Fourth Day of the Week (04/01/2007)
Thursday.
On Thursdays we all die a little bit inside.
The coffee was stale. Here, the coffee was always stale. Maybe that's why he chose this cafe over all others in town. The uncharacteristic neo-plastic design, an even yet more uncharacteristic front wall made entirely out of plexiglass (or whateverglass that had the nowadays popular combination of being both fashionable and strong enough to stop a bullet at point-blank), and terrible, terrible coffee. Every Thursday he'd come here, sit at his table, drink the tongue-numbing liquid, and type away on his worn Dell laptop, mostly about how much he hated Thursdays. Sometimes he'd write about the local women, sometimes about his coffee, sometimes he'd flesh out a short story or two. But no work. Work started in the afternoon, and at 7 AM every other damned day of the week.
The Journalist took another sip from what might could have as well been cat piss chemically dyed a surrealistic shade of black, and opened his laptop.
"Ding-ding-ding," cheered his OS as it booted up.
It didn't know it was Thursday yet.
Sigurd the Volsung lounges at his opponent, crushing his two-handed longsword against Fafnir's shield. Strike after strike, until the shield is reduced to but a frame of metal with shreds of wood hanging from it like torn cloth. Fafnir jumps back and throws his shield aside. Now it's steel against steel, Sigurd's sword and Fafnir's axe. This is not a fight of grace. There's no fluidity, no dance in the combatant's moves. Anger. Sweat. The desire for murder. Sparks fly everywhere, Sigurd manages to break through Fafnir's defenses, and is immediately pushed back, and then again. This goes on for minutes, but for these two, these minutes are the longest minutes in their lives. Finally, one of them makes a mistake. Fafnir makes an awkward step, and the longsword chops away his weapon holding hand. He doesn't scream. Instead, he bites on his lips until he draws blood and tries to punch Sigurd in the face. He evades Sigurd's strike, and connects his fist with his enemy's temple. There's the noise of crunching bones. And then, the longsword cuts through Fafnir's skin. He can do nothing but stand there impaled on the sword, paralyzed, watching as his killer pulls out the weapon out of his body and takes off his head. His head falls. He sees his decapitated body fall to its side beside him. And only then does Odin grant him death.
Save document.
The Journalist smirked. There was lots of room for improvement, but it'd have to do for now. He closed his laptop, threw some money on the table, and left. Standing before the coffeshop he so much loved to hate, he produced a cigarette out of his jacket pocket, stuck it in his mouth, but before he could light up, an explosion threw him three feet in the air, the cafe disintegrated into fire and smoke and rubble. Deaf to everything but the high-pitched buzzing noise in his ears, The Journalist climbed out from a pile of debris and plexiglass, covered in dirt, clothes torn, but alive. Again, alive. He produced another cigarette. Lit it. It was Thursday.
Good morning Baghdad.
Thursday.
On Thursdays we all die a little bit inside.
The coffee was stale. Here, the coffee was always stale. Maybe that's why he chose this cafe over all others in town. The uncharacteristic neo-plastic design, an even yet more uncharacteristic front wall made entirely out of plexiglass (or whateverglass that had the nowadays popular combination of being both fashionable and strong enough to stop a bullet at point-blank), and terrible, terrible coffee. Every Thursday he'd come here, sit at his table, drink the tongue-numbing liquid, and type away on his worn Dell laptop, mostly about how much he hated Thursdays. Sometimes he'd write about the local women, sometimes about his coffee, sometimes he'd flesh out a short story or two. But no work. Work started in the afternoon, and at 7 AM every other damned day of the week.
The Journalist took another sip from what might could have as well been cat piss chemically dyed a surrealistic shade of black, and opened his laptop.
"Ding-ding-ding," cheered his OS as it booted up.
It didn't know it was Thursday yet.
Sigurd the Volsung lounges at his opponent, crushing his two-handed longsword against Fafnir's shield. Strike after strike, until the shield is reduced to but a frame of metal with shreds of wood hanging from it like torn cloth. Fafnir jumps back and throws his shield aside. Now it's steel against steel, Sigurd's sword and Fafnir's axe. This is not a fight of grace. There's no fluidity, no dance in the combatant's moves. Anger. Sweat. The desire for murder. Sparks fly everywhere, Sigurd manages to break through Fafnir's defenses, and is immediately pushed back, and then again. This goes on for minutes, but for these two, these minutes are the longest minutes in their lives. Finally, one of them makes a mistake. Fafnir makes an awkward step, and the longsword chops away his weapon holding hand. He doesn't scream. Instead, he bites on his lips until he draws blood and tries to punch Sigurd in the face. He evades Sigurd's strike, and connects his fist with his enemy's temple. There's the noise of crunching bones. And then, the longsword cuts through Fafnir's skin. He can do nothing but stand there impaled on the sword, paralyzed, watching as his killer pulls out the weapon out of his body and takes off his head. His head falls. He sees his decapitated body fall to its side beside him. And only then does Odin grant him death.
Save document.
The Journalist smirked. There was lots of room for improvement, but it'd have to do for now. He closed his laptop, threw some money on the table, and left. Standing before the coffeshop he so much loved to hate, he produced a cigarette out of his jacket pocket, stuck it in his mouth, but before he could light up, an explosion threw him three feet in the air, the cafe disintegrated into fire and smoke and rubble. Deaf to everything but the high-pitched buzzing noise in his ears, The Journalist climbed out from a pile of debris and plexiglass, covered in dirt, clothes torn, but alive. Again, alive. He produced another cigarette. Lit it. It was Thursday.
Good morning Baghdad.
幻術
I am curious why the Journalist is referred to as a name rather than a description.