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»but assuming somebody would in all seriousness say that poets are lying too much: he is right, - we are lying too much.«
friedrich willhelm nietzsche - thus spoke zarathustra (translated)
A Narrow Escape
An ice cold breeze tortured his wearied face while the polar light flickered wickedly in the coal black sky. Jim had been wandering through the last two days and, finally, felt ready to die. All food and water had come to an end, but still, he was straying through the ice. The suit he had been wearing during the flight was depraved in favour of the blood drunken clothes of the old russian looking guy who sat beside him.
Actually he was not only bored by this guy, but he also felt pissed by him. It was that kind of neighbour, that would never by any incident stop talking to you. You could read a book titled "HOW DO I PREVENT SOMEONE TALKING TO ME", and still, they would feel the inexorable urge to chat, to talk, to make friends, to discuss about why Dole would be the better president, to show you the ultrasounds of the aunt of their best friend's former neighbours who actually came from Europe, but had a South-American accent, so they were - funny enough - always taken for South-Americans.
After some three hours of flight, just as Jim thought he knew just everything about his neighbour's life and the lives of all people he seemed to know, this non-violent tormentor intended to make Jim telling him his life story. Obviously, Jim intended not to. He would not tell this guy that he was on the run. Running away from these guys who called him mentally deranged, who said he would not be able to cope with his aggressions. Well, he had been able to. He had been able to beat up this armed dickhead who was ordered to guard him. How easily his neck had been smashed by the chair. So, he had been able to cope with that.
"Do you like baked beans?" Jim murmured sinister with clenched teeth.
"S'cuse me, what did you say. I just wasn't able to understand what you were saying." the other guy added in explanation.
Jim wondered whether this monster needed oxygen or not, for he could not remember him taking a breath during his hour-taking monologue. But anyway, Jim had manners. Jim would repeat his sentence, even if it doesn't matter anymore. "I was just asking if you like baked beans." he repeated.
"And what about blue beans, you die for them." he said, pointing the rifle at his temple and pulling the trigger.
Luckily they weren't flying that high, so Jim survived even despite the fact that he was not the captain.
And now he was finally ready to die with the cold wind in his face, for at least it was silent.
© 1996-11-04 - 2017 by Patric Sperling
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