I've accepted the old man should teach me as the only solution to becoming a champion, but it is hard to swallow it. He is very old, but mischievous, so whenever I try to learn something from him, he kicks me to the ground. He tricks me again and again and again. I am frustrated, but I am trying to keep my cool. I am strong. If I were to really fight him, he might be smart, but every attack would break bone and then what good would he be? Just a bag of meat and broken shards. I close my eyes, I breath, I tell myself it is worth it.

  The old man apologizes and offers me a hand, I take it, only to be kicked in the ass and thrown into a jumble of debris. I lose my temper and stomp away. He doesn't understand. Getting angry at him is pointless, hurting him futile. I have nothing to learn from him. I walk through the old grounds of my conquests, now just the walled in and decrepit underground of the large arena above. I feel a presence behind me and I see the old man is following me, eyes to the ground. Contrition? Surely another of his tricks. "Begone!" I roar at him, but he goes to his knees and kowtows in front of me, his hands touching my feet. I feel tears swelling up in my eyes. He might as well be a little boy asking for forgiveness. Just who is the teacher and who is the student? Who is the adult here?

  "How did you get to a hundred years or whatever behaving like a little kid?! You are a child!" I shout at him in admonishment. I look around and ghosts of my past awaken my anguish. I feel my face contort into a painful grin as my tears flow freely. "Every week I was coming here to murder people!", I rage, my voice barely my own, a booming, low, animal growl, my expression that of an enraptured madman, for sure. "I would stake my life every time and I would leave, alive, every time!". The images of old fights flash before my wet blurred vision and I imagine that some of the painted white walls might contain some of the scrolls of the ancient arts, built over by a world that doesn't get it anymore. "I loved it!", I say, walking in the dead halls, every step a pulse of power overlaying glorious past over grey reality. My body is shaking with now uncontrollable weeping. "I killed so many people and I miss it... so.... very... MUCH!".

  Does he get it now, I ask myself? Has he even an inkling of the power he needs to teach me to control? I burst through the door to the surface and climb the stairs that get me to the arena above. The seats are packed with oblivious spectators, all watching some performance I don't even care to notice. I breathe in the fresh air and feel better. Ready to come to a final understanding with the old man, if he is capable of it ,I turn around. There is little time and we should not fight each other. But the old man is gone.

   I strain my eyes into the darkness of the stairs and I feel it, The Beast, the adversary I need to fight is there. He's got the old man and, even if I cannot see it, I know it is there, all cunning, fury and power. My body roars by itself, a predator sound, strong and fearless, no sound a man should ever be able to make. The arena spectators panic in surprised horror, but I ignore them. I jump into the darkness with animal strength. I will fight this beast, I will meet it head on, I will be the most savage, alone I will remain alive.

So I am having this dream. Or I am so having a dream? Anyway, weird fucking dream, like Coscarelli meets Happy! via those explaining videos where someone talks very fast while drawing what is going on while an obnoxiously and totally unnecessary music plays joyfully in the background. Although that was mostly a way to graphically depict my inner thoughts... in the dream... so that I could understand what I was thinking. The dream concerned altered states of mind, biology, physics, logic, anything really.

Everything was altered, but also very real. It was all real. One moment I am doing something horrible, like killing innocent bystanders by throwing them from a tall place onto other people that were trying to make me stop killing people or pushing terrified (and annoying) kindergarten kids out of my way, my wife in tow, enjoying every second, the other I am home, waiting for the cops to show up, amazed that I got away, only for someone to force very strong psychiatric meds down my throat and make me realize that it was all a fantasy of someone who isn't even who I thought I was. Then I wake up and I am a terrible (and amusing) force of evil trying to understand both who I am and why do the people that force feed me medicine look like my parents, while they clearly are not. I terrify them and so I can tell them what to do, maybe they won't discover I am as terrified of not knowing what the hell is going on. But I will be having fun, as a God given right.

And then it switches again, with a good friend arranging the trip that will take us out of the country, on a touristic toury tour that me and the wife will use to escape the authorities that no doubt are looking for us right now because we killed all those people in probably the very tour we are organizing because they were standing in our way and we were bored. And in the dream I realize that every such permutation of reality is part of the dream, but also very real. I could stop at any moment and that would be reality for a while. So I switch again, I escape, barely conscious of where or who I am, I jump some stairs, a dog is chasing me, but I know he knows me and wants to play, I get out of the building, pretend to be a PTSD affected veteran to get clothes and stuff, including guns, until someone asks me where I served. So I just have to take out the guns and commandeer a vehicle. The fact that the people in the car are sexy women who can't help feeling terrified and also strangely excited by this display of violence is surely coincidence. And then cops show up and the girls run away. I shoot after them until the bullets run out, while the cops are weirdly apathetic, standing next to me on the hood of their car. "Are you done?" they ask, and I sigh and acknowledge and give up, allowing to be handcuffed and thrown into a car that doesn't seem to be a police car. And a woman is there, old, crow feet eyes, one of those people who can laugh at anything, you know, smoking nonchalantly.

I realize it is all part of the great machine that revolves reality, like one of those game machines that gives you a prize on TV when they rotate it, only it seems the real good prizes are never chosen. And I know now what this is and I look into her eyes and I know that she knows I know, but maybe she could stop smoking, since it irritates me, and she laughs. Told you she could laugh at anything. I am proud of not panicking, of taking it all in and being cool with it, I can see the old woman nodding appreciatively, too. "So what now?", I ask, but I already know the answer.

It is clear to me that anything could happen, and it does happen, the whole world dies and I get that fast talking graphic that explains why everything alive is not alive anymore except one thing, me. And it doesn't make any sense at all other than what if it could happen and if it could happen why wouldn't it and I am it, the thing that can breathe what nothing else can and still draw fancy pictures of what happened while explaining itself how it survived. But then surely I could animate one of the dead, just for fun, so it can be irritated (as I was) at how fast I am talking when depicting my inner monologue. And I try variations on the same theme, all wonderful and terrifying and apparently dangerous, only that I can change them even after something bad happened to me, so they're not. I especially enjoy the ones where I am enjoying what I am doing, even if it doesn't seem like something anyone would enjoy. I congratulate myself for choosing a reality I enjoy what I am doing so much that I need to congratulate myself about it.

I am trying to describe the experience as accurately as possible while fully knowing that the memory of it is fading and that even if I would still be part of it I couldn't express it fully. It stank of multidimensionality, it purposely lacked any purpose, anything at all was possible and it was, overlapping and existing at the same time and space. It had a soundtrack, and even if I knew, for example, that Come Together was taken directly from my recent viewing of Justice League, I also knew that it had a completely different meaning in this context, except maybe for the YouTube bots who would flag my whole life as copyrighted. There was no moral to it, no catharsis, no epiphany. It refused definition and I relished it. It was the polar opposite of a spiritual experience: no hope, but infinite potential, no lessons to be learned, but filled to the brim with experience, no gods other than myself.

I could have been anyone, anything, everything, but I chose the reality where I would wake up, recognize the room, the laptop, and blog about it. Maybe only then see life extinguished, just for the kicks of knowing that everything I spent horrible confused lonely moments (while aware of the singleminded and boring nature of this chosen reality) typing was pointless, no one would read it, even attempt to understand it and fail miserably, because the Internet would still work for a bit, but everybody would be dead. Fortunately it was all a dream, and you will read and fail to understand this post, not even the least bit grateful for being all alive and shit and not the punchline to a joke that I alone (pardon the pun) would find funny.

I was in some sort of American campus, one of those where they found a gimmick to show how cool they are. In this case it was reptiles. Alligators were moving on the side of the street, right next to people. They would hiss or even try to bite if you got close enough. I was moving towards the exit, which was close to the sea and leading into a sort of beach, and I was wondering what would happen if one of these large three meter animals would bite someone. And suddenly something happened. Something large, much larger than a crocodile, came out of the water and snapped a fully grown adult alligator like a stork snatches frogs. What was that thing? A family of three was watching, fascinated, moving closer to see what was going on. "Are these people stupid?" I thought.

Sure enough, the dinosaur thing bites through the little kid. The father jumps to help but is completely ignored, his sudden pain and anguish irrelevant to the chomping reptile. Other tourists were being attacked. One in particular drew my eyes: he had one of the things pulling with its teeth on his backpack. The man acted like something annoyed him, making repeated "Ugh!" sounds while trying to climb back on the walkway. His demeanor indicated that he didn't care at all of the reptiles, temporary annoyances that stopped him from returning to normal life. At one moment he paused to scratch an itch on his face. His fingers were bitten clean off, blood gurgling from the stumps. He was in shock.

Somehow, a famous actor jumped from somewhere and made it clear that it had been just a show, although the realism of it was so extreme that I felt an immediate cognitive dissonance and the scene switched.

I was at the villa of a very rich friend and there was wind outside. Really strong wind. Nearby wooden booths that were at the edge of his garden were pushed towards me, threatening to crush me against the wall of the building. I went inside, telling my friend that he should take whatever he needs from outside because the wind is going to tear them away. He calmly pressed a button on a remote and an inflatable wall grew around the compound, holding the wind at bay. Cool trick, I thought, trying to figure out if it was firmly anchored to the ground by wires or it got all its structural strength from the material it was made of. It had to have some sort of Kevlar-like component, otherwise it would have been easy to puncture. I calculated the cost of such a feature as astronomical.

We went in, climbing to the second or third floor. Out the window I saw buildings, like near the center of Bucharest. The wind was wreaking havoc on whatever was not firmly fixed. The building across the street was 10 floors tall and apparently someone was doing roofing work when the wind started. The fire used to heat up the tar was now really intense from all the fresh oxygen and smoke was billowing strongly. Suddenly the top floor caught fire, flames stoked by the wind into unstoppable blazes. I called my friend to the window and showed him what was going on. While we watched, floor after floor were engulfed in flames, explosions starting to be heard from within. The building caught fire like a cigarette smoked in haste. I thought that if the wind went through the building, via broken windows and walls, then the a very high temperature could be reached. And as I was thinking that, the building went down. It didn't collapse, instead it leaned towards our villa and crashed right next to it.

I panicked. I knew that on 9/11 the towers collapsed because of the intense heat, but a nearby building was structurally weakened by the towers falling and it too went down eventually. I ran towards the ground floor, jumping over stairs. If the villa would crumble, I did not want to get stuck inside. While fleeing, I was considering my options. The building that went down had people in it, maybe I should head right there and help people get out. Then I also remembered the thousands of people helping after the September 11 that later got lung cancer from all the toxic stuff they put into buildings. Besides, what do I know about rescuing people from rubble? I would probably walk on their heads and crash more stuff on top of the survivors. I've decided against it, feeling like an awful human being that is smart enough to rationalize anything.

As I got down I noticed too things. First there was a large suffocating quantity of white big grained dust being blown by the wind, making it hard to breath. The light was filtered through this dust, giving it a surreal dusky quality. I used my shirt to create a makeshift breathing mask for the dust. Then there were the people. A sexy young woman, short skirt, skimpy blouse, long hair, the type that you see prowling the city centers, was now crawling on the ground, left leg sectioned just under the knee, but not bleeding, instead ending with a carbonized stump, like a lighted match that you put off before it disintegrated. I saw people with their skins completely burned off, moving slowly through the rubble, reaching for me. Some where nothing more than bloodied skeletons, some were partially covered in tar, the contrast of red inflamed burns and black tar or burned clothing evoking demonic visions of hell. These people were crying in pain and coming towards me from all sides, climbing over the ruins of buildings and cars. The smell was awful. I ran, parkour style.

As I woke up I tried to remember as much of the dream as possible. I still have no idea what I was doing in that campus and how I had gotten there. I was fascinated by the scene with the shocked tourist, as it implies knowledge of human behavior that I don't normally possess when awake. It was completely believable, yet at the same time bizarre and unexpected. Great scene! I've had disaster dreams before, top quality special effects and all, but never was I confronted with the reality of the aftermath (I usually died myself in those). I am certain I made logical decisions in the situation, but at the same time I felt ashamed at the powerlessness, fear and the fact that I was running away. Should I have stayed and helped (and gotten cancer)? Should I have rushed home and blogged about it? Maybe a strategic retreat in which I would have conferred with experts and then maybe got back with professional reinforcements?

What felt new was that while having all those random thoughts and running, I wasn't really thinking of my life. I wasn't considering whether my life is worth saving or what the purpose of my running actually is. It wasn't thinking at all; just running. It was visceral, like my body was on autopilot, taking that stupid head away from the danger before he thinks itself to death. Considering it was a virtual body in my actual head, that's saying something. I am not just sure what.

Anyway, beats the crap out of the one with being late for the exam, not having studied anything...

We are three in the room, all dressed casually, but I know them for what they are: angels. And they are here to kill me. I fire bullet after bullet, but they hit in weird places in the room, as if I am not even aiming straight. I spit at the first one, defiance my only weapon. The spit ball goes sideways, at a 60 degree angle from my target. Illusion! I aim the gun 60 degrees in the other direction and fire three bullets. The angel falls down.

My gun is pulled from my hand by invisible forces and the second assassin is upon me. He tries to kill me, but he can't. I've taken precautions. Pig meat during this holy day makes me unclean and angels can only kill pure creatures. The angel snarls "You thought pork would save you?" A ball of pure light grows from his open right hand. Unfortunately for me, angels can also purify one by touch alone. I am powerless in his hands. I know I am going to die. As the energy touches my temple I feel the excruciatingly painful ecstasy of purification. In that fraction of a blink of an eye, I feel I can be anybody, do anything. I choose to have telekinesis and get my gun back. I shoot the angel full of holes.

"Who the hell are you?", the dying angel murmurs. "I am Jesus of Nazareth", I reply. He scoffs "That place doesn't even exist!". "Not yet", I grin as he breathes his last.

At first, I thought it was a coincidence, but it turns out it was all deliberate. This dog would come out from the park and then shit on the sidewalk. And not any kind of poop, but that smelly, sticky, yellow crap that only dogs seem able to manufacture. Then the dog would go back into the park, just far enough so that its presence would not be obvious, and it would watch. People would eventually step in the shit, all reacting to it in different ways. The ears of the dog would jump straight up, its eyes focused on the target, absorbing everything that happened.
He did that for three days in a row, so it couldn't have been a coincidence. However, when faced with the facts, they didn't seem so strange to me. Actually it makes perfect sense for predators to ambush their prey and learn from its behavior as much as possible. I admit, for a dog it was a pretty sick and smart thing to do, but it was all within reason. After all, I was doing the same thing, staking the man up, watching his every move, learning his habits.

I can remember the days when this filled me with excitement, the thrill of the hunt reverberating from some place deep inside my skull, but now I could only feel calm. Not boredom, though; boredom is dangerous, makes people sloppy, gets them hurt. I was missing a certain element, something that, in the past, made all this fun, but I couldn't quite find it now. That's why this was the last one. And only because it was necessary.

The guy showed up at exactly the time I was expecting him to do. Small time thug, acting cool while pretending to be larger than he was capable of ever being. I let him go up to his apartment, slightly amused at the concentrated look-around that he pretended to throw before entering the building. If he wouldn't have been pretending, he would have been able to notice me, watching him from a car for three days in a row. A different car, I admit, but who would be dumb enough to do it differently? Maybe the cops... and the guy was looking out for police presence, I guess. Unfortunately for him, I was no policeman.

I gave him 5 minutes to change his mind. Maybe he would feel the wrongness of the situation, maybe luck would be with him and make him leave for some reason. Maybe he would just grab a beer and drop in his big armchair, watching mind numbing TV shows, as I knew he would. Yet, I always like to allow for the unknown, for the unexplainable, makes it seem more real. Although, when doing this thing for a long time, one sees all kinds of shit and knows almost every way people react when stepping in it. I got out of my car.


I smashed the door lock with my foot and entered the room. Dirty, sloppy, typical bachelor room with a twinge of gangsta. What a dump! My guy froze for a second on his armchair, then, to my surprise, moved really fast and produced a revolver from underneath the small table next to him. He pointed it at me and shouted something along the lines of inquiring on my identity. Of course, a lot of "fuck" and "mudafucka" was involved, although that sounded a bit off coming from an oversized white guy.

I froze for a moment, too. A gun, who would have thought? I closed the door behind me, then turned to him and started telling him what had to be said. I did have three days to think it over in my head, after all.

"There is a saying", I calmly conversed, completely ignoring the vulgar threats coming from my target, " that every boy kills his father to become a man. Of course, it's a metaphor most of the time".

I waited for a reaction, watching how the feeling of control provided by the gun was slightly fading away. He decided to enforce it by standing up and aiming the gun at me from somewhere above his head, throwing profanities at me while doing so. Doesn't he know he can hurt his wrist by firing that way? Not to mention having almost no accuracy whatsoever.

"In other words, no man is complete without killing his father first, metaphorically speaking of course". It was almost hilarious; for a second, the guy thought I was talking about him and me. I could see on his face how he considered being my father or vice-versa. Well, at least not all of this will have been devoid of fun.

"Shut da fuck up, mudafucka! Who da fuck are you anyway? You escaped from some loony ... mental... "

I ignored him "However, it was you that actually killed my father. I therefore seem to be entitled to feel... incomplete.".
I could see the reaction right away. Killing one's father was a serious thing even for a brain dead thug. He knew he was in danger now, maybe he even felt guilty, even if he had no idea who my father was. He did take a step back and aimed the gun with both hands at me. Now, that was better. I could tell he was considering squeezing the trigger right then, but people are always too curious for their own good. He had to know how it plays out.

"I have decided to pursue my quest for completeness by killing you.", I then added, gently pushing him over the edge with a hard look. He fired.


There is something slightly poetic in having your own gun explode in your hands, killing you instantly with a stray piece of metal through the eye and brain. Of course, the cement in the barrel and the well planned weakening of the metal of the revolver cock would be obvious during the police investigation, but it would also be clear that the gun was unregistered and that the victim pulled the trigger voluntarily.

I didn't quite feel complete, though. He hadn't kill my father, either, so I guess it was to be expected, but I was sure he did kill someone's parent at some point in time, so I also expected a bit more gratification.

After all, it was a good call to stop doing this. No fun at all. Well, maybe not a complete stop, more like a sabbatical, to clear one's thoughts. I may never do it again.

It was going to be an easy job. Get in, do something, get out. It wasn't much, the reasons for doing it were rather more intellectual than financial. I was making a point, kind of like Robin Hood. But she was there. The thing was done, she could see it. She wasn't in a position to stop me. She looked at me, sized me up, found me lacking. Something was terribly ugly on her face when she howled and threw herself at me, shouting all the time. It was like I have offended her on a personal level, like she wouldn't take defeat, one that was obvious at the time we've met.

So I did it. In fear, panic more likely, with all my power, I stabbed her with the screwdriver I've used to get in. I did it once, twice, three times. I didn't believe that it was so easy to stick something that long in a human being so easily, through clothes, skin, meat... She looked at me, with annoyed surprize, my screwdriver dripping blood, her official looking shirt dirtied by three horrible red dots, she looked at me for the longest of moments, her face showing angry disaproval, hateful disgust.

Then she attacked again, with renewed force, in silence, which actually made her even scarier, like a demon from hell. Her face contorted by unmistakeable hate, she pushed me with all her strength, trying to claw at my eyes. All I could do is let me be pushed, holding her arms, trying to defend myself, until I reached a stair rail with my back. We couldn't go any further and starting from a mischievous thing, the simplest of things, I was fighting for my life with a witch which I've just stabbed, but didn't die. So I tried to throw her down the stair case, three floors down, which I am sure would have killed her.

But she clang to me, she knew she would fall, but instead of thinking of saving her life, she pulled at me, trying to make me fall with her. She wanted me hurt, dead, she wanted to avenge something terribly ugly from her own life, which, I am sure now, had nothing to do with me personally. She was scarred, long before I got there, with my bloody Johnson screwdriver. But right then, the only thing I could think about was I was going to die. But I didn't. Somehow I landed safely on a stair underneath, while the hag took the plunge.

She didn't die, though. Clinging to me has slowed her fall, so now she was sprawled on the floor downstairs, mumbling something, her legs in an awkard position. I went to her, partly because I wanted to get out, and I had to use the stairs, partly because I wanted to see her, to see what I have done, my brain in shock, yet sickly curios about the bloody mess I have caused.

She was clearly dying, her face wasn't wrinkled in hate anymore, she looked... peaceful. But she was alive and she looked at me with something resembling love or something similar. All her scars were gone in that moment and her thoughts, or what had remained of them after hitting the floor with her head, weren't evil anymore. There was no anger on her face and that made her look, well, beautiful. She was about 50, maybe more, but she looked like someone good at heart, like an innocent child.

So I did the only thing I could have. I kneeled next to her, I took her head in my hands, conforted her for a moment, telling her it will not hurt for long, then I snapped her neck. It isn't so easy as in the movies, I had to try several times, making this more of a mess than it already was. When I heard the snap, like in a chicken's neck, I turned her head in the other way, just to make sure that she was dead, not paralysed or feeling pain in any way.

Of course, That wouldn't have made it all better, I have done all of that, and I knew it, and my soul was crying and a huge depression engulfed me, like I had killed a part of me. And I also knew that no one would have waited for her home. She was this spiteful angry hateful person that no one liked, that stayed at the work place during the night because there was nothing waiting for her outside. I was sure that the members of her family would feel partly relieved that she was dead. And the only person that saw her beautiful, the only person that saw, even for the briefest moments, beyond that wall of negative emotions, was the man that had killed her.

At the time, struggling with all my strength to break that woman's neck, I had wished that I was more efficient in stabbing her, less panicked, maybe sticking her in the heart, killing her instantly, but now I know I was meant to see that beautiful face, that it couldn't go any other way, that I was meant to see that face looking at me, with an innocent sadness, for the rest of my life.