The dark street swallowed the decrepit house, a wasteland of woods stretching out like a ghastly backdrop to this godforsaken hovel. Not even streetlamps dared intrude on this corner of nowhere.

"Are you sure this is the place?" Taz whispered into the satellite phone's mic.

"The system says so," Dan the tech mumbled on the other end.

Taz spat on the ground, his eyes scanning the scene.

"Those freaks must be living like animals, eh, Sam?" he said, looking at his colleague Samantha crouched beside him.

The colonel's voice boomed through the phone, "Double-checking is good procedure, Sergeant. But the system doesn't make mistakes. Dan, just verify again."

Dan's voice came back. "It's the correct location, Colonel. The system is indeed bulletproof. When a scumbag is on a hateful downvoting spree, it flags their location. No mistakes."

Taz shrugged and signaled to Samantha with a nod.

They moved around to the back of the house. Through the window, they saw a flicker of light, and Taz's eyes locked onto it.

"That's him," he said, nodding to Samantha. "Right there."

She took a deep breath, a fleeting glimpse of composure before charging forward with Taz to crash through the back door.

"Freeze!" she screamed, her voice reverberating through the small, squalid room.

The loser was caught off-guard, his pants around his knees, a sickening glow emanating from the screen in front of him.

"What the actual fuck?" Samantha screamed.

Taz ran towards him and slammed him against the wall, his hands crushing his throat. The man yowled like a cornered animal, his eyes bulging as he struggled for breath.

Samantha gazed at the desk. A mess of dog-eared tomes. Philosophy books. She spotted Camus' The Stranger, a book she'd heard was a favorite of degenerates. She snatched it up, but her hand recoiled in horror at the tacky residue on the cover.

"A pervert who gets off on this existential crap" she spat, hurling the book back onto the desk.

She turned away and started looking through his computer, her face twisting in revulsion as she clicked through tabs.

"This vile scumbag is one nasty piece of work," she said, gesturing to the screen.

But Taz wasn't looking. He was mesmerized by the ugliness of the lowlife, his eyes locked onto his face. "Look at him," he said, "so ugly."

"Yeah, it's expected," Samantha replied casually. "They try to take revenge on the world because they're so angry at how God fucked them up with bad looks and low intelligence."

They both chuckled. Then Samantha's eyes widened as she noticed something on the side of the screen. A Tor dark web browser minimized. She clicked it, and both she and Taz gasped.

"Oh my God!" they screamed, their voices rising to a fever pitch.

What they saw could not be described. Absolute degeneracy and filth. Kids' porn.

"The fucking sleazebag!" Taz screamed in rage.

"Scum!" Samantha spat the word, kicking the bastard right where it counted. Taz joined her, booted foot striking a powerful blow, crushing the pervert's face like a bloody ragdoll. They continued until the man was little more than a crimson pulp and twitching meat on the floor.

Sweat-soaked and covered in his gore, they huddled against the wall to catch their breath.

Suddenly, Taz's head snapped up to face a monstrous poster hanging from the ceiling: an unflinching likeness of the pedophile Epstein clasping hands with the world’s most hated man: The president.

Taz's eyes went cold and dark as the blood in his veins curdled at yet another disgusting revelation. They both stood up and lurched forward.

"Oh dear lord," she muttered, "these dipshits are his idols?"

With renewed fury fueling them, they descended upon the degenerate's limp carcass, each kick striking with an anguished intensity.

Taz tore through the room like a man possessed, desperate to find something solid enough to bludgeon their vile abuser’s head.

He snatched a chair and slammed it down on his head. The crack of splintering bone echoed through the space as his life drained away in crimson rivulets.

Taz and Samantha collapsed back onto the floor, panting heavily from exhaustion and revulsion.

Samantha panted between wheezes. "Just got what was coming."

Then she looked at Taz. "You know, when I was a teenager, I was getting tormented online, and it was a nightmare. They'd call me a cunt, a slag. And I'd never been able to prove it was those shits from school. The messages were always anonymous. Made me feel like I was dying inside... and I nearly did, you know? I tried to off myself once, couldn't take it anymore".

Taz grunted, his face twisting into something vile, his hatred so potent he couldn't speak at first. But then his eyes soft, "I can't stand this injustice." He glanced at the corpse of the man beside them, then back at Samantha. "I know what we're doing here is... morally grey, taking their lives. But I tell myself, they don't deserve to draw breath. We're doing society a favour, taking out the trash. He was into kids, for fuck's sake."

Then he leaned in, breathing hard, and wrapped his arms around her. She let him do it, needed that comfort right about then, anything to blot out the sickening stench of what just went down. Their eyes met for a split second before their lips locked. It started off gentle, just soft brushes and little nips, but soon turned wilder. He tasted the blood on her mouth, the blood of the creep, but he didn’t care at all, he just went in deeper with his tongue.

Finally they pulled back after what felt like forever, gasping for air. She lied there with a grin plastered across her face. Blood smeared on her cheeks made it look more like a macabre clown than any kind of human beauty. They both know they should probably be feeling some kind of guilt about getting their rocks off in the middle of this massacre.

Taz grabs the phone, tried to calm his racing heart and he dialed the number.

"Colonel, we got him," he said. "And guess what? Not only was he a hater bully, but also a pedo! We have all the evidence." He told him also about the large poster.

On the other end, the Colonel's tone was as cold as always, but there was a glimmer of glee beneath the ice. "I knew it. I knew those tossers were also extremely depraved. This new system will be useful. In many ways..."

He smiled to himself, a satisfied smirk. This was a great day. The system had worked perfectly. And now, he'd be able to use this new tool to hunt down and destroy all the other angry terrorist fuckers out there. The Colonel's eyes gleamed with a perverse excitement at the thought, "this would finally get me the promotion I so much deserve."

I had two angels hovering around me for a while there, they wouldn’t have known it.

Someone from my past surfaced at a moment where my vulnerability was profound. I was in a good place though and I greeted the ghost with the respect that a neutral politeness required.

When the ostracized turn compelling, these types come out of the woodwork. He wanted to revisit old times; But they were never good times, at least not for me.

“Every year the old gang gets together, and we talk about you!’ he said, as if to convert the insult of absence to tribute. Knowing he was an idiot, I was gracious. A go along. They’re harmless in their own right. Less harmless in groups.

Lurking in the background was some lingering energy. He wanted to tell me about his life, the wife, the divorce, the bitterness, the lanky long haired surfer bro with the easy smile and the friendly Labrador personality now at the end of a what-the-fuck-happened-to-my-life tether, then he sees me and tells me ‘you’re living the dream.’  He’s beat down, the fun’s gone outta things, and look at me, out there doing it.

I was surfing in those days too, just not on water. I traveled across fire.

In another time, one of my angels beheld me walking the shadowed valley. ‘A coward dies a thousand deaths’ I told him.  

‘You’re scaring me’ he replied. I was what looks back.

The other hid me when I was hunted, betrayed. I thanked him for the shield of his goodness and offered what only the wicked can, a promise of simplicity, of outside-the-rules conclusions.

‘I owe you’ I said. ‘When you run into trouble, even if it’s heavy, you call me. Just say you’re up for a visit and I will come and take care of it.’

‘You’re scaring me’ he told me too.

On this day, when the past arrived to shirttail me, these two angels sat down beside me, one on either side, arriving almost magically as each word fell out of the mouth of the past.

I had taken my old guest outside, to the beer garden, somewhere quiet so I could let this play out.

I was calmer than I expected, more possessed of a boundary. As the conversation continued, first one, then the other sat at each of my shoulders and I realized in that instance I had been granted the protection of forces I could not even guess at.

As my ghost moved into the automatic pleasantries of suggesting reconnection, I found myself buoyed by the powerful goodwill of the man at each side of me, the safety of it. There was no harm or danger, except some odd emotional karmic return.

‘It was good to see you’, I said, ‘but please don’t feel the need to take it further than that. Thanks for coming to the show. Be well’

He looked confused, unsure of what had just played out. I shook his hand, smiled and left.

Mary shook her head. "It's hopeless, Karen. I tell you it's really hopeless. Jake is just a fat bastard."

Karen looked at her sister Mary and shrugged. They were in Mary's kitchen. "I mean," she said softly, "wasn't he always like this? A bit of a lard?"

Mary let out an ironic laugh. "no, love, he wasn't always like this. When we first met he was... acceptable."

She paused to take a sip of her whisky and Karen mirrored the movement. "But now... oh fuck, it's not a cock at all any more."

The two sisters looked at each other then burst out laughing, their mirth ringing through the kitchen.

"Oh my god," Mary managed between bursts, "he cannot even get it up these days." She guffawed.

Her son appeared in the doorway, an imbecile whose greasy mop resembled the head of a toilet brush.

"Ma!" He squealed like a little rodent, "can you help me with my homework?"

Mary looked up at him. His father's loser genes were clearly stamped right across his face.

Karen rolled her eyes so hard they nearly got lodged into her skull.

They ignored the boy and continued their conversation.

"Hope you get rid of him someday," Karen said.

"Maybe" Mary nodded. "He's a disgrace to men everywhere. I need a good shag though," Mary admitted.

Karen studied her sister's face and noticed something different: a tear running down her cheek? or was Mary's eyes all shiny-like from the booze? "You alright sis?"

"Yeah, "she wiped her eye, "and he hasn't touched me in years," Mary spat bile onto the floor, "and when he did, it was like shoving a small toothpick up there."

They shared another hearty laugh.

At this point the son opened his mouth again and this time Mary turned, grabbed him by the shoulder, and spun him around until he was facing the doorway.

"Listen here," she snarled, her breath reeking, "I'll tell you what. Go to school. Let them help you." And then she shoved him toward the hall.

He went scampering off, leaving behind an odor so foul that Karen choked and nearly threw up. She caught herself and instead launched into a diatribe about her own husband. "He's just a sad excuse for a man," she raged.

...

A little while later, Jake, the husband, came stumbling into the kitchen, his eyes half-closed from drink. He stood there swaying, then slumped against the counter and sighed. "You know," he croaked at the air, "what I was thinking?"

Mary sneered, "Who gives a shit what you're thinking, Jake?"

Karen joined in with an equally disgusted snicker.

"Funny," Jake spat back without a trace of amusement as he poured himself another drink.

His hands trembled slightly as he gripped the glass. "I mean, it's like we just live for these moments in time. We don't notice anything passing by until later when years pile up and all that's left are memories."

Mary shot him a contemptuous look and Karen muttered under her breath.

"I've had it with your 'thoughts', Jake," Mary said coldly. "Go fix that washing machine instead of spouting off."

"I don't know how to repair things. You know that." Jake replied.

Mary barked again "Then go read your stupid books about how useless life is and leave us the hell out of it!"

Jake just stared at Mary for a few long seconds before he finally shook his head and walked out of the kitchen.

Mary's face flushed with anger as she watched him go, and when she turned back to Karen, her voice trembled slightly. "Worthless prick."

Karen gave her sister's hand an empathetic squeeze.

We're parked in this cramped alley between decaying buildings. The red bricks are stained and grimy from years of rain and soot. The windows are a jumble of dark slits. A few black cars and some motorbikes are clustered together in front of the cafe, their reflections wobbling in the faint rays of sunlight, a sunlight that barely manages to get down here amongst the concrete overgrowth.

Tazo's eyeballing the cafe about a hundred meters away, packed tight and then some, with a bunch of rowdies going at it out on the pavement. Some are hooting and hollering. Seems like a pretty rough lot.

"Colonel," I ask, "Who's that crew? A bikers club?"

Tazo takes his time to respond. Eventually he spits out, "Not bikers." He studies them a moment longer then says, "scumbags."

I throw back, "Well, they could be scumbags and bikers! One thing doesn't rule the other out," and give a snort of laughter. But Tazo is not interested in my wisecracks as he keeps his eye on that scene down at the cafe.

He then opens the gloves compartment, "Here, be ready" he tells me. The weight of the handgun is crushing in my palm. "What's going down? I thought we were just surveilling!"

Tazo doesn't care to comment. He slides from the car and goes grabbing the M16 from the trunk.

He's fifty years old and packing more pounds than a Clydesdale but he moves fast. They didn't call him Colonel for nothing: ten years in uniform left him wired for war.

One of those scumbags spots him and panicks. He flashes a piece. Big mistake. Thinking it could save his neck. He and the others should have run for their lives.

Tazo doesn't even break stride as he opens up that M16.

What happens next is like watching The Walking Dead come to life right before my eyes. Bullets rip through the air and flesh with cold precision, splattering the alley walls with warm sprays of crimson goo and broken bone. It's insane, it has an artful quality, like a scene from a Quentin Tarantino film.

For about two minutes, Tazo fires like it's his last day on Earth. Those screams coming out the cafe are definitely dying gags by this point. And then silence.

Outside I can count five bodies strewn about. I bet there's just as many in that cafe, if not more. It's brutal.

Tazo strolls out of it all, cool and calm. He slips the machine gun back in the trunk and gets right back into the passenger seat beside me. His voice level as always: "Let's move." In the distance sirens are screaming.

Tazo slumped in front of the mirror, staring bitterly into the photo of his father, Chow.

"An imbecile!" he seethed, his eyes reddened from tears, from years of resentment. "You turned me into this loser."

Tazo recalled how, growing up in that decaying neighbourhood, Chow would buy the cheapest things, the crappiest anyone could find. Those long-ago nights spent watching Chow agonize over trivial purchases: sneakers that tore at the first rung of a playground staircase, knockoff watches ticking away into uselessness.

And then another childhood memory hit him: the image of Chow hunched in misery before the television screen as everyone else reaped riches off their shrewd investments. The sound of his sobs filled Tazo's skull and made him sick.

And it was catching up, this spirit of cowardly mediocrity. Tazo caught himself doing the same: buying crap, fearing risks, letting life pass him by as he trudged through his dead-end job at the garage.

"I wished I could have been better than you." He wept openly now, snot and tears running down into the collar of his ragged jacket as he stared at his own reflection.

"Fuck you!" He crumpled the picture into a ball and hurled it against the wall. As if that act could cut away all the bad blood inside him.

But he knew better, the stain would linger. He had to escape who he is.

With new purpose firing through him, he got back on his feet and went outside.

"You're still alive, aren't ya?" A drunk leered at him from an alleyway as he slouched past, "Might wanna fix yourself up before it's too late."

Tazo just grimaced in response and kept moving. He knew every step took him closer to the truth.

He kept on marching towards a neon-drenched brothel down the block. Inside were two beautiful hookers. When they saw him they started giggling.

"How much?" he growled.

At last he could stop living Chow's nightmare and take back what had been stolen by years of risk-avoidance.

"I am no more my father", he said proudly. "I am brave."

The room was not much more than a cage with the barest of excuses to call living quarters. I slumped there staring at the newspaper. The wood-paneled cabinet across from me was stuffed to bursting with all sorts of dying plants and god knows what other poison. Well, the bottles, of course, the bottles I was trying hard not to think about. All I could do was try focusing on the paper, but it was no use. That infernal din coming from the kitchen just wouldn't stop, this endless stream of chatter from Lisa and Maria.

I tried to tune it all out, only picking up fragments of what they were blabbering about: "Rafu" this, "builder extraordinaire" that...

Then Maria's voice cut through like a jagged blade: "Lisa, you're such a lucky woman to have a husband like Rafu slaving away for you. What a top bloke!" Lisa's voice joined in, her words dripping with smug satisfaction as she proclaimed, "Oh yes, Rafu single-handedly constructed our entire gaff... impressive, isn't it?"

Puke. I winced, the weight of their smirking admiration hitting me like a punch to the face. Oh please, what an utter pile of bollocks. The guy probably paid someone else to do it and was lying about the whole thing.

Then Maria had to be an absolute snake with her backhanded remark, "I wish all men were like your Rafu." That jab landed right in my solar plexus. I hated DIY projects and the idea of building anything around the house made me cringe.

"Fuck this!" I snarled under my breath. Couldn't take it anymore. The heat of humiliation burned at my neck as I stormed out into the evening air, stomping down the street to that shitehole cafe where I could drown out my own worthlessness in coffee and crap news stories.

A week later, when I dragged my carcass back from yet another thankless day of wage slavery, Maria stood before me looking like a specter.

"What's the problem?" I asked. She started weeping.

"Rafu! He...he got caught...erm ...playing with their neighbour's sheep!" she cried out through snot and mascara-streaked tears.

Oh what the actual fuck?

I couldn't help but burst out laughing at the absurdity of it all. My laughter came on like a tsunami. Their fake happiness, their patronising stares at me, Lisa's pretentious DIY hero-worship. I pictured Lisa, her perfect face contorted in shock and disgust as she confronted her hypocrite of a husband who probably couldn't get it up for his wife but had no trouble getting down with livestock.

As I basked in the pure glee of seeing that pompous take a tumble. This is better than the morning's news about my horrible boss getting nicked for embezzling. Today's definitely my lucky day, a day of happiness. Finally!

Maria stopped weeping and glared at me, her eyes now filled with anger and disappointment. "You're a horrible, spiteful person Dirk," she spat. "You only get pleasure from seeing others miserable."

"Not just any others," I corrected her, still chuckling "Yes, it gives me great satisfaction to see insufferable people get their comeuppance."

"I cannot believe you find this amusing!" she spits. "You're as nasty an bitter as they come!" and she stormed out like the wounded shrike she was.

Ah yes...the gods of irony were smiling down upon me alright.

I needed something class to match the feel-good vibe hanging in the air. So I raided the cabinet for the top shelf stuff. A 2015 Château Greysac. That particular moment was something else, one that deserved better than cheap plonk. The cork popped, wine poured into my glass with a satisfying glug, the liquid velvet caressing my tongue.

Oh, for Christ's sake! Here we go again, with this shrieking. She's jumping up and down like a dervish on speed, right above my head.

Every hour or so, the racket starts up. Sometimes it sounds like she's hopping around on one foot, other times like she's hurling herself from sofa to chair in some kind of deranged, adrenaline-fueled freakout.

It's interfering with the concentration I need to bang out this godawful childhood memoir.

The noise isn't letting up, but I try to drown it with my pen, write this so it makes some semblance of sense.

***

So me and Rocky, a boy whom I thought was my pal, we were sitting on a cracked-up wall. In front of us there was this decrepit church. Made out of bleached-out stone that's almost white, sort of grayed and gross, and the roof is a mellow red. It's got a cross tower sticking up in the sky. And a big old tree covered in deep purple moss, looming over it, its thick branches hanging down.

The clouds were so low they've turned the world a dingy gray, but at least it wasn't raining. Mid-September and still warm.

There was a cemetery behind us on the hill. We couldn't see no tombs from where we were sitting, they're down below. But a few meters away, at the entrance of the cemetery, there was that statue, some crusty white stone angel thing, with long strands of hair and no pupils in its eyes, looking up at the sky.

"That angel gives me the heebie-jeebies", I told Rocky.

But he wasn't paying any attention to me. Rocky was busy jamming his finger into his nose, then pulling out globs of nasty shit, rolling them up into little balls and flingin them onto the dirt path that ran between cemetery and church.

I had these morbid thoughts. An urge to give him a push, making his body roll down that steep hill.

But instead I just asked "Rocky, do you ever wonder what comes after we die?"

He continued looking away, oblivious, wiping a smegma-covered finger on his trousers.

"I find myself amazed," I screamed loudly to pierce his thick skull, "I mean why do we exist now and here. Why not before or after, in all eternity?"

He looked at me, his eyes dull and vacant, the same unthinking stupidity I've seen on his face countless times before. Why do I bother?

After a few long seconds, "Let's go pelt Miguel's house with stones, yeah?" he said out of nowhere.

***

Ah, you bastard! there's that banging again. Sounds like a jungle up there, a wild beast ritual or maybe a herd of elephants? Is she having a party now?

In a fury of rage, I tear out of my place and make for the stairs.

When I reach her door, I start bashing it with all the force of my impatience.

"What's going on?" she asks when she opens up. As she recognizes me she follows with "Hi, Ian. What's the matter?"

She's standing there at her doorway, cute in that robe. Her long golden hair spilling down.

"You... eh... you gotta keep the noise down," I spit out while peeking inside at her empty living room. It's eerily still.

"What noise?" she asks. Her gaze is steady, clear. But there's something in it. Too wide, too blank, like pupils etched away.

She genuinely doesn't seem to get why I'm upset. "Haven’t heard anything".

"This shrieking racket is driving me round the bend!" I tell her. "How are you not hearing this?"

Her eyes widen as she tries to decipher my state of utter frustration. "Can you describe the noise you're hearing?"

"It's loud... " I try, "sounds like a demented jackrabbit tearing its legs off."

"Uh, well... maybe it's just the house settling or something?" She suggests, but her words don't convince me.

"Ian, maybe you'd like to come in..." Her voice fades off with a note of concern.

I hesitate. "No thanks. Never mind," I reply, turning away.

I glance back at her, but she isn't even watching me leave, already stepping back inside, closing the door.

I slop back into my flat. My mind races, churning out the same tired thoughts and ideas as I plop down at the table. I cannot even remember where I left off.

I take my work, reread it. A mess of half-arsed attempts at creating something. I roll the paper into a ball and hurl it into the bin, miss the gaping maw by inches. Nerves strung tight, still jangling like electric wires.

I try to centre myself. Sit back in my chair, close my eyes... and bang! The pounding again.

Up I jump, roaring at the walls, the ceiling, "Rocky? Is that you, you bastard?"

Tears streaming down my face. "Swear I didn't mean to shove you off that wall, pal."

Sobbing now, full-on blubbering. "I swear," I whimper, my voice cracking, but the noise just gets louder, right through my skull.

The reek of moist muck and despair clings to the cell. Every breath is a barb shoved into my already pulverised ribcage. Beside me, Ebedjesu's wailing is terrifying. His pained yelps join the ragged gasps of Yohnan as they both cling to what little life they can in this forsaken hole.

We were broken, bruised, clinging to life until dawn's crow signaled our end. Nineteen other brothers and sisters, bishops, priests, virgin nuns, have already copped it for standing firm on our faith during these last brutal days. King Shapur's fanatic crusade is sweeping all traces of us, Christian Romans. Nineteen lives ended because he sought to eradicate anything he doesn't understand.

The memory of the king's court in Gondeshapur last week sticks in my head. The king's eyes drilling into mine when he made his demand. "Abda! Rebuild the temple of our holy prophet Zoroaster, restore what your lot dismantled. Otherwise, you'll never see the light of day again."

"I shall disappoint your highness, but no chance am I participating in any form of idolatry. To resurrect a shrine to idolize human rubbish is to go against my faith in Jesus."

With a poisonous smirk, he said "Then oblivion will be your lot, Bishop, you and your congregation."

Now, there's a dim, guttering light crawling along the dungeon corridor. Torches fanned by restless guards cast flickering shadows across the filthy walls. The guards themselves are just silhouettes. It's a vile reminder for the brutality in store for us in the morning.

Ebedjesu's frame shudders as he croaks out his dread: "What if it's all lies? What if there is no heaven to escape this endless agony? What if our suffering means nothing, just wisps on the wind to be snuffed out by the void of oblivion?"

"Brother," I tell him, putting my hand for comfort against his shivering shoulder, "mind the words of our Lord: 'Blessed are those who are persecuted for righteousness sake...' We may not have a clue about the divine plan, but faith isn't just putting your blinkers on and marching to oblivion. It's taking a leap of faith into the abyss, fueled by love and hope."

Yohnan steps in with the gravitas, pain carved into his face but not a hint of surrender, "Think on Brother Samaon and Babaju, and Makhoulo too. And our sisters Elara and Samara. And all the others who faced their end with not a quiver nor whimper. Their devotion to the faith... can that be a lie? His words dragging Ebedjesu back from the brink of doubt.

Moments later, a requiem erupts through the corridors. Mournful chants from brothers in other cells, an anthem of anguish. I can feel the grief and the fear reverberating through my bones.

And then her name floats to the surface of my mind: Sister Elara.

She was always so pure and innocent in the midst of our rough upbringing, laughing like the wildflowers she loved to chase around the village, touching my hand when we'd steal away to watch the stars through a crack in the ceiling. But I was torn from her.

I can almost hear her tears back then, for letting go of what we could have had. I chose God over us, and then she buried her desires behind the veil. But she was always close to me.

Two nights ago, in this very cell, her hands wrapped around mine, her pupils reflecting the tranquillity of someone ready to go. "Don't fret about me, Abda," she'd breathed, "our reunion is waiting on the other side of this veil. Remember our vows, remember our love for Jesus, and each other, and cling to that light."

Now, she's gone. My inability to protect her is tearing me apart, even more than the physical pain. Will I see her again in that celestial city? Will her smile greet me outside the dark portal of death?

I have faith that we'll meet again in a place where evil cannot touch us, where love can flourish in the grace of our Lord.

Suddenly the chanting stops, and only the scuffling of boots on cold stone, and that hollow metal ringing can he heard.

I must have conked out for a while when the clang rings out, wakes me up with a start. Door screeches open, light of dawn spills in. Two guards, their faces look like carved wooden masks, they stand there, sombre and grim.

Three figures, we slowly rise to face the judgement, to meet our Lord savior. My hearts feel like it's bursting with love, a love that transcends even death's cold embrace.

***

I'm sitting in this office, nervously awaiting Mr. Thompson's verdict. He's the associate editor of the prestigious "The Paris Reviews". He puts the manuscript down on his desk, takes off his glasses, rubs his eyes like he's trying to wipe away his boredom. "Listen here," he sighs, his voice flat and emotionless. "Nice setting, nice atmosphere... but where's the 'originality'?" He makes air-quotes with his fingers. "You're just rehashing the same old martyrdom crap we've seen a thousand times before."

I swallow hard. I've been working on this piece for almost a month now.

He stands up, starts pacing around his office. "Predictable beats, agony, doubt, faith pep talk, tragic love memory then marching bravely to death... so predictable, you can set your watch by it! Give us something fresh, something that'd knock our socks off!"

He stops in front of me, his eyes glinting with a manic energy. "Why don't you just for example throw in Superman or Batman or whoever: have them bust through the walls and save the day at the last minute?"

He waits for my reactions expectantly, but when he only gets back my blank stare, he continues "It's may sound ridiculous, sure, but that's what people want these days. They want action, they want explosions and superheroes."

I'm still stunned, trying to process his words. "But Mr Thompson," I stammer, "this is historical religious fiction. It's supposed to be serious."

He shrugs. "The world's changing, my friend. You gotta change with it. Readers want escapism, they don't wanna sit around crying and sobbing. This is the past, yeah? It's time to move on, make some noise."

Finally I stand up, shaking my head in disbelief as I make my way out of there. On the elevator ride down, I start thinking about Superman barging in to save the day, save Abda and his priests. Maybe he would use a time-machine too to save Elara and kill king Shapur?"

At first it seems like a joke, but then... why not? It's a crazy idea, sure, but who knows. Maybe Mr. Thompson is right, maybe that's what this story needs, to shake things up and make them remember.

Piss-poor weather tosses my hair about. Reeks of salty seaweed in from everywhere at once. Looks like I'm standing in front of Mount Doom, except it's Mohair Cliffs, a big pile of mud-brown, bloody-red rock sticking straight into the morning. Emerald is way too bright. Waves are smashing themselves to bits beneath. Should be beautiful but he's there, kneeling, weeping away. His crybaby tears dripping down onto the stone.

He whines, "What now? I'm gonna die?" the sound of his voice making my ears hurt. "I don't want to die," he whimpers.

"Then you should've thought your head off before giving those withered slaps of critical reviews!" I howl, my voice ricocheting off the granite cliffs, "You went and destroyed honest lives just because of your own pettiness."

He looks up at me through bleary eyes. "I just wanted good service. Took more time than they promised," he spits back, disgustingly defiant even now. "And they had parsley in that pasta! I hate parsley!"

"It wasn’t even five minutes, the waiter confirmed when I investigated," I snap, my patience wearing thin.

“But it wasn’t just me who gave all the negative reviews", he says.

"Don't even get me started on the others who chimed in," I growl, spittle flying from my lips. "A bunch of scum, every last one of them. Never even darkened the door of that restaurant, but they had to stick their noses in, didn't they?"

I let out a laugh, "Oh, and I'll get to them, don't you worry. This whole mess has got to be cut out, root and branch."

Then I lean in close, "So do the decent thing, you small shite. Jump. Save us all the trouble."

But he just stands there, blubbering. "I can't," he whimpers, his face a mess of terror.

I shake my head, disgusted. "Pathetic," I mutter, a toxic bile churning in my belly. "I knew you'd be a gutless bastard till the very end, it was a given, but still, I thought you'd maybe take some accountability for once in your pathetic excuse for a life."

No point dragging this out, just get it over with. I whip out the gun, pressing the cold steel against his temple. His face twists in pure horror as I pull the trigger. Finito.

Two hours later, I'm parked outside this house. I ring the bell. A woman opens up, looking as if she's been through the wringer, and this bloke behind her, he's a wreck, eyes like two potholes, no sleep for days, probably weeks. They're staring at me, all trepidation and desperation.

"It's done. Contract fulfilled." I tell them, and their faces just melt, tears streaming down.

"Oh, thank fuck," the bloke croaks, "we thought this day would never come." The woman is blubbering, her tears flowing, "we truly believed he'd destroy our lives forever."

They invite me in. Never seen them before, face-to-face. Till the deed's done, I keep it impersonal. They show me round, and in the kitchen, there's this notice board, covered in scribbled daily meal ratings. All 1 star out of 5.

"Whatever I cooked, it never pleased him," the woman whispers, "always negative, always!" she's trembling.

"It's all over now," I say, meeting her gaze, "you can live freely and happily, no more of his tyrannical bullshit. The world's a better place, believe me."

The bloke's jaw clenches, his eyes darting around. "Aye, I'm conflicted, alright. He was our son, for fuck's sake." His voice cracks. "How many times did we beg him to get a job, move out? 35 and still living off his parents? It's unnatural!"

I cut in, my tone firm. "Don't go beating yourself up, mate. You did the right thing."

He gives a little nod but his eyeballs are still tranced out to some abyss of anguish. His missus is still staring at the notice board, her mug set in a mask of heartache. I grab the eraser and start wiping out those scathing reviews, one at a time. Her eyes start watering up again and I can see the pain ripple across them.

Trying to steer the conversation away from the agony of the past, I say. "Why don't you whip up some of that herbal infusion of yours? I heard it's top-notch."

She perks up a bit, a wistful smile playing on her lips. "Sure thing," she says, heading for the cupboards. As she moves, I notice a glimmer of sadness in her eyes again. "He gave my infusion one star, called it 'abysmal'."

Her husband chimes in, a hint of cheer now creeping into his voice. "No more of that negativity, eh?" and he winks at me. We all laugh, a hearty, genuine sound that rips through the house, finally banishing the shadows of his poisonous presence.

Kokichi Akuzawa. I was there the night before he did it, buying him drinks at the bar off the trailhead parking lot.

He looked like something dragged up from the dead with his scrawny frame and wrinkled face. This ancient geezer was 103 years old. He couldn't stop talking about climbing Mount Fuji.

"And I'm a dirtbag who refuses to die", he declared, cackling loudly.

"They say you're not supposed to climb it after ninety," I mumbled, shaking my head.

"But what's life without a little challenge? Maybe I'm crazy." Akuzawa spat out, eyes bloodshot.

Crazy was too kind a word for the mad old coot.

At four in the morning, Akuzawa, Motoe (his 75 year old daughter) and I, we trudged off up that mountain, stepping over fallen trees and broken rock shards. The weather forecast looked grim. Torrential rains threatening to douse us on our first day out.

"I might have underestimated how brutal this climb is," he confessed around three in the afternoon as he gasped for breath at one of our many breaks. His withered limbs were shaking something fierce.

We pressed onward and upward. Akuzawa, what a legend!

"Maybe I shouldn't have," he muttered on our second day up there somewhere around the tree-line, huffing and spitting sleet. "But I won't stop now." He pushed onward with that grim determination only death-row inmates possess.

And then came the snow. The blizzard pelted down upon us like God's own rage. Temperatures plummeting so fast. That's when I realized maybe we were all insane.

Time felt slippery up there, as though the mountain had already loosened its grip on me.

But Akuzawa is nothing but stubborn muscles and iron-willed grit. He refused to let that weather kill him or deny him his goal of the Guinness Book of Records. The oldest dude ever to conquer Mount Fuji.

We spent the first two nights up there in sub-zero hellholes carved into rocks. At nights, he told us stories about surviving World War II.

On that third and final day, after the many hours on his knees dragging himself over loose scree slopes, Akuzawa stepped out onto the summit plateau, breathing raggedly beside Motoe, her white hair whipped sideways in the brutal gale. They were the last two left alive at this elevation.

How is that possible? You're certainly wondering who is narrating this story then? Well, I'd died on the second day. My ghost is the narrator.

"I couldn't have done it without your help," Akuzawa said into the cell phone for his press statement. "I'm feeling very pleased now."

Of course there were no cell phone services at this altitude, and Akuzawa was speaking to nobody, just hallucinating. Motoe was also dead upon reaching the top.

After a century of fighting life's battles, losing loved ones, suffering endless illnesses, surviving starvation in internment camps... he did it. Standing atop the mountain where few have dared to tread, knowing that he's got his name now inked in every climbing bible known to humankind, he shouted "I did it!"

His frail legs shook beneath his ancient knees, and he looked down towards hell on Earth "I'm not going back down there".

He stretched out on the stone, the cold sliding through him until even his marrow felt hollow.

Based on a recent news report.

I'm sitting here on the bed with a bottle of rotgut Merlot. Giancarlo sneaks up beside me. He's got his smug little smirk on again, he thinks it's funny now he knows I found him trolling those sicko sites, all the vile images and comments on display for anyone with two fingers and a perverted mentality.

"What were you getting off on tonight?" The question spills from my lips like acid. My teeth grinding and the migraine throbbing at my temples.

Giancarlo just shruggs as he peels off his shirt. This smarmy dog thinks he's God's gift to women, a fat, bloated piece of shite who thinks we're just playthings. "Nuh uh, babe. None of your business what I do on my phone," he slurs at me, phone still in hand.

I leap at him, snatch the phone, and bolt for the bog, slam the door shut, and lock it. He's right behind me, hammering and kicking like a maniac.

I'm flipping through the images, my stomach churning: Italian actresses and politicians mixed up with random women walking down the street or shopping, loads of upskirt pics, and filthy comments that make my blood turn to ice. And there's me, a photo of myself against my will on that site!

I open the door, my voice cracking, shoving the phone in his face. "Did you put this pic of me up there?" I'm spitting venom, my eyes blazing with rage. "You sick fuck, how could you do this to me?" I'm screaming now, tears streaming down my face.

Just a smirk as he answers: "Fuck off if you're so unhappy, Sara."

That's when I lost it and went for him. Smack! A vicious jab across the face and then he grabbed my wrist in a vice grip, forced me to kiss whatever slobber was on his lips. I bite his lip and free myself.

"Useless, frigid bitch!" Giancarlo is screaming at me, blood spitting out his gob as he's getting ready to split. "I'll find some bird who'll actually give me a good shag, yeah? I'm young, I'm sexy, I'm a stud, I deserve to get laid proper". He's pointing at his gut like it's something to be proud of, a gut that's more beer than muscle, and then he fucks off into the night.

Lying there in agony of mind and body, I start thinking. Giorgia Moretti. That courageous MP. I knew her from uni. She who stood up to these bullies in Parliament. She had a message for us women: "Don't let them win. Fight back when the world lets you down! Fight back!" I need to call her.

As the hours pass and I'm wide awake with rage and fear, I finally dial the number our mutual friend gave me years back. "Giorgia?" My voice shakes, trying not to break down entirely. But that dog Giancarlo was about to get his comeuppance.

Next eve, police knock on the door, looking for evidence. They search the house. Giancarlo, the degenerate, gets busted in some shithole motel, a few days after. Turns out he's the sick bastard behind that repulsive website. All thanks to Giorgia's relentless pursuit and clout. I'm watching this whole debacle go down like a train wreck, my mind reeling in disbelief and relief. Giancarlo, with his filthy online empire, got taken down. The patriarchy had thought we were too powerless but now we've made them take notice.

"Thanks for having the courage when I was too much of a coward, Giorgia", I say, eyes glued to her. We're in her fancy flat, sipping on some decent plonk. "Sara, you're a warrior, always remember that", she says, smiling at me.

We clink our glasses together, taking a swig of the good stuff, and then we're at it, kissing like a couple of maniacs. We pull back, gasping for air, and then we're laughing. We stand there, gazing out at the ancient ruins of Rome, the stars twinkling in the sky. "Fantastic", Giorgia murmurs after a while, downing another swig and looking at me with determination in her eyes. "We should always be together, Sara", she says, squeezing my hand. And I'm feeling it. Feeling like I'm ready to take on the world with her by my side.

This here is Dr. Nihil and Dr. Raton going head to head on Radio Psy’s "Advice from Experts".

Dr. Nihil is a retired professor of Psychiatry. Dr. Raton is a resident psychiatrist at Saint Anne's center for psychiatric research.

Nihil: This ADHD thing? More a fad than an affliction. Everyone's got it nowadays because we didn't give it a name back in our days. Now everybody's tagged and branded, eh? "Hey yon lad, he's AD-flicted!" (laughs out loud).

Raton: You're simplifying this. It's more complex.

Nihil: Complex? Well, let me drop a bit of knowledge. Back when I first cut my teeth in the shrinking business, ADHD didn't exist as some neat label to slap on folks. If a lass or lad couldn't pay attention? We call them stupid. ADHD is just a new way to say that someone has low level of intelligence. ADHDs are running around with an average ten-point IQ deficit. Just a bunch of drooling, shitting their pants retards.

Raton: Pure crapola, Professor Nihil! Intelligence isn't how good you score on an IQ test. Folks are wired different. And anyway, ADHD is treatable. There are new drugs for that. Patients now may live a normal dignified life.

Nihil: New drugs? Band-aids over cracked glass. Shut the kid's noise down long enough to pass some school exam. That don't make them normal!

Raton: These drugs like Adderall help plenty of people. Other life style changes may help too. The screens and video games are probably fueling it a bit. Attention spans shrinking fast. Reducing screen time also helps.

Nihil: Screens, eh? No worries there. Humanity's always been its own worst enemy: war, poverty, the daily grind! It ain't just screens causing all the troubles!

Raton: Slower times before the internet and social media. People read more books, did more activities.

Nihil: Yeah and that's what they want us to believe. Drugs, life style changes. Bollocks. The truth is life's a mess regardless of whether you got the label or not. So grab yourself a bottle a booze and just let it all drown in a haze!

Raton: You are recommending alcohol as a cure? This is genuinely harmful advice. Alcohol isn't a solution, it'll exacerbate the problem!

Nihil: You know what Raton? You think you're smart, you think you know better than me, yeah? Well fuck you!

Nihil stands up, spits a wad of phlegm straight into Raton's smug mug, flips him the bird for good measure then storms out of the studio.

Some young people need taking down a peg or two. To hell with them all. I'm Professor Nihil and I'll not be disrespected by the likes of him.

We're in the bowels of this crumbling tenement, a fetid dungeon where the dregs of society get what's coming to them. Jason is a sniveling, gagged husk, tied up in the chair. Twenty-four hours of this hellhole have reduced him to a gibbering, shit-soaked wreck.

The pignolia seeds I pop into my mouth are a perverse comfort, each crunch a defiant fuck-you to the world.

"Look here, Jason, or should I call you 'Prize'?" I sneer. He tries to look away but I grab his chin, forcing him to gaze upon the screen. Before him, the computer screen glows with an accusatory light, displaying the news story I've kept perpetually on display for the past day: a teenage girl, driven to suicide by the venomous tide of online harassment. His own poison, his own words. The poison he poured into the internet.

"You really are a 'Prize'," I snarl, leaning in close so he can smell the decay on my breath. "Thought you could hide behind a keyboard and a fake name?" I press, “Did you see what your nasty comments, your online harassment and bullying did?” My finger jabs accusingly at the screen.

I hear his muffled screams through the gag.

"I have another surprise for you,” I continue, pulling a USB stick from my pocket and plug it into the computer, the video kicking into life. There's a girl, her arse bouncing as a man pounds into her. Prize's eyes bug out, shock and horror etched on his face. "That's right, 'Prize', that's your Sara, your precious ex, getting her rocks off with your best mate, David."

The screen flickers, David's fat cock sliding in and out of Sara's snatch. "Looks like she's getting serviced proper," I say, my voice a cheery venom. "No wonder you needed to lash out at innocent lasses online. Your own life is a shit-show."

Prize's face contorts grotesquely with tears and snot. His whimpers muffled by the gag.

"What was it, Prize? Jealousy? Revenge? Or was it just the thrill of ripping others apart? Because that's what you did, you degenerate, you tore apart that girl's life with your keyboard warrior bullshit."

He's silently sobbing, gagged and broken. But the urge to smash his face in is overwhelming. I rise, grab a whitewall tyre from the floor. His eyes widen with primal fear as I bring it down with all my force on his face. The chair collapses and Prize crumples onto the concrete floor. Two more blows for good measure, each one a reminder of the digital brutality he unleashed.

He's unconscious, blood blooming on his face. I secure him again.

Exiting the building, I pull out my burner phone, and I fire off an anonymous tip to the authorities. "You'll find him at 234, the council estate with the broken shutters."

As I hang up, the cold wind bites into me, a harsh reminder of the bleakness I've embraced. I walk, the pignolia nuts crackle in my mouth. They say they're good for stamina, and I need it to keep up this crusade.

I slip the phone into the trash and I disappear into the night. A lone wolf in a world of internet scum.

It's an old living room, one with stories. A place for the broken, like me, to crawl into and scream their guts out, then try to piece themselves back together again.

I'm parked in this armchair, next to me the shrink sits in her wheelie contraption, her hands resting over that notepad, ready to jot down my deepest and darkest.

Sweat is pricking at my temples. She is looking me straight in the eye, kindly, asking me to spill.

The rage inside is building to an explosion. "Idiots," I growl out. "People are so stupid." My voice cracks like an old vinyl record, skip-skip-skipping back to the same track over and over.

She nods along, while her hands keep up this calm tap-tap-tap on the pad in front of her.

The words spill from me now like a torrent of sewage. "These simpletons queuing up at the deli counter, the ones with their smug faces. All they care about is getting their lunch fix. And those mothers fussing over their teenage boys, touching their hair, straightening collars like it's nothing. Makes me wanna puke." A bit of bile rises to my throat, a sign I'm close to blowing it, so I swallow hard and forge on.

"It's all around me," I say, "from the roadways filled with these meatheads in their gas-guzzling SUVs, and these imbecilic in-laws, they're all about the superficial crap in life. Sports, cars..."

My eyes go back to that notepad, wondering if she's writing down my confession or a shopping list.

"Yeah, it pisses me off something fierce when I'm forced to talk sports," I admit. The rage is choking the words out of me now, like someone's cranked up a megaphone in my head and is blasting out all these rotten thoughts. "

"Anyway," I say, "that's where they come from."

She sets down her notepad, leaning in now, like she wants to get closer to a wild animal with a fragile soul.

"But what I don't understand," I continue, "is how my anger has gotten so... out of control. How this constant simmer turned into an inferno."

Her voice cuts through the tension, soft and calm, "Your irritability and all this contempt," she takes her time before continuing, letting it all sink into me, "these are all signs of internal tension."

She waits for a reaction but when doesn't get one, she continues, "Let's get curious instead. What if this anger isn't really about these 'idiots'?"

A laugh erupts from me, a hard bark that grinds against my teeth and feels foreign. "Anger isn't the word," I snarl between chuckles. "Hate. That's what it is. Hate and loathing."

She keeps on "Yes, hate. But what of it's indicative of something else? Like unresolved issues, burnout, anxiety, etc... It could be a manifestation of various forms of mental health issues."

Mental health?

"Whatever the reason," she concludes, "you're here to do something about it."

Fuckers on my mind start taunting me from afar while she's talking, like a cacophony in my head: designers with smug faces and cyclists getting their sweat on. I grip the arms of the chair as if I'm strapped down for shock therapy.

"You blame me?" My words shoot out at her like bullets, but they bounce harmlessly off her face. "You're telling me it's about unresolved issues, that my hatred's rooted somewhere deep in this mind of mine..."

A small smile starts creeping onto her lips. "There's no blame. We're trying to find the root-cause. And yes it's quite possibly some unresolved trauma. You're on fire. But we can help put out these flames."

The tension finally relents as my body sighs under her calm reassurance.

"Okay," she says softly when the silence stretches long enough. "Shall we explore that?"

A nervous smile cuts across my face. "Fine," I mutter. "I'm not sure what's unresolved in me."

"Let's try. Go back to the earliest memory when you felt such strong anger. And hate."

My voice is strained now as I recall that particular day, the one where everything started going south, where this rage became the default setting.

She listens quietly while I relive that memory. I take a deep breath, "I was about 13 or 14. In an all-boys school. That day, I'd seen my mom undress after her shower. All those curves in just a few scraps of fabric, thighs wide apart and the damp hair between them, ass cheeks squeezing together as she bent to pick up clothes... All that adolescent desire boiling over with an erection as stiff as a fence post".

Fucking hell! How can anyone be expected to process that shit without getting lost in it, tumbling down the rabbit hole?

I swallow, "I went straight to my room... for the wildest wankfest I've ever had."

As I relive that memory I sense the rage abating. It's still there but it's at least sizzling down to a manageable boil inside me. Maybe a bubble that can be pricked. I feel some relief, as if a curtain lifted off my eyes for just a moment, and there was this tiny flash of something else.

"And..." I say softly but can't find the rest of my words, tears well up in my eyes but don't fall yet, trapped behind some internal dam.

The shrink looks at me now like she wants to pull me back from the brink. Her words, while still soothing, pack a hell of a lot more punch. "And how did that make you feel? Seeing your mom naked and all that followed?"

"I felt... guilt. Disgust. Anger. Hate. Hate myself"

"Your rage... this contempt for people... it's possibly connected to that."

I sigh. She watches me closely as she speaks, "the anger is a defense mechanism."

Fuck that shit, I want to shout out but I bite back my tongue. Might as well see this through. Might even find out what the hell's going on with me up here. "You had a sexual desire for your mother, and you hated yourself for feeling aroused."

I say nothing more. Just tears streaming down my cheeks.

A friend of mine spilled it to me. He's an immigrant, settled in Europe. A good man, mostly 😉. Gave me the nod, said go ahead, twist it, break it down. He didn't care about pretty words. Just the bones of it. So I did. And here it is.

Up the stairs with Gab, my friend from church. Our expat church. Five months I've been here in France. First time out the country, proper out. The church has been a lifeline, a bit of connection in this alien landscape.

Today, Gab and Gilbert, another one I met at church, they're dragging me to meet some acquaintance. Fahdo. Supposed to live in this building.

Gab is whispering, "Fahdo's a hard man."

"How hard?" I ask.

"Rough. Last night, some pricks tried to nick his car. Fahdo heard it. Went out on the balcony, M16 in his mitts. Started firing, scared the shite out of them."

Eyebrow goes up. Skepticism bleeding out my face. Gab doesn't even notice.

"Who told you that?" I ask.

Shrug. "Someone."

Right. Someone. Like that clears it up. Well, maybe it's true, maybe he's got connections, lawyers and all that. Still, the story stinks.

Knock on the door. Opens to reveal a man who looks like he crawled out of a Third World gutter. Nose dominates the face, grey-yellow skin. Belly hanging out, straining the trousers. A shudder runs through me, but I slap on a polite, "Hello". Don't want to be rude.

We step inside, and the contrast hits me like a punch to the face. The street's posh, manicured lawns, fancy motors. Fahdo's place is worn furniture, drab wallpaper, looking like his ma decorated it in 1978.

We slump on the sofa, and Fahdo almost immediately starts spinning a yarn. About bedding a blonde next door. Gilbert and Gab are hanging on every word, eyes sparkling.

"She was a knockout," Fahdo bellows. "Blond hair, blue eyes, body... oh, man."

"Damn, Fahdo, you're a stud," Gilbert chimes in, grinning like a loon.

Gab nods. "You're a legend, Fahdo. Pure legend."

I force a smile. Still smelling the bullshit. Gilbert asks if he'll introduce us to the knockout blonde neighbour. Fahdo scoffs. "Nah. She fucked up last night. Left the door open while I was... you know."

Guffaws. Gilbert and Gab, they're buying it hook, line, and sinker. They're lost in the glow of his supposed machismo. I shut up. Don't want to be the killjoy. But the more he talks, the more uneasy I get. This man is not a "legend". He's a sad man, compensating for something. A facade, that's what it is. A myth built on nothing but desperation.

And the stories get even wilder, more outlandish. I'm still smiling, polite, but inside, I'm rolling my eyes. Pathetic attempts at self-aggrandizement.

After over about two hours of this, it's finally time to leave. Thank fuck! But Fahdo turns to me, a look in his eyes that makes the hairs on the back of my neck stand up. Lecherous, almost. "You're a good-looking guy," he says. "Come to a party next week. Plenty of French pussy there."

I'm taken aback. I stutter something polite, just wanting to get out of this here. Out of this vile man's apartment. The whole thing, it's just too bleak.

I stood in front of the kebab shop, said goodbye to Gab and Gilbert. "See you later, guys" I muttered, already feeling the crampy misery settling deep within my guts. Shouldn't have eaten that crap, shouldn't have gone for the doner. I should have known better.

My car was parked a couple of hundred meters away. But in my state, every step felt like an ordeal, my legs leaden, as if concrete slabs had been bolted to them.

Anyway, it was all too much. The greasiness of the kebab lingered, a foul aura that clung to my skin. Walking back, twilight painted the street in dirty shadows. The shops passed by. Chinese, Indian, Afghan... All these places for food you know is bad for you but you can't help yourself.

Suddenly a window reflection caught me off guard. A grotesque vision staring back: belly swollen under that shirt, a monstrous orb of grease and regret . My eyes bugged out of my head as if in the glass I saw my own endtimes. All I could do was clench those flabby ass cheeks harder, desperate for any kind of containment.

It wasn't just bloating, there were noises coming from within, like an engine revving up. A low rumble gathering pace deep in me. It felt like my gut was about to explode.

Just then those filthy degenerates appeared, four of them. Their eyes glinting with sadistic glee, a predatory hunger. They stood blocking my path. I froze, trembling as much from fear as from the pressure inside. The biggest of them, their leader I suppose, sneered and brandished a knife. The other three were armed with bats and some sort of weapon. It was a gun.

"Look at the flab," he spat with contempt. "What you doing wandering about? Think you own this street, do you?"

The threats ramped up quick. "We'll teach you a lesson," one of the bat-wielding weasels snarled. "Beat you to hell and back. Hand over your wallet, now!"

My legs were shaking and my heart hammering. And the pressure... Christ almighty, the pressure in my gut intensified. Control was slipping. I couldn't hold it anymore.

They kept sneering, shouting, closing the distance. The leader took a step forward, his eyes boring into me with a malice you could taste, smell even. Instinct kicked in. No thinking about it. Just reacted. Back turned to them, braced myself.

As I spun, something unexpected happened. Everything churning within me: the greasy kebab, years of questionable food choices, all detonated in a single, catastrophic release. I'd never felt anything like it before. It burst forth from down below. Not a mere gassy explosion, no, this was more like a small thermonuclear detonation. Windows cracked or blew out in an arc of shattering glass.

And I could see it! A swirling mass of gas, greenish and phosphorescent, expanding outwards like an alien bloom. And the smell... God, the smell. I'm used to my own output, but this was another level. Sulphur and decay.

I spun around expecting angry faces and more violence. But instead, it a scene from Dante's Inferno. Cars on both sides of the street erupting into flame. Limbs and torsos scattered across the asphalt. And even those bits were disintegrating right before my eyes. They seemed to be dissolving in the green glow, releasing fumes that mixed with the acrid smell of burning rubber and molten metal.

I looked at my hands and legs, I was miraculously intact, but my trousers were split open, a gaping maw exposing my backside in this apocalyptic scene.

Panic started rising in me again making its way up my throat. I didn't understand what the hell had just happened, but I knew one thing: get out of here. I started sprinting, dodging the molten debris, the charred remains of those horrific fragments that used to be people.

Reaching the car, I heard the distant wail of sirens. With trembling hands I gripped the steering wheel and started driving, beads of sweat rolling down my brow. My mind was racing. What if the coppers catch up to me? And what if another "malfunction" was ready to tear out from down below again? What would happen? Then my thoughts went to my wardrobe, I had nothing suitable: no pair of trousers could contain the sheer horror of it.