The man and the dead girl The rain pattered unceasingly on the Dented roof of the car body, which offers me protection. Black angels cry cold tears from pitch, greasy strips extend over the windshield and the oily smell of dissolved ash passes through the air and mixes with the sour odor exuded single malts. For four hours I sit here, maybe a little longer. I have pledged my pocket last week, lived a little over my workload. my anger has brought the club, but what you live, you die for what? On the opposite side of the street bare-breasted angel calls forth from a bent neon tubes, the wings are broken and asynchronous blink in rhythm. Can make a man mad is as tired as I am.
I run again the bottle to my lips and realize that it is down to a spit rest empty. It lands in the foot area of passenger seat, then I have him back in my hand, the reason for my little catharsis. A shabby sheet is crumpled dozen times and almost a lifetime ago. With childlike crayon figures are available, one of which I am. I know because she told me, back then, almost a lifetime. Behind me, on paper, the angel with broken wings. I see again on the road, to be sure. A movement is repeated, for the thousandth time, but is a pitcher not so often to the well until it breaks? I hear crack my skull already, because the thoughts out, want to pour on the wet asphalt.
dry blood on the paper, is it not from me, it was then not yet. Is this her? I do not know, I just know that this scrawl, which I call an image was under the doormat of the convention. him the half-profile of a boot has introduced. Two days ago this is now. Martha was her name, we wanted to get married when we are great. Then the good uncle came from the Orient, has brought me out of the crapper, that was my birthplace. We've lost sight of, no longer thought of them, thirty Years not and now I'm here. I need a good drink. Ah yes, the bottle is empty. Glanders. I look again at the picture, fold it neatly on the steering wheel and move it into my coat pocket. Enough waiting, here I am just old and who wants that?
The brim of my Borsalino is coming under the rain, which ruined the fabric of my jacket. My face is turned up by the collar, are insufficiently protected, I taste the vinegar on my tongue. Then I'm inside, the door was unlocked. I look again at the castle, now that I am in the dry, I have the time. Someone has broken out there, just not clean. Claw marks extend over the timber, four bright flashes, break through the finish. I have seen such a thing before, bad memories. Since I am, in the ruins of a dance club. Is certainly high time ago gone, before the recession came. Tinsel curtains behind a glittery stage with chrome bar here and there, passes through the rain, forming greasy puddles on the cement of the floor. Annoys me with his Getropfe.
I summarize for me, just make sure to tell me that I had actually lost his mind. I was playing to an image Kindergekritzel from my past. A sense answers, deep in my bowels, much as too much greasy food, and causes nausea. Guilty conscience? I've chosen it to me, that glass will break when I'm upset and animals go crazy when I have a headache? If I had had the choice, I had not left alone.
Now I'm here, I've let out of my nausea and scribble little finger stump. Martha say something! Is it open enough with me? My brothers have warned me it would eventually go out with me quite ill. Fuck that, wait for the dark padded cell has yet to me, so enough food and if I have to resign, then I end up not sure eingepisst while I breathe filtered air.
I hear a clicking sound, then a creak. I know this sounds very good. Steps. I take my lead syringe, in her sleep six little friends, my private army. My eyes flit around in the ballroom. A police drone hovering over outside, from somewhere the white glow of a searchlight that penetrates into and tear shed is reflected in the decorative mirror ball. Hundreds of small shards of light. Then I see it. I always thought the time had dealt ugly to me. 'm Not ready to drop the sentence, but they blew it worse. Dirty emaciated, dressed in a shroud of night shirt. She moved shyly, her feet barely lifting from the hesitant Steps. Above all, it seems to me just like back then. Klein, lank, black hair, flat as a board.
Martha, girl, are you there?
not I lower the gun that had been through too much shit. I accept the blood on her skirts, on their skin. It stinks pathetic, the smell of worm-eaten meat penetrates up to me. She stops, this is the moment when they recognize me, I feel it, because I feel sick. She speaks my name and I want to puke. 'll Still hear a while again before I wake up drenched in sweat, the buzzing and gurgling, the sour syllables that appeal to me. Martha, girl, what happened to you? You Schlurf closer, occurs a little further into the dusty light that comes from who knows where and I can not make me 'n rhyme it. Is not the first dead thing in the vertical, I see. The blood on her nightgown, it's not her, plain as day.
I can think of the Kindergekritzel again. For me it 's her life, for them it must have been just yesterday or so. I need a drink, what strong. This makes the bottle in my car again not too full. I slowly lowered the muzzle of the revolver in their direction. Why now? I ask directly into her bloated face and sounded like a fool. She answers do not just grin and what a smile, wide and dangerous. A shot thundered through the small room, and resounds off the walls. At the front of the flue run of my revolver, I realize that I am the shooter. Hell, when did that happen? Martha faints. Can an already upset the balance that is missing half her face and you can push a fist through the hole in the skull. But it will not lie. Slowly try to straighten up the thin bones of her body, like an ugly puppet on verzwirbelten threads. It bubbles my name. This time I feel like I footprints, once and another time to be sure.
shit Girl I'm not wanted. But is better that way, because I do not even know what it is, it stinks here so beastly after death. Do not want to see how many bodies stacked in the back room and dance the slow worm polka.
I push my shooting iron away again, still not'm smarter now that I look at her tattered body. Damn little blood for this damn big holes. Maybe it's true after all, they remember that sometimes, even if they are dead. Have you looking for me all these years, my little Martha? The search is over, you found me. Goodbye. I have to go urgently, because I have no desire to cry or throw up and at the moment to me for both. The image comes into my worn wallet. I will not forget you, little one.
It is still raining when I step out the door, nor even stronger than before. What a stupid three-legged stalks past me. I can not bear to be automated Werbegesabbel not, I would prefer to pump the remaining stalwart soldiers in my bag in his metal body. Fortunately for him, I'm a reasonable man and stick to the laws, if possible.
My car greets me with a bored voice, he knows the path that lies before him, exactly. Such a shit that they have not brought in the things have to drive themselves there. While the generator is running hot under the hood, I see once again over to the store. For a moment, I mean, to see Martha. Her pale face, with gaps filled children's laughter and waves at me, just as it was thirty years ago.
Now you've 'made n grown man cry, I hope you're proud of you. I step on the gas. The image I keep, but here I'm never back again.
Yes I know I'm a little late, so in order to sell more than just news, but can it still be easy on top of the page! We are talking about the 
paid at the fair 
Illustre meeting of the bohemian refuge of those seeking enlightenment, as forgetting and refuge for shady mob. The Green House is a port of all these stray from the autumn temporal world individuals have the advice of the green Fee Search. 
As promised, here is the first issue of thujone. Occurring in the description values are adjusted to the current control system, so it pays to look into it for those who do not have to fly around the first edition of 2006. 
