Airport. Street. Thoughts of Bank Robber.
Chapter 1
An empty space, just a few tables. Packed luggage and a single bed — both in the corner. The walls seem to be light turquoise but it's not clear because of the lighting. Piles of papers on the tables. Maps, photos and printouts. At a closer look, the maps are plans of buildings — of banks and other surroundings. Bullets, a gun, a number of knifes and some other weapons are next to them. Things that seem dangerous at first sight look ordinary in this room. On the other hand, that's exactly how they are. All of this is very ordinary. The gun is black, the knife is shiny, the bullets are heavy — and there is no one in the room. Just cigarette ash flying around carried by draught.

Here the bank robber keeps his things, makes plans, cooks food and sometimes smokes a few fags. He drops cigarette ash on the floor and smudges it with his shoe. He doesn't normally litter, but this concerns cigarette ash — ash is sacred.
The light is coming through the window, the window that doesn't have anything behind it — just a street. Sometimes a man passes by, a dog runs, lit by a street lamp.

Bank Robber doesn't fly business class. There a lot of people around him. Just like others, he is looking out of the window — it's dark outside already. The airplane took off not so long ago and is still gaining height. City lights are visible — people are working, people aint sleeping. It used to be easier back then — darkness put everyone to sleep, just the ones hungry for prey stayed awake to prawl around. Nowadays there many random people amongst them, topping up tills, bending their backs.
"It has never been about money". Bank Robber finds it frustrating. "It's not the point. Those poor bastards, they breathe in my air, the air of murdered people. For the sake of what, literally? All of this tastes really bad. Oh, those guys. I'd rip them apart".
The arrival section in the airport is suspiciously empty. So that a paranoiac would be looking around anxiously disturbing the few people around. Disturbing so much that they would start acting suspiciously as well. Who wouldn't be? Everyone is longing for a conspiracy, for some action, but all they get — walk on throwing an uneasy look back. They are also allowed to frighten and get frightened. Everyone is walking in different directions trying to find their way following signs in foreign languages, disoriented like the hunters in the snow.

His legs hurt, so does his back. Bank Robber has finally arrived in Tokyo.

Gets in a taxi. Not the one that's waiting right outside the exit, but to a nondescript driver further down the road. The aggressive taxi drivers get all the customers — this one is too mild. Everyone needs to buy food, everyone needs to eat, so they fight for the money of customers. And the fuel, the fuel costs money.

Its even hotter next to the taxi door. Warm air is still rising from the ground, although there are very few cars in the streets and the airport is outside the city.

The taxi driver happened to be very talkative, but not too intrusive. Every night he stands by the airport on his own, watching airplanes leaving Tokyo, driving one or two clients. He has a day-time job, he is not the last man there - he can leave earlier and he does, he sleeps at home. He's got his family there - mother of his son, his boy. He loves them, but he feels incredibly sad to see them sleep — that's why he is watching the planes leaving his native city, one by one, every single night. His voice doesn't match the music playing from the old car speakers. The radio won't tune, the song is crap, that fucking audiosystem. All that sound, it's like sand, crunching, making one want to wash it off the body.

Bank Robber looks out of the window, lost in his thoughts for almost the whole way. Sometimes he switches attention on the talking driver, nods into the mirror.
Thoughts rarely give rest to Bank Robber. He doesn't dream very often, but when he does it's hard to call it a dream - more like some vicious black liquid and constant low noise.
Club. Crime. Inspector
Chapter 2
An average club, nothing special. People are buzzing, the floor is sticky here and there. Sickening sweat. It's pitch-black and blindingly bright simultaneously. Like someone's seizure — although it's not happening to you, but it's *you* who is chocking on the stroboscope. The music is unbarable — created to confuse thoughts, but it doesn't bother Bank Robber. He slowly walks into the toilet to get ready for the appointment. A meeting with a very important person — the Crime Lord of Tokyo. And it's not about some lousy gangs, this person is far beyond law.

The toilets are horrid. Sinks are sterile, white square tiles, a mirror, but the cubicles stink of piss, vomit and excrement.
People pay money to enter, to get drinks, and find *this* here.
Degrading, but that's how it is.
"All of this exists where people are: piss, shit and money".
Bank Robber isn't surprised though.
Нe pulls up his mask — a classic black textile triangle — faces himself in the mirror. He is dressed in an old-fashined manner. Grey suit, blue vest with buttons undone, black tie, shoes — a very plain look.

He came here earlier than needed and now he needs to go outside again, but from the back exit this time — to the smoking area where the rubbish is thrown out, where people are thrown out. And so it is — two black guys are kicking the shit out of each other, others are gathering around the fight.

A woman dressed in a purple top and messy make-up is trying her best not to notice, laughing out loud, smoking a cigarette. She is watching the fight from the corner of her eye. She is scared, but theres nothing she can do about it. She is afraid to get involved, of getting her body injured. She has a small daughter, and she has just given a blow job. The mother, not the daughter. The smeary odour of the ambiguous man will be pulsating from her lips for a while now. The pattern of her skirt is vague and unclear, she is wearing stockings, holding a bottle of alcohol. A moist cigarette in her hand. The cigarette filter is purple. Her hand is shaking, letting out vibrations into the sticky air.

If Bank Robber listens up he will hear a very low sound of how the air is quivering around. Frictions, movements, rustling of money, tongues sliding — sounds differ in frequency, amplitude, intensity and rythm — the air is ductile and easily soaks in every little motion. What the air can't stand though is the motion of thought.

If Bank Robber listens up closely he will be able to hear how Air is droning the same phrase over and over — "I hate you all, I want you gone". Soil, Water and Fire echo the message. These guys never waste words, they work to the maximum, they are a team.

If Bank Robber listens up really closely, he will turn into a membrain himself — he will be able to hear what Soil, Water and Fire are saying. They are whispering "Just wait a little more…"
And Air is just vibrating, as if from empty talk. Air is elastic, flexible and fluid.
One of the black guys has finally knocked down the other one. Punched him in the head hard enough. The defeated guy tottered and fell down on concrete. The winner is breathing heavily. He inhales, shouts "Don't you fucking stand up!", exhales. Turns around and walks towards Purple Mother. She is Chinese, but lives here, in Japan. Some massive fat white asshole could have said - "Whatever, she probably confused them." These white people, they are so alike each other. Same thoughts, same aspirations worth nothing. Life of either of them costs a pouch of gold coins, nothing more. Clanking in the pocket, waiting for someone to pick it up. But thoughts — they cost nothing, not a penny.

The guy is standing, looking at the woman, quietly, leaning over her. A neon sign above him is flickering, and the guy seems sweaty. Or it seams like he is sweating -- something is dripping from his face, it's hard to see the difference between blood and sweat on black skin. He spits on the ground, there _is_ blood. It accumulated in his mouth and he is spitting it out. It is, of course, a gesture, but there's obviously a need.
Eyes of Bank Robber and Purple Mother meet, she isn't afraid of him, not as much as of the black guy. Bank Robber nods towards the doors of the club, looks at her and, from under his mask, speaks out to everyone present - "She's with me". And his eyes and moves tell her to follow him. She does. She becomes his accessory. Everything is as if by a book, funny.

They enter the club, he asks her to wait and goes outside for a bit. Nothing happens while he is away, time stops, space contracts. Purple Mother exists in absolute silence. Whatever happens outside during this minute is a mystery for everyone who is inside. Bank Robber comes back and they walk towards a spiral staircase, walk up to the zone for very important persons. Because it's time. Time to walk up, sit down and see for yourself -- see whatever it is that goes under the name of Crime Lord. Or whoever. But the robber doesn't distinguish between "who" and "what" that quickly, he needs to make sure.

The black triangle of matt textile is pointing down to the torso, to the buttons of the vest. Two black ovals in front of it -- sunglasses of Crime Lord. Stroboscope keeps flickering and very possibly the asian is screwing up his eyes. The purple colour of Mother changes from black to blue and back to purple. She keeps standing still until Bank Robber gestures her to sit down. With a similar gesture, Crime Lord made it clear to his security guards that the pair can go through and don't need to be searched. The latter really annoyed the six men. They are so tense they don't realise how much they are taken over by the fear of being dead. That's absurd, they don't do anything with their lives, just stand there, trying to prolonged the time of their existence, to be ready to protect themselves and their master. While their live is disappearing. Flowing out of them in a spiral flux, clotting in a viscous cloud of air around Bank Robber. The robber never minds the time -- he wears Longines watches and sometimes directs his attention onto them, when the moment requires him to. Just like now. Eyes on the watch, and back, right inside the asian. He shivered slightly and started talking.
- You. Tell me, do you know about the disease? Of course you know about the disease. But listen up, trust me, this will be interesting.
Bank Robber doesn't pay much attention to these words. All that he hears are mere attempts to convince -- "tell, listen, trust".
- Generics, what is normally considered so important, it sometimes fails to perform. Possibly it doesn't fail completely, but for a human being it is a problem, a rather big one. Urbach-Wiethe disease. It's not a fatal disease, and is not even noticeable that easily. Sometimes people aren't very attractive -- skin problems, scars. Sometimes they are epileptic. Rare shit, hard to find.
Bright flashing lights still make everything seem like a cheap movie, bad animation.
- One unusual symptom though - they don't have an amygdala - a part of brain responsible for the sense of fear. Absolutely fearless.
The guards shudder. One of them has two kids. He also has an amygdala. And his brain reacts to the sequence of events, his conscience reacts to his brain, and his body gets covered in cold sweat. And the air around keeps vibrating. Nobody really knows what's happening. Everybody _feels_ though, bodies collect data, unknown to their carriers. But what if bodies are carriers of conscience. This thought makes the second guard feel much worse. He is standing behind Bank Robber, next to the staircase.
- This got scientists on the hook. Big time. They decided to make those bastards jump out of their skin with fear. Those experiments must have been loads of fun. I can imagine what they had to do until they could find what could frightened the patients. Every person should have their own pedophile to be afraid of, their own bogeyman. But the patients are afraid of just one thing -- a mixture of air with 35% of carbon dioxide. They get panic attacks from it.
There's nothing to breathe with in the club. Lungs of those dancing and fucking around in the burrows of the club keep stealing oxygen, giving out that same carbon dioxide.
No trees in the vicinity. Outside are just cars, concrete, people doing their jobs. And the air that's still left is pumping with this conversation, gathering energy, creeping closer to the necks of the guards, coming together in a vibrating collar, starting to squeeze their throats. It's more and more difficult to swallow. Dry throats. Water knows what's happening, SHE's been waiting. Soil outside is ready too, waiting patiently.
- Those neurobiologists. Weak and amazing, like all scientists. No criminals, but ready to cross the line at any point. Well, to be fair, they have already done it. But they managed it, didn't they. Managed to make fearless people frightened. I wish I was there when they were testing options one by one. With their sensors and measurements, trying to understand what would scare the shit out to their patients. One thing will -- that air can run out.
Crime Lord laughs out loud, finishes his drink and rapidly stands up, giving a signal to his guards. He leans towards Bank Robber and speaks loudly, piercingly. It might seem like his words are powerful, but they are weak, scared. They are afraid to loose air.
- So, you must be totally fucked up to come here, look me in the eye, keep silent and not shitting yourself with fear?
Bank Robber keeps looking, he is motionless, the triangular mask is pointing down, eyes looking out, eating the japanese. Purple Mother is smiling, she's a believer, she followed him, obeyed his gesture. Her name is 藤色 and when she was a child she had a friend called Molly. Little Irish girl. 藤色 remembers a naive counting song that Molly loved so much.

"Autumn hits your face in summer,
Boiling ice is all around.
He will never lift you up,
The one who threw you down.
If you want to fight — start counting,
Tapping lightly the roof of the mouth.
Number one, the wrist is stiffened
All will shush when they see your gun."

Bank Robber shuts his eyes and makes time stop again. Space is narrowing down, Air tightens up around the necks of the guards, stealing their strength, devouring their bodies. With his eyelids closed, darkness around him as he stands up. Unbuttons his jacket with one hand, the other hand is going down inside the pocket. The pocket contains a revolver, a black revolver. The revolver contains bullets, six of them. It's heavy, because it's made of metal. There's nothing mystical about it, it's invented by people, one can't neglect that. One can't forget that, because a revolver doesn't give chances, it never jamms. And he walks around every guard in the darkness of his eyelids, blindly. And he only opens his eyes for a moment, pressing the metal barrel to the guards' skull, firing off the next moment, moving on to the next one swiftly. Six times in a row, until they are all dead, still standing in the middle of the hall for very important people. And now Bank Robber opens his eyes. He is sitting in an armchair opposite the Crime Lord whose face is splattered with blood of his men. The purple skirt of Mother is now covered with dark stains. Bank Robber stretches his hands out towards the face of the asian man, takes off his round glasses. There are two blind white spots there, half-open mouth underneath, hoarse breathing from within, gasping for air.
"You owe me", says Bank Robber.
A door is opening the other part of the club. Inspector is walking in through the main entrance. The one who is willing to catch Bank Robber, enemy of society, economy and simply the whole world. Another Inspector. This time he is black. And, following the rules, Bank Robber decides to get away. He is no longer in the club when the big black Inspector is walking up the staircase. He is far, driving off. His Purple accessory is next to him, missing her daughter.
Inspector is now standing in the middle of the hall for very important people, six dead bodies are resting around the room. An elderly japanese man is crying over one of them with his blind eyes - he is now left with just two children.

Soil is far outside, yearning.
Way to the bank. Robbery
Chapter 3
She was asleep in the back of an old SAAB 900, parked up in one of the central streets. Sunrise smoothly swam across her face. This city is finally cool.
Bank Robbers heart starts racing, he turns on the radio. The front panel has a couple of handles and an indicator of frequency - a red line crossing a line of figures. He is rotating one of the handles trying to find some music, so that his heart could drum with the tune, and the blood in his temples would echo pulsing of the beat. But the radio keeps producing white noise. Speakers spread the chaos across the car cabin. Suddenly the radio tunes in to two stations simultaneously. Bank Robber can catch Marian Anderson singing. He knows her, she died a while ago - killed by her own heart. Now her powerful voice is overlapped with intense drumming of Louie Bellson. The car gets under way.

Louie is doing a solo. Black opera singer and white jazz musician - both deceased. His death is Parkinson's disease. Will of God, when brain turns into jelly. At least that's not metastasis, when organs turn into jelly. The car cabin is not filled with noise anymore, its something different know, unrepeatable, sucking in both Bank Robber and Purple Mother. One hand is dancing, the other one is snapping fingers. "Sometimes I feel like a motherless child" singing Marian.

Bank Robber hits the gas pedal and changes the gear. A dangerous manouver of overtaking an old Wolkswagen along the opposite lane. An old Volvo is approaching rapidly towards him. The Volvo is carrying a family, a kind of family that read a prayer before eating, each of them has a crucifix across their neck. A second before a potential clash they all say "fucking hell". Children, adults, and even the small Jesuses on their crosses — they all say this very phrase. Fucking hell. Bank Robbers car abruptly turns back into its' lane, children in Volvo start asking their father questions about death. He pulls at the roadside, breathing, breathing. The mother echos, but at a different pace. They create polymetric patterns with their breath. The kids won't give in, they keep asking. Are we dead? No. Could we die? Yes, sweethears, we could. Could anyone die just like this? I guess so. Even black people? Yes. Even nazis? Yes. Even burglars, robbers and killers too? Even the scary man who kidnapped us in the park last year? Yes.
"Relativeity your arse" says one of the kids. Einstein who is sat beside him, takes a sip of lemonade and mumbles "fucking hell".
The doors of the car open like stage curtains. Bank Robber appears from behind one of them, holding a sawed-off shotgun, wearing his black mask. His eyes, pieces of charcoal, have hooked over the doors of the bank. This Big Fish has already unrolled the reel till the end of the fishing line and is now pulling Bank Robber towards itself, going deeper and deeper into abyss.

The other curtain reveals Purple Mother with an assault rifle. She is wearing a mask — she now has a face of a rat. She is quickly starting to develop rat's habits too, her movements transform on the go, body mutating. They leave the car throbbing with music, and only now it becomes apparent how loud it was in the car cabin when they were there.

Blood in temples is pulsing to the rythm of music, racketing (alt. rowing) like a whirling mass of fluid, fusing drum solo and opera like heated metals - Bank Robber and his Pet Rat are breaking into the bank. The doors bang open, a rifle butt hitting the guard in the face.
"This is a robbery!" — Bank Robber shouts out. "All of this is one big robberу…" he mumbles quietly, turns around quickly and shoots one of the hostages off his knees. Shrapnel tear through the chest, blends all the organs together, binds the flesh.
The name of this bound flesh is Jerald. He lived and worked in this city, his family was very far away. His mother gave him sad eyes and dark wide eye brows. That's all, she was gone right after. Once Jerald appeared, the woman said goodbye to two men.
Jerald had friends, who visited him in a hospital when he was ill. **He had testicular tortion**, they say it's really painful.
He's got dark, medium length hair, almost shoulder-length. He had a headache because he ran out of styling wax this morning and little hairs were all over his face, getting in his eyes.

It really annoyed Jerald, it was literally driving him nuts.
Jerald also had a sister who was seriously ill.
Her treatment cost a lot of money. No family with a dying child has that much money. That's why Jerald has to work so far from home. That's why Jerald came to the bank on this unlucky day. The day of his death. He came to the bank to borrow money that he never had, and would have never had earned. His family will be destroyed by this crucial decision. For many people on the planet this day will be filled with joy, but it will be different for others. There will be so many tears when the big black hideous bird carrying news of their sons' death will break into his parents' house. So many tears that people around will think that the world has never seen anything like this before.
Those people around, they don't know shit.
What they really need to do is get the fuck out of there.
Bank Robbers posture is unstable: his left hand is holding a shotgun, pushing a man, a bank employee, in the back. The right arm is a tight grey scarf entwined around another employees neck — a woman who worked in the hall, helping customers pay through terminals, accompanied important clients. One by one — right into the vaults, into the catacombs.

The deeper they went, the faster their heart beat. And their breathing was thick, faint — so that they wouldn't even pay any attention to her beautiful legs in black stockings, her tight skirt, the blouse, the undone button, white textile pressing tightly into the pattern of her bra.

That's how much they wanted to be closer to their gold coins.

The man, the bank employee, his back hurts from the strong strikes of the barell hitting right into his spine. The woman doesn't feel any pain — Bank Robber's tenderness frightens her. The scent of her spring is flowing under the black triangle — a mixture of sweat, perfume and make-up. Her hair touch the grey face of the robber of people's fortunes.

Sometimes she would twist around, like Jerald's testicle, twirl her foot so that the heel is parallel to the floor — she can see Bank Robbers profile. The bowl hat, followed by a clear outline of his face, darkness below. His right pupil would sometimes hurry up to her like a black spider. Watch the fly from the corner between the eyelids and hurry away.

Pet Rat is behind — leaving bullet holes across the walls, a trail of bullet cases following her. A low guttural sound of hostility coming from her thriving throat.
The corridor ends with a cage. The door to the vault is shivering like an insect caught in a web of metal bars.
Deep underneath the mask a normally motionless mouth opens up, giving way to a wet tongue. It crawls out and smears the lips with saliva.

Once inside, the robber fills his bags with gold — he will carry out everything that will fit in. The scented guide woman and the man with a bruised back are there on the floor, face down.

He looks down on them, first the man, than the woman, and makes a decision — the heavy weight of the gun is now in his hand. He freezes. His motionless figure, the black triangle, all show some sort of jittery unpleasant nervousness. He is almost shivering, getting all his obscene thoughts into one point.

He has been soaking in everything that he heard and saw, and he heard and saw a lot. His one eye is a barrel pointing at the woman, his other eye keeps striking the man in the back. Veins are about to burst in this static tension, before a dash of a well-considered thought. They are all waiting quietly, just the eye muscles are squeaking — stretching out.
Bank Robber's plan isn't that difficult — he has already made all calculations required for his body, even before they entered the vault. He rapidly flexes his arm towards his chest and away, his hand lets go of the weight of the gun. The revolver crashes into the body of the woman. Like that black bird that smashed into the window of Jerald's parents.

The beautiful scented asian fires off. She dedicates this shot to her womb and ovaries. Molecules in the bottom of the robbers stomach scattered around. He breathed out hot hair and closed his eyes as if wanting to have a nap, to see his own dream.
Shooting. Bleeding. Dead bodies.
Chapter 4
The Bank Robber is standing against the wall, blood pouring out of him, pain piercing through his whole body. Sharp pain, pain that is usually followed by death. The Pain is cutting him in halves. He looks at the CCTV camera, and on the other side of it, on the other side of running numbers, on the top floor, there stands a monitor, with another one above and next to it, and so this whole room continues, flickering in different directions. Screen on top of another screen, image under image, broadcasting into voidness, no pair of eyes is watching the black smudges are running around, agitated, putting on armor and grabbing weapons. Teeming. And this will continue over and over, day after day — armor and weapons. Black shadows running after prey — for they've just seen the forbidden vision. And there will always be hostages, and there faces will be hidden with sacks, and they will be blind with fear, and they will die. But maybe they will survive, and will live to forget. And their eyes are covered and they don't see a thing, they just know — dreadful things are happening right near them, too close to them this time.

Windows get smashed, pieces of glass fall on the floor, the room gets filled with smoke. The Storm begins.
powerless words
And so on and so forth
And so on
Every bullet reaches the target set by the barell. One leaves a hole in a wall, the other leaves a hole in someone's body. All of them cut **air** open. A Big Man's finger, crooked obscurely in an oval, framing the trigger of his gun. This Big Man, wearing all black — he is a Worker. His employer, The Special Rapid Response Unit, they pay him money to come and shoot everything that moves and appears different. All possible distinctive features come into play here: skin colour, body shape, clothes and even something abstract like way of thinking.
But it's not that important if you think about it.
Click click from under the barrel, bam bam out of the barrel, clack clack — somebody's lady is dead, somebody's gentleman is upset.
One of the bullets reached its target.

Pet Rat blooms with three dark kernels, purple petels around the rim. The shooter, the Big Man, takes off her mask and finds himself in front of a dead mother, punctured by lead: blood oozing to the floor, rooting in the cracks between floor tiles, grey fur retracting back inside the prison of the dead body. Her eyes are open, directed at the sky immured by concrete.
9x19mm parabellum round is stuck inside somebodys' body and is thinking of its' father. That silly Austrian. Funny mustache, all those knick-knacks. Invented a pistol, gave it his own name. Invented a cartridge with a name that declares war. He's always wanted to be a surgeon. That passion to get into other peoples' bodies. Why? No one to ask this question anymore, nobody will answer.

A little baby rat is left without a mother. She is 4 years old and she likes when sunlight shines through tree branches, warms up the face. She squints to make her eye lashes splint the light — such a transparent perception of reality, so beautiful and simple. Having finished her games with the light, the little baby rat turns away and stares at a boy who lives next door.

In a few years she will take a drug that doesn't exist just yet. Everything else that already exist will still be the same, just more and more new layers on top. Women will still be going through a constant struggle — both Inspector and Bank Robber agree on that. Bank Robber likes children. He loves Purple Mothers' daughter, and one day he might come to her and tell her everything. But no time for long conversations now. He wanted to make sure. He lifted his arm, pulled down the black triangle and turned away from everything that surrounded him. Nobody saw his face and nobody dared to move. Just the triangular piece of fabric in his hand, damn it, was moving in currents of Air, as if it was alive.

Darkness sundered, which meant Bank Robber became Everything and Everywhere. He took out huge tailor scissors out of his pocket and slit Time. There, the grown up girl has already taken the drug, and everything that she will see and think right now will stay with her forever. And when men will kiss her beautiful hand, breasts and her rib — she will know that Purple Mother is gone. Even her smell is gone.
"Putative memories of a baby rat about the loss of Purple Mother"
Memories that happen under the intent look of Bank Robber
and provoked by yet another drug from the future.

"I would iron the faces of those who have ever touched me. My skin, it's been waiting for just one thing all its life. It must be some sort of a mistake, you are shifting same things from one place to the other, topsy-turvy. The heartbeat is insane, like two fists hitting a wall. Let me go, release me! — it screams. Every beat is different in strength, but it strikes directly into the most vital organs, spanking my beautiful young body with a huge father's hand. My body will grow old, will turn disobedient.
My arse, it won't fit into my trousers, I already hate it. My skin will turn moist. Don't touch it, I will hit you with an iron. I always have it with me — i like to caress, to touch some tissue with it. But no, I don't really it, I'm still young, beautiful, I don't need one. I can look at everyone, throw glances at them. Mother, don't look at me, cause I'm looking at you, as a some sort of answer, while you keep getting older, you keep dying later each time. That's it, I'm done with you, smashing plates behind my back don't mean anything to you. You see me taking a knife from the table, you see me cut off my left breast. It's too old to feed a baby. I don't need a baby, give me a baby. Mother, you are a man in a space suit. You open up new horizons but you are never at home. Moon crators remind me of you, but they can't be seen from Earth. Purple skies in the evening. Twisted, someones death, for all to see, for children to see, for me to see, for me to see, for me to see. Mother gets run over by a racing car. Why the fuck would she go on a racing track? Why the fuck does my father rush after her? I don't know. I don't have anything left to do, I feel sick, something is coming out of me, squeezing my insides, but still emerging. Shall I take more pills? I have already taken a few. Good that I count them. It allows me not to lose control, and that's why it will be me driving the car that will run over my mum and dad day after day. Because I've got it all under control. I don't know what these pills are for or what they cure. The Pills. Hm, I need to look at the clock. A dial and two branches. Down - up - down - up. Someone is watching me. Through some dark fabric. I can hear them breathing. Click, click. Who is it? Are you here? I beg you to stay with me! Let's just talk for a bit, please, embrace me. It won't help I know that. But my parents have died. You can't even imagine how terrible it is to be alone. They are gone and I'm so small and helpless. Like a pigeon in a downpipe. It's pouring with rain. I'm scared, so scared. And very soon cops will be here. The first thing they will want to do is take my room away, steal my home. Fucking cops, those dirty pigs will steal my home! Why are you so silent? What's the matter?
I'm only asking for future instead of present. And you won't give it to me.
Because I'm somebody's past and everything mixed so long ago. Time became a ghost of my dead parents.
And you don't have breasts, but you have a dick.
That's why you should help me, isn't it how it works? Does anyone else wants anything?
Anything? No, not me. I'm so thirsty.
There's no one here, nobody's watching. Fucking pills.
And that woman with a dick and no tits, the one wearing a space suit, she is fucked up too.
Everything seems so simple, revoltingly banal — "just try to understand, just stay near".
I only want one thing — I want "now". I don't want "yesterday" or "tomorrow". Last hope for survival. The man in a space suit and the lady with no tits, they are my last hope. They are coiled around the wheels of the racing car. It didn't even stop, that's why the frozen visions keep transferring onto the ground, round after round, forever. I walk, I crawl like a lizard, I run after it, after the killer car. Days pass by in a second and I realise that I'm the one driving. I've got sexy legs. Smooth white skin, inviting to touch it, to caress them. Calmness and peace in my home. Because now I have the space suit man and the breastless woman intead of my parents. What will happen tomorrow? Tomorrow a cop will kill me. And what about tomorrow? Tomorrow a cop will kill me."
Bank Robber has to leave, he moves back into the bank. The floor is slippery, covered with his own blood. He slowly moves towards the exit. His each step now equals movements of millions of mouths. Mouths of mothers of all shapes and colours, apart from purple.
They suck out everything till the last drop. All blood, flesh and oil. All offshore accounts, all figures. And their DNA restlessly calculates codes to secret deposit boxes around the world.
Fight. Policeman will kill me tomorrow.
Chapter 5
Inspector is following traces of blood, like a royal hound, his legs are racing forward, arms push off air, his clothes turn into wings, feet beat out shit from the ground. If you are a royal hound and you pick up a scent, you won't be allowed back into the palace until you rip prey to pieces.

Traces lead to an old hangar and even though the chase has been going on for only about 3 minutes, the sun is already disappearing behind the horizon, big grey cloud hides the earth away from the sun. People on the sidewalks stopped walking and are looking up — their faces are covered with a layer of fading light, it's changing their colour and texture.

Inspector runs into the hangar and stops abruptly — it's so dark that one won't be able to distinguish his face. Just his shirt sticking out from under a brown blazer or a coat. The material is so thick that it's difficult to tell what it is he is wearing. Thick darkness around, clotting around the walls and the floor. His shoes, charcoal black or soil brown — they keep peering out into this darkness from underneath the trousers. The trousers are stiff like a sack covering a hostage, so stuffy, dark and hot, nothing to breath with.

Nothing can be seen, but the Air itself is so thick that it can be heard not only by Bank Robber. Dressed in these trousers, the blazer, the shirt and shoes, Inspector breathes in this Air, gulps it down like a drink. His eyes stick out in different directions like shoes from under the trousers. Looking out, piercing through the darkness. The face is still invisible, as if it doesn't exist at all. The problem of image identification is easily solved these days by lots of different ways, so Inspector doesn't have anything to worry about here. Losing one's face is not a big loss in the modern world. Something else worries him now — foreign smells don't let him scent fractions of blood in the air. But he pushes really hard through them and can now get a whiff of wounded prey. This is what dogs do, from generation to generation, controlled by their genes (like factory workers control the machines along the conveyor belt) — they tear other animals apart.

The big black man starts moving inside the hangar. The sound of his footsteps shimmers in the air, like lit by a street light pieces of glass outside by a rubbish bin. A month ago Inspector found himself staring at a bin like this, just outside his flat in South London. And the pieces of broken glass were there, shimmering. A grey t-shirt with a small hole on the chest, blue joggers. Inspector casts a shadow behind him, towards his house.

It's just finished raining, it's been raining all day drumming away on the tin window sills of his flat. He feels feverish. One hand resting in the pocket, the other one is hanging loose, knees slightly bent. He isn't standing straight, on the contrary, he seems unstable.

He is lost, lost just outside his own flat. He moved here over 20 years ago, moved out from his mother's house, following his worthless fathers footsteps. The only difference is that Inspector still visits her, still regards her with favour. Everything has a mother, an pretty much every time she's been abandoned in one way or another. Inspector was drunk, that's why such unpleasant thoughts kept racing through his mind.
Inspector enjoyed walking around on a cool sunny day. He would normally wear trousers and a polo shirt. His skin would start to breath, pores would suck in air, filling the body with oxygen. His wide nostrils would inhale the smell of freshly cut grass.
His head would clear out, he would get a feeling that everything is actually going well, not just slowly flowing inside an unstable and changeable norm, adjusting to somebody else's plans and intentions. On the whole Inspector was happy in these moments. Colorless happiness оf human being.

On one of such days something died inside him. He saw somebody's kid riding a small bicycle before him, and on the left hand side, across the road, a bus went into a skid. The driver lost control and drove the vehicle onto the pavement. The kid was terrified and tried to stop, turned sideways and fell down, smashing his head against the pavement. He died immediately.

Inspector thought to himself:
"A bus is not a faceless car. It's a mistake of our perception. We perceive it as an abstract Devil's cradle that combines the power of transportation, closed space and the irreversibility of the process. You get inside it, and in reality it got inside you, put you on a hook. But everything is much more simple, and much more complex at the same time — driving one of the simplest in comparison to all others mechanisms in the world is a complex structure of a human being, a homo sapiens who we see when we enter the vehicle through the front door. It's horrifying when you realise that everywhere has a presense of something alive, that carries a burden of consciousness."
All these thoughts raced through Inspector's head at lightning speed, he just imagined things he never thought existed before. Some sort of fictional reality of his own. But the strange and fulminant thoughts disappeared leaving emptiness behind. Emptiness that kept eating him, getting deeper into the tissue of his consciousness. Then this emptiness started transforming his body. On one of the hotter days Inspector opened the window, letting in the smell of the freshly cut grass. Just like in cartoons about a crazy rabbit. He felt sick, his stomach twisted in pain, right under the rib cage, the left side, or maybe the right. He couldn't stand it, went into the bathroom and smashed his nose against the mirror, broke it with his own reflection. This is how emptiness changed a part of his body, transformed and almost destroyed a whole organ. Inspector can't smell the whole variety of scents since then. His memories of imaginary and real things are still there, they are okay. Like a boat in the middle of a calm ocean. No confusion between fiction and reality. Inspector knows just one smell now - the smell of blood. And this smell took him to Tokio. To Bank Robber. And whatever he is going to see now, he will believe it without a question.

But he can't see anything just yet, he starts to hear something. The space is marked by loud barking and sounds of iron against concrete. Inspector runs towards the sound, runs like hell, like a kid waiting to see his dad who's been away at work for too long, hoping to get presents or expecting bad news.
And here's what Inspector sees:
A dog is squirming on the floor, clanging of the chain is echoing against the walls of the hangar. The bitch is trying hard to get out, her neck is clenched with metal, fur gets trapped inbetween the links. Barking and growling interwine in hysteria, like a passionate couple; dribbling saliva leaves wet traces on the floor, mixing together with blood streaming out of Bank Robber. Streams of blood cover his boots, his trousers, expand in all directions like an oil spot across the front of his shirt, almost reaching the black triangle of his mask. And underneath it, his tounge is rolling over from one side to the other. Floundering in a heap of darkness filled with fuck knows what. The black fabric is vibrating. Noise is rising. Squeaking noises of insects, their huge mandibles bite through their victims, their legs rubbing against each other, in extasy from all the insane plans they make. Bite off one's head, devour the father of their children, assassinate their rival, exterminate the whole species. Destroy a habitat, transfer a virus, bite into flesh and pass on rabies, bring somebody's will under control, destroy consciousness, literally get into somebody's shit, lay eggs and procreate. They hide but they get attracted by light. They squeak, buzz, drone, tear silence apart with their unbarable screech. It comes right out of Bank Robber's gob, from deep inside, from the wound in his stomach - they echo this endless fury. They simply live within his body. Their cells, holes, hidden passages, sand castles are within this body, where soul is supposed to be. But there's nothing even close to a soul there, just metamprphosis. A big miracle. A miracle that sometimes transforms fury by dressing it up in a beautiful costume. Like the one that Bank Robber is wearing.
Inspector slowly swallows, his Adam's apple butts up against the knot of a suffocating tie, against the neatly buttoned up shirt.

He has to loosen up this voluntary loop around his neck and take out the little circular piece of plastic out of the mother's slit with rims hemmed by tender children't fingers. The Adam's apple is set free and can move on, to then jerk back up. The eyes won't blink, they keep soaking in the reflected light. He takes a deep breath of liquid air, his heart is pounding. A pigeon caught by a hobo, a husband in love with another woman.

Pounding hard, anxiously. As if for the first time. His face is changing its colour — it's now the colour of soil — dark grey, moist, brittle. Inspector keeps watching.
And here's what he sees:
The eyes of Bank Robber are racing inside the eye sockets like cunning reptiles. Shredding surrounding space into pieces, all matter, every object, organ, insides, muscles and skin of the hangar. His feet seem pinned to the concrete floor. His hips, calves and knees twitch, his clothes is performing an epileptic dance. The blood isn't streaming anymore — with a distinctive sound it splashes out of the wound. His arm stretches towards Inspector, bends the elbow and straightens out again, fingers move, crack. It points at something, 'look over here, over here'. Like an excited child who found a bird caught in a room.

Look mom, look dad. Little sister, look. We have a helpless creature on the floor. I'm so happy, mom. I'm so happy, dad. I'm about to witness agony, let's look at it together.
Lifting the curtain of the black triangle, to the beat of the military march that grinds the insides of the robber, his Tongue crawls out. Slowly, with pride, he follows along the blood carpet, down towards the floor. He stretches out to her, to the bellowing shrieking Bitch. The dog is lost in fear, but there's nowhere to flight so fight is the only option. She throws her jaws towards the Tongue, over and over again, but keeps missing. Clank, clank, like bullets, the teeth strike each other, aiming to catch the flesh. Strangle, bite through, tear something apart. And the Tongue keeps dodging, almost politely, playfully, lets itself get too close to the deadly jaws, feeling its warmth. A cobra fighting a mongoose.

Suddenly — drums playing. Followed by tribal singing. Inspector can hear them clearly. And he wants to perform a dance of death. He has an urge to strike tight skin of drums with bones. He wants to sacrifice himself and gain peace. Bright and bitter peace, like the smell of freshly cut grass. Like a fight with dad. Inspector hits himself in the chest. Screams. The echo instantly hits the walls, eager to repeat over an over again.

The Tongue gets inside the dogs gob. With a horrid stifling kiss it tears out a mass of teeming insects and slowly crawls back up. It vigorously gets back into it's hole, closing the triangular curtain behind him. All sounds cease, an uneasy shameful silence hangs over them.

Inspector is on his knees. His eyes wonder around the hangar with disappointment. It's trying to avoid anything that's alive. Bank Robber turns over slowly. His black shoes rustling. He walks over to Inspector, looks down on him. Looks at his face, his broken nose, at the unbuttoned collar of his shirt. Seems like he wants to say something, but he changes his mind, looks the watch instead, as if remembering something important, turns back and walks towards the stairs.

The dog looks at Inspector. It's lying on its side, with its tongue out, its chest quickly moving up and down like after an intensive run. Her eyes are full of tears and she is whining quietly. She is asking for just one thing. For the big black policeman to kill her. Stop it — she begs — shoot me right now, can't you see.

Inspector gets off his knees. He can hear the dogs prayer but he doesn't care. He doesn't have courage to reply honestly, so he feeds her with promises.

"Tomorrow", he says, putting the dog into the most devious trap.
Investigation closed. Guilt everywhere. Moving to another place.
Chapter 6
Night time. Night so deep that it's hard to tell if it's morning. A folder on a table, a closed one. Closed is also the case within the documents in this folder. This table was moved here a while ago by two middle-aged loaders. They were paid a little extra to carry it all the way in and put in the right place. One of them had had too much to drink the night before and ended up punching his wife. He felt shame as he was moving the table. There are several stains on the varnished wooden table top. One of them is very fresh, left by a cup of coffee.

A woman who made this coffee had her first day at work - her hands were shaking. Doors keep opening and closing, this police station has seen a lot, but it doens't bother the doors. They let in and out criminals and those who catches them.
Inspector is at home, sitting in the kitchen, his face is lit by runrise. The window is to the left from him. A stain on the table, dirty dishes in the sink, cigarette ashes scattered around. His trousers are on the floor, a gun resting on them.

The target of his vision is hanging solitarily somewhere in the middle of the room, together with cigarette smoke. A new day is arriving.

A man is sat in an airplane, he is flying economy class. He is asleep, the window is closed by a plastic curtain — cold air drafting from underneath. Outside the window there is a plane wing, with a vast ocean framed by land beneath it. Fire is burning inside the plane.
The man is dreaming.
Of viscous black liquid and constant low noise.
Text, music and artworks by Zurkas Tepla,
translation and editing by Evgenia Barinova.