BEST TAKEN ON EMPTY STOMACH, AND NEVER TOO SOON





The cloud layer sits so low and murky, it's somehow sexual.



a lucky poetic observation

literally moments before the

opium

castrates me.

in

optimum working condition

again.

Hurtproof.

everything retracts abbreviated and

simple.

as is.

it's about to rain.

i know the smell.

YOU THINK YOU KNOW ME?

YOU'RE PROBABLY RIGHT.



took some 10 years

to realize

that my life is a case of

irreversible

dyskinesia.



as the Pig Feeder said:

" Act To Your Condition, Boy!"



hopelessly useless

Wisdom;

unachievable Than,

and utterly worthless Now.*



What else could i do

hermit?

THERE IS SOMETHING HOPELESSLY ROMANTIC ABOUT SOCIAL REVOLUTION.....

one part gasoline

six parts polystyrene



this ain't no fucking farm.



eventually

we will evolve



however, any given individual

can only take as

much.



this ain't no fucking farm.

SOON ENOUGH, CULTIVATING A SPECIFIC STRAIN OF HUMOR BECOMES THE ONLY THING THAT RENDERS PLASMA LEVELS SUCH AS THESE- BEARABLE


waking up waterboarded.


The Old familiar feeling.

you are here,

so,

i must have never left.

MOR alarm
pillows drenched in histamine.



surreal paranoia

faces of disturbingly preraphaelite quality....
everything slightly out of sync.
the sight of Your mouth articulating sounds
sends me shivering into terminal stages of
motion sickness.



fuck...

whatever went wrong,

has Arrived.

ridiculously steep learning curve
the prospect of physical violence
and
damage.

Hello to you too.



the ordinary hell

of every days purgatory,



against Better judgement,

i keep moving the air around

all Meaningful like.

N02A kin

is coming back around again.

boot up
calm down.
the Irony of this situation is completely
lost.

Accusations press hard against

the Teeth

down

the foul

watery

Sweat.



today's Abortion shrieks into the morning Stillness

with the Voice of a dozen Stomach Cramps.



The Old familiar feeling.



Home away from Home.

μ DOS

a personal moment now ...
all the mirror shards between my toes...
delusions.

I can't make out what the fuck I am.

am.

there is a horrible conclusion ahead

I wish I wasn't laughing
at all the wrong times.
At all the right things.

......

Fucking Chechnya and fucking Chechens and fucking war... My nose is running already and the shivers are building. Come ON already! You fuck! Come on already; it's dark, the gear is in check as are we. come ON!.
Finally! We move out.
As soon as possible i find a decent cover, a shallow hole in the ground, between roots of some tree. By the size of those roots it must be huge, but i can't see it that well in the darkness yet. Night vision on. Others have deployed east of me, and my spotter is somewhat ahead, i hear a faint noise of his gear rattling. Idiot! If i weren't this messed up, it'd really, really piss me off. He can't even check the wind silently. I take my kit out, systematically working, my Gyurza cocked, round chambered.
It took me a while to get the proper technique down. Cooking up under night vision, while sheltering the flame. It goes without a glitch now. 20 second, not more. Now finding a vein under night vision is something altogether different, as is spotting a register in a syringe. Takes skill. Takes feel. I listen to the night, Death is all around us. I hit it on a second try. Seep in Afghanistan, seep in; may I never see you again if I get alive out of Chechnya.
Yes.
This is it. Hatred is metabolically impossible now.
Faint, rhythmic rat clicking as i take the sling off my leg. Spotter confirms the position ahead. Naturally, I feel a lot more sympathetic now. He's not so bad...


I take the cover off of my scopes' lenses.
parallax...
lead..


 Now, we can go to work.

........

The interrogator was soaking his feet and drinking tea. Hot water was a blessing. A commodity not to be taken for granted in this shit hole..... Tea was awful.
Having nothing better to do, he read through the files of newly arrived candidates. Boring. A dozen or so lawyers and engineers.... A couple of teachers. Boring. Mostly fragile material that could be handed down to his subordinates for processing.
Ah, a general. Smorawitsky? Smorawinsky? Yes Smorawinsky. 47 years old. Good. That should be more challenging.....
He reached for a pot of hot water beside his armchair, planing the approach and the tactics of interrogation. The tub was getting cold. "Surprise me" he thought, " I'll give you time, surprise me."
"Semyon!" he let out a yell, and Semyon appeared in the door shaved, sharp edged and fully awake as all ways; it made no difference that dawn was about to break. Semyon was fully functional while on duty, no matter what time it was.
"Yes comrade Zarubin?"
"Get me the doctor, and please make it fast, i have to leave soon". "Yes, comrade Zarubin".
He leaned back in the armchair, drying his feet, the warmness and softness of the towel stirring something close to a fond, yet distant and amorphous memory... "When all this is done...."
Checking his uniform, standing in front of a huge Polish mirror that somehow got here from Lvov. His mood deteriorating as he noticed several dark stains on the outside of his left sleeve... " Damn that idiot Gireyev! Swinging that whip of his like a madman! Damn blood is impossible to get out off these uniforms when it dries! Damn!"
Checking his Nagant, noticing the well cleaned barrel and action, every round polished and shining dully in the lantern light. This cheered him up a little bit. "General...."
Steps approaching; a weak cough in the corridor, than a firm knock on the door.
" Doctor is here, comrade Zarubin".
" Good, good, let him in".
" Good morning comrade Zarubin, how are you feeling today?"
" Not bad Aleksiy Timofeevich, not bad. And you?"
" Fine comrade Zarubin, thank you".
" Vodka Aleksiy Timofeevich?"
" Just what i need comrade Zarubin, you are indeed adept in looking into mans mind and heart!" They laughed at this for a short while.
" Semyon!" interrogator yelled as he poured the drinks.
" Yes comrade Zarubin?"
" Vodka, my good Semyon?" Semyon thought about this for a good part of a second. A test? Or a treat?
" Yes comrade Zarubin, thank you" he decided.
Interrogator poured a third glass and handed it to Semyon, instead of offering him the plate to take it himself. This meant: drink up and leave us. Semyon did.
" Well, Aleksiy Timofeevich, shall wee? I am expected at the office" he said, taking off his jacket.
" Certainly comrade Zarubin, certainly...as usual?"
" Up it a bit Aleksiy Timofeevich, i slept no more than an hour."
The doctor took his bag to the table under the window. Greyish morning outside and a young NKVD man smoking and pacing nowhere in particular.
" I have visited some of the cells last night comrade Zarubin", the doctor said as he prepared a cocaine shot.
" Yes?"
" There is a lot of them in there comrade Zarubin."
Interrogator thought about this, rolling up his sleeve. The doctor raised the glass syringe against the bleak morning in the window, looking for bubbles.
" Is there Aleksiy Timofeevich?"
Satisfied with the syringe, doctor turned and approached the armchair.
" Well, I guess you are right Aleksiy Timofeevich. There is a lot of them!" Needle slid into his arm. " Battalions of traitors, spies and enemies of the Revolution. Divisions!"
Cocaine hit him, lighting up the words inside his head, making him grow like a forest fire. Thunder. " Surprise me general" his thoughts now a thunder bouncing of the inside walls of his skull, "or i will skin you like the rest of the worthless scum!"
" Thank you Aleksiy Timofeevich, just what i needed. There is a long and laborious day ahead, i might send for you in the afternoon."
" Yes comrade Zarubin, of course. Is this new case you are working on difficult?" the doctor asked before his brain could halt his tongue, and he froze halfway through packing his bag. "Shit."
Interrogator seemed unaware of this breach of protocol; he was buttoning up his jacket, absently staring in the general direction of the door. " General Smorawinsky..." he thought. Cocaine pumped cold rage, his eyes felt almost too large for his head. " Surprise me general, entertain me...." The doctor dared to move, breathing again.
" Shall we Aleksiy Timofeevich?"
" Of course comrade Zarubin, of course. After you".

28 night shifts

All night long, and a full case of Walther model 2's.
There is a large, yet dried callus on my right thumb from loading all those clips.
"What day it is anyway?" i ask Sergiy, and he says "14". What i asked him was, in fact, what day of the week, but he gave me the correct answer anyway.
I think i can hear Rubanov in the Red Room, but i can't be sure. The hose is making a lot of noise.
Sergiy is done, most of the blood is washed down and i send the signal to the front.
Commander has this leather apron and long, long leather gloves. Butcher like, you know? He rather does look like a butcher, wide, hard faced.

I try not to tremble. There is some more vodka stashed in the desk, but i think it would be a bad idea, taking a sip here and now. Commander is all formality and revolutionary fire. Work first, drink later.
I try not to look at the man they bring in from the Red Room. Not that i am particularly sensitive anymore. Things i have seen, things i have done... And willingly too. But i certainly don't enjoy it....
Durak... All this work to be done, and i let my mind just wander about....
Commander never trembled. I pass him the pistol, and his hand is perfectly still. Like the hands of a surgeon who took the bullet out of my thigh a few months ago. He was a morphinist, though. Commander is certainly not.
I watch him, unwillingly, against my general dislike for what is about to happen. He aims carefully every time. It is Impossible to miss from that distance, and yet he aims every time very carefully. Work tolerates no haste. From where i stand by the desk, the man is partially covered by Commanders huge bulk, but i know exactly how it looks anyway. Now, any second, a bullet, a spray of blood and little fragments of spine are going to erupt out of the mans mouth. Some teeth also, if he had his jaw clenched.

The wall is coated and full of holes. 14 days. And 14 night shifts.
This one got stuck in the drain. Sergiy and I are supposed to get it unstuck when such thing occurs. The floor is slippery from water and blood and probably some urine too. Sweat runs around our noses and ears collecting under our chins.

Commander lights up a cigarette and blows long streaks of smoke, standing there and watching nothing in particular, right arm over left.
There, done.
I signal for the next.
Commander stomps out his cigarette and focus returns to his eyes.
Commander is a great man.