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Periferni bicáček, periferní bicáček...
Proto tak nerad jezdím městskou hromadnou bez sluchátek. Člověk se prostě nevyhne konverzacím ostatních lidí, a pak se může stát, že zaslechne nějakou kravinu, která se mu pak odráží sem a tam od stěn dutiny lebeční, jakoby tam nebyla žádná hmota mozková. Drze si usurpuje myšlenkové pochody. Místo toho, aby člověk datloval do excelovské tabulky fakturované částky, přistihne se, že přemítá, jestli je to nějaký slangový výraz pro místního namachrovance, nebo jestli se jedná o svalové zranění, nebo ho z etymologického přemýšlení vytrhne až klakson projíždějícího auta na přechodu. Nebo taky nevytrhne.

DOBRÝ DEN. PROSÍM TUDY.

Klopič nahlédnul do ledničky v naději, že najde něco na kocovinu, ochotně se hlásící o slovo. Dvě vajíčka, čtvrtka hlávkového salátu, a nedopitá láhev Sklepmistra ze včerejší akce. Klopič zabručel a zavřel lednici. Cibule a Tonda byli ve škole, a tak se poslední z tria studentů rozhodl dospat.
Na nočním stolku, jakkoliv se to zdálo nemožné, stála zase ta prokletá láhev. Klopič v sobě zadusil výkřik, otevřel okno a vyhodil Sklepmistra ven. Třísk
Najednou se ozvalo zaklepání na dveře. Znělo jaksi dutě. Třesoucí se rukou Klopič otevřel. Nikde nikdo. Sklopil zrak dolů. Jeho bezvládné tělo dopadlo vedle nedopité láhve Sklepmistra.

The eleventh hour is here and my brain's taken a vacation. Again. Well, how about we fire up the crystal ball and see what my alternate selves are up to?

fwoosh

This one went for the biblical angle. Boring.

fwoosh

Dresden Files? Yeah, good luck fitting that into a hundred words.

fwoosh

That one's getting drunk on absinthe. Seeking inspiration, I guess.

fwoosh

Chernobyl? Okay, there's a connection in etymology, but...

fwoosh

Screw it. Might as well try my alcoholic alternate self's method.

"Almost midnight? I don't feel anything. How about you?"
"Not a goddamn thing. This absinthe is bullshit."

Write a drabble about it, they said. Yeah, I did complain that meta-topics like this one about topics that should be banned perhaps should be banned. Yeah, I do feel that from a position of a first-timer, I'm at a severe disadvantage about what I can draw from without diving deep into a rabbit hole of reading all the stuff from the past. Yeah, it's less than twenty minutes to the deadline. Yeah, my brain feels like it's composed of feta cheese. Yeah, I'm listening to music that is making my brain switch to sleep mode. Yeah, I give up.

My, Fuente Ovejuna. Je po jedenáctý, a tahle fráze mi v hlavě rotuje jako líně se otáčející stropní větrák někde v zapadlý hospodě kdesi v Mexiku předtím, než jí Antonio Banderas vystřílí za pomoci kytary plný bouchaček za hudebního doprovodu v podání Tita a Tarantulí. To málo mi zůstalo v hlavě z literatury před kvintou, co se kolektivní viny týče. Nu což, tak jsem strávil většinu hodin střídavě pochrupováním, posíláním psaníček se spolužačkou, a přemítáním nad pozadím učitelky, co se tak hezky natřásalo, když psala na tabuli. Možná by šlo napsat něco na Borgy. Borga? Je to singulár nebo plurál?

The stage is finished. The gym hall's been transformed into a rock venue. Almost everything's ready for the evening's music festival. They sent me to pick up last few props. I don't mind. I love driving J's old Ford Transit. The rattly diesel comes with a built-in smokescreen for cops.
When I come back, the other guys are goofing off. There must've been some leftover beer bottles from yesterday, because K's hanging from the gymnastic rings. I just hope he doesn't...
Yep. He's wearing that kilt proper. Excuse me while I go looking for bleach to pour into my eyes.

I laughed when she asked me to help her create a fake identity for some internet whatsit. We all use fake identities, I told her, every day of our waking existence. We create a new person, new identity, by showing the world only what we want it to see, all the time. When was the last time you bared your entire self to anyone? Have you ever? Is there anyone in the whole wide world who knows the real you, with everything that it entails? We're all fakes in the end. And some may even not bare themselves to themselves.

I can't take it anymore. Tonight, it ends one way or another. I won't be his plaything anymore.
The gaunt figure of a boy, no more than fifteen years old, looked around the dark bedroom. The distinct lack of anything sharp or usable as blunt instrument wasn't going to be a problem anymore. He smiled as his reflection in the mirror.
He forgot. Or perhaps he thought I'd never be able to go through with it.
A fist flying through the air.
A crash resonating loudly through the house.
A bleeding hand, clutching a jagged shard from the shattered mirror.

Dean Fogg stared blankly at the pile of paperwork.
Goddamn Library and their bureaucratic stranglehold on magic. Makes one miss the good ol' days when all we had to worry about was the fucking Beast.
The Dean paused. Did he really just call thirty-nine fucking lifetimes of suffering and death good old days?
Yeah, I guess I did. The kids who killed the Beast managed to create a chain of fuckups fixed by even bigger fuckups. Bored gods, mad gods on the loose, and who knows what they fucked up now when fixing magic.
Time to crack open another bottle.

The sight of two books furiously humping induced a fit of laughter so strong that it catapulted me from dreams into a bleak morning.
Well, that's the last time I binge something she recommends all night.
Spoiler alert: it wasn't. At least I had the mind to walk Leo before crashing at five. A quick check of the phone told me it was exactly ten. The desk lamp was still on, and the computer soothingly hummed. Suddenly, the majority of my dog's weight painfully concentrated on my chest and stated that Saturday or not, I don't get to sleep in.