Nu am mai postat demult literatura, asa ca postez azi prima jumatate a unei schite Kafkaniene pe care am scris-o de curand. Enjoy. Leave a comment maybe.
You hate it when these things happen. You do! You don’t hate what happens, you hate that it happens. These little things which spoil your little plans. You are a decent man. Yes sir, you are. You are not violent, you are not vulgar, you do your job right, you have your hobbies. You don’t have vices. Sure, you drink now and then, and you smoke occasionally, when you are stressed, but you don’t feel the need to do it constantly. You don’t gamble, you don’t do whores. You don’t cheat, you don’t seek to gain advantages on the backs of your fellow men. You call your mother every week-end, and you want children one day. You’re the kind of man any man ought to be. Your only little tweak is your little plans, and it fucks you up, when shit like this happens and fucks up your plans.
Your little plans you live every moment of your life by. You wake up every day at seven (except week-ends and holidays when you wake up at eight), by seven thirty you had your breakfast, then you take a shower, you brush your teeth, you shave, in that order. You are not obsessive-compulsive, you don’t count the number of the strokes of your blade, but that’s the most effective order of doing things. You go to work, you finish 9 hours later, one hour over the program to prepare everything for the next day, you go to the train station and you take the same train every evening. You walk home, and you use the shortcut through the abandoned factory complex. The little shortcut which you found, all by yourself, and of which you are so fucking proud of. The other fucking idiots have to walk half a fucking mile around the complex, or take a cab. And they are fucking idiots compared to you, are they not?
And this is what fucks you up tonight. Because tonight you’re the fucking idiot. Because tonight the gate at the end of your fucking little short-cut is fucking locked, and there is no fucking way you could fucking get by it. So you have to turn back, and walk around, and you’re angry. Not because you have to walk all that way, but because your plan backfired, it did not work out as you had it in your head. No. And that’s why you forget about your civil ways and explode into bursts of cursing, yes, motherfucking, shitting, fucking, sucking cursing; with more cunts and dicks and arses and whores and sons of bitches than even a sailor could bare hearing.
But it does not stop here does it? No. Trouble seldom comes alone, and a plan backfires, it does it all they way. As you walk back, you see it, but you refuse to believe it. So you walk up close, and still you refuse at first to believe it, but in vain. The gate you came in is also locked. In the short period you walked to the other end of the complex, somebody locked this gate as well and there’s a fucking thick chain with a fucking big lock on the gate, and there is now way you could fucking jump it, not even fucking Houdini could fucking get out of this one.
So what now mister genius? Think. Somebody locked the gate from the inside, so somebody must be in the complex.
You start exploring the twisted labyrinth. You are uneasy. Last time you did this, when you found the shortcut, it was daylight, now it’s almost dark. But there must be someone, both gates were locked on the inside. Or there is another exit, which would suite you even better. Your anger persists, but your worries start overwhelming it. The silence of the complex is unnatural.