about the drugs she saw on the table, but that would mean she was mooching around where she didn’t belong. Besides, she isn’t a snitch.

DURING THE MIDNIGHT break, staff members watch TV. Hopefully, patients won’t be pushing their buzzers any time soon. For E-D, this is the worst part of the job. She'd rather work than listen to her colleagues, especially those far past menopause. It starts with gossip about the boss, progresses to sleazy comments about the bicycle cops on channel 5, then the jokes about not getting any from their husbands, then it moves on to a story about an eventless vacation of being pampered by hotel staff and eating. It’s a life she finds pointless.

E-D retreats to the kitchen and sits down with her book. The cover reads Sociological approaches to Economic Institutions. It’s the most boring title she could find. Under the cover, she's got a book on serial killers. Right now, she can’t read anything though. Mr Stroganoff’s angry face has bored into her retina. She stares at the pages, realizing her pitiful place. She’s like a damn maid and this cokehead is just an aristocrat parasitizing on his mother. 

AT 3:05 E-D AND BEATA park in the outskirts of Landala. They split the chores between the two of them and decide to meet at the car. Most of E-D's patients sleep and don't need any tending, she finishes off earlier than Beata and waits by the car in the parking bay.

She wishes she could get high right now.

The cold October air is fresh from a light drizzle. A distant obscure abysmal noise makes her think of aeonic echoes of a distant planet somewhere.  In this silence, she can even hear the lamp posts vibrate. Their noise coalesce into a united hum creating a slow stretched-out inhuman harmony.

One day everyone here will die. Including this preposterous planet.

She lights a cigarette.

A branch cracks from behind, E-D turns around. A silhouette of a man emerges from the bushes behind the car. 

Hey it’s OK, he says gently holding up a palm, his other hand kept inside a dark puffy winter’s jacket.

E-D stiffens with apprehension. 

It’s OK, he repeats with a tone as if she were a small child.

As he draws closer his face gets clearer, revealing a hawk nose, a full thatch of hair, thick round glasses. He’s still got one hand inside the jacket.

Has anything happened?

It’s OK, he repeats, getting closer.

What do you want? she says, her voice cracking.

It’s OK, he repeats again, now directly under the lamppost closest to the car.  His eyes lock on hers. She’s seen those sorts of eyes before: meta-amphetamine; mephedrone;  mushrooms, focused but distant at the same time.

He moves slow enough for E-D to get stuck between two feelings at once: A raging sulfur and a paralyzing fear.

He pulls out a knife from his side pocket and brings a finger to his lips.

The sulfur travels from her lower back to the back of her skull, an electric current possessing her, but the fear keeps her feet heavy. 

She manages to take a few steps back, circling the car to reach the driver’s seat. She feels disconnected, as if the hatred controlled her, rendering her an observer of herself.

What’s going on? Beata calls from a distance.

He turns his head to the left and in that instant E-D push-kicks him in the groin. He falls down to his knees. Despite being down, he’s large in comparison to her.

Another kick in the head, unleashing her anger, again, and again, like a child attacking an adult. 

He grabs her leg and swings it to the side, she slips and falls, hitting the back her head.

He hobbles toward the hedges and ducks down through the bushes.

Beata is too confused and too heavy to run after him.

Come back you little shit! E-D shouts as she gets back on her feet.

E-D’s eyes are as dark as his were. Dilated, ready to devour.

You OK? Beata asks.

Fine, E-D says but her mind is elsewhere.

The phone rings. Another patient.

Yeah? E-D snaps, catching her breath.

I can hardly breathe, my chest.

A light static noise follows.

Vilma, are you there? E-D tries.

No answer.

E-D turns to Beata, She’s got chest pains.

Don’t worry, Beata says. She does that every night. She’s having a panic attack, it’s not far, we’ll have to go over there.

"Shouldn’t we