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Written by pipistro

February 18, 2015 at 12:13 am

Posted in Uncategorized

Tale of Charon

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His name was Charon. But outside his neighborhood everyone knew him as the filthy rat. Most of his neighbours thought he’d been a great soldier, slightly wacko, if you want, but inasmuch as he had dedicated his entire life to the compulsive thought of owning the land he had stolen (and he was fond of his role), he was known as a hero by his fellows in stealing. Women loved his macho look, and they used to put his photo on the fridge, since they didn’t know where else they could put it.

One day -they say- he retired. And he left for a long trip around the country, with the money he had earned by cutting enemy heads. Well, he was coming back from this trip and a few miles away to home, he suddenly stopped in a restaurant on the route. They say the place had been called “A helluva roast for the beast” since, for a few bucks, it was not only possible to taste the best roast of the country, but portions were known to be so abundant that they could have fed even a bunch of demons.

Our hero didn’t have the slightest idea of what was bound to happen. So, he took a seat, ate his meal, was poured plenty of wine, then he fell asleep. He woke up in the backyard, handcuffed, oiled, filled with tomato and stuff pushed into all his holes. Then, some strange people with horns made into the backyard to make his acquaintance.

Our hero was not so clever and at the sight of the horned people the smartest thing which came to his mind was to ask, “and the vegetables?” The waiters were all around him, they looked at each other, a kind of a smile on their face. One simply said – sorry, hon, you don’t understand, the vegetables were you. Now, it’s over.

Then, lights went definitely out. They say Charon is still there, in the backyard, some say that even the demons refused his bitter flesh. He stares at the wall in front of him, blank eyes, indefinitely. Seasons, and years, and centuries passing by without anybody’s shiver. Now and then, someone remembers to spit at his memory.

(All characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental… Sort of.)

Written by pipistro

February 2, 2015 at 5:39 pm

Posted in violence

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