Welcome to the serialized story of Mr. Harmless Bullet! A new chapter will be published every Wednesday (FREE to read).
Genre: satire, absurdist comedy, adult humor (16+)
Written with the Tristan Tzara method - read about it here
Chapter 1 - read HERE.
CHAPTER 2. THE WORK.
At seven a.m. sharp, I was fully dressed for my morning adventure on the local bus. I waved goodbye to Margaret’s photo and cheerfully ran downstairs, pushing away the unwelcome thoughts of reuniting with my ex. The journey from West, the district where I lived after a nasty divorce, to the train station usually took only twenty-eight minutes.
I must confess, I loved my daily trips as much as I loved the vibrant summer heat when my body melted, producing salty water of acrid thirst. That feeling of being on the bus reminded me of the Thousand Pieces Execution, which was once popular in China.
Seeing, touching, breathing in the dust of the female hair, watching the sweat crawl down, slowly, inch by inch, would cut out a tiny square of my soul, bit by bit, until my entire being was slaughtered into 999 pieces.
“I hope you find what you’re looking for, whatever that is,” a female voice said under my arm, piercing my feet to the floor.
“I wouldn’t mind finding you.”
“Let me go, this is my stop.”
I nodded. The woman leaned against my chest and stared at me.
“Maximus Strong. That’s my name.” I smiled.
“You already told me that last week, Mister.”
As soon as she left, my mind began to dry up. For the rest of the trip, I pretended to scroll through social media, adding a few laughs here and there or mimicking the movements of those on my “Wanted Ladies” list.
The bus stopped. I looked out the window, accepting July’s sunny rays on my skin. Like a bat out of hell, I sprang to the bridge and counted forty-eight stairs up (as I always did), embracing the world of trains, the bright spots, and the silhouettes of hurrying people. Then, I slowly ran down forty-nine stairs from the other side, following the path to the gray building where I worked.
The Museum of Archaeology, which included artifacts from Rsa's prehistory and a remarkable collection of skulls, was located in a moss-covered brick house with a roof that nearly collapsed from decay.
I spent my morning counting containers on the shelves and playing sudoku. At midday, I sat with a cup of tea and a book about Sobekneferu — Egypt’s mysterious queen. I don’t know why, but I began to draw the infinity symbol on the empty block next to the book, thinking about the woman in a floral dress.
I hadn’t noticed the boy who was leaning over me, looking with curiosity at the sketch I created.
“I bet you’d like to touch them,” the boy chuckled.
“That’s not what you think. This is a sign… it represents infinity.”
“You did a good job, yo!”
“Do you need any help? Who are you? What are you doing here?” I infused my voice with as much thrill, irritation, and annoyance as possible.
And then I saw her, the woman with long, dark hair wearing red joggers and a tight top. I had a feeling I’d seen her recently, but I couldn’t recall where.
“Mom, he showed me a picture,” the boy said.
“What kind of picture?”
“The part of a naked woman.”
“What the hell is going on, Mister?” Her eyes shifted to my badge. “Hmm… Harmless?”
She stared at my red face, expecting an answer. Time stopped: a long gap between her top and my desk. A notebook slipped to the floor, making me jump; finally, her fiery footsteps echoed outside my room. After less than two minutes, my phone rang.
“Would you be so kind as to get up for a short chat?” asked the voice of my director.
“Of course, Mr. Killing,” I replied.
When I opened the door and stepped into his arctic room, all my self-respect and self-worth, which had radiated this morning, were gone. I stood inside, trying to figure out the director’s mood. As far as I could see, he wasn’t a thunderbolt of joy and smiles but rather death and grief.
“Do you know why you are here?” he asked.
I decided to keep it cool and said nothing.
“Do you know who that woman was?”
God, this is boring. I thought to myself.
“It was Missus Vegas.”
“Vegas? Which one?” I coughed.
“The fifth of them.”
“The fifth? The last wife of Mister Vegas?”
I pictured myself in the coffin, my skull filled with porridge instead of brains because my brains were on the floor, torn apart by Mr. Vegas’s two famous birds.
“Are you okay, Bullet?” Mr. Killing asked.
“Not really,” I said, still haunted by the image of my grave.
“Double gin, no tonic?”
”Sure.”
I ran to his desk and took a big gulp from a glass, feeling an irrational twinge of guilt. At that moment, Mr. Killing handed me a piece of paper and said, “Sign here, Bullet.”
“What is it?” My heart sank.
“Parental leave for two weeks.”
“But I don’t have any kids…”
“You don’t know if you have them or not until you give yourself a chance.”
I stood outside my boss's room, leaning against the wall and staring at the ceiling. “Fuuuccckkk, I’m having a midlife crisis!” I shouted into the void around me. Recently, I discovered that speaking the truth openly and out loud hurts less.
But what if my whole life was a midlife crisis, and that crisis was my only reality?
As I walked past the buzzing train station, some way ‘enveloped’ by the chirping sounds of bags, worries, and goodbyes, I felt like the free time of my upcoming vacation was already rotting in my head, preparing a perfect feast for the worms of fear. I had no idea what I was going to do the next day.
to be continued…
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