the Ideal complaint

Even his corny front door, trimmed with the brown leatherette and brazen tacks, causes a vomiting reflex. The dim brazen door-plate mocks – ‘J.R. Invulnerable, Jr. Claims, appeals, statements, complaints. Fast Legal Assistance.’ Fast… Yes! I don’t demur. Today I’ll do this fast!

He is sitting at the huge oaken writing-table. The tiny man and the huge writing-table… The ugly wicked spider is waiting for his booty to ambush.

‘Do you need to compose a document or an answer to it?’ – his voice was soft like purring, and I’ve suppressed a vomiting reflex again.

‘I want to compose a complaint.’

‘Do you know my price?’


Yes, I know your price, you sick bastard… It’s tears, woe, broken dreams…

‘OK! Who is your object?’

‘You. I want to compose a complaint about you. The ideal complaint, without flaws. This complaint must be the best complaint that you can write!’

His look is turbid like moonshine. He hasn’t understood the task. Maybe my wording has been vague. I should use clearer terms.

‘Fast, scumbag! Write! You are fast, legal assistance aren’t you?’ – My S&W winks at him…

‘What should I write?’

‘Truth. Only truth. About your unscrupulousness, corruptibility… How you neglect morality for the sake of a few lousy coins every day… How you disowned yourself from our saintly oath… How your mendacious documents are destroying the basic principles of our fraternal society…’

He is writing… writing… writing. I wait.

‘What now?’

‘Gobble this!’ My S&W wishes him a good appetite.

He puts white sheets of paper into his mouth and starts to masticate. He doesn’t understand. He doesn’t understand still…

I’m leaving this room with that tiny breathless body at that huge table. I didn’t touch him – not even a finger. The poison of his libels was enough.

The dribble of toxic, ink saliva runs down from his mouth to the expensive smuggled parquet…

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I was born

At that time I was a real philosopher…

I was levitating in the centre of my celestial sphere and was meditating head over heels. My reflections were stitching space like golden threads and were forming subtle intricate patterns. Nothing could disturb my thinking. Only stray stars with majestic manes were drifting by my windows and were illumining walls with a multitude of bright motes…

I was happy. I was absolutely and unconditionally happy. But my happiness was brief. Time had tugged me. I had stabbed space. I was born. I was crying powerlessly. I knew that it is a deception. I knew that it will kill all my recollections about my late happiness. It will turn all my beloved recollections into ruins. I was crying…

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a Portrait

‘Sometimes a cigar is just a cigar…’ I smiled at the portrait on the wall and threw a butt into the ashtray. It was 4.12 pm. Mr.Brainwash was late.

‘It is just the doldrums, my dear… Your artistic flair thrives; you just have to sacrifice some habitual pleasures for the sake of it.’

I would spit in his face but my good education forbids my spitting on portraits, and this ugly daub takes advantage of this fact unscrupulously! Small, funny antics can fill life with wonder…
I was daydreaming about this impudent portrait gliding down to the courtyard and didn’t hear the door creak open.

‘Good afternoon, my dear! Oh… Did you smoke in here? I told you! Don’t do it!’

Wow… He was angry. His halo became dirty-brown with yellow clots. It was really nasty. Mr.Brainwash was yelling, when suddenly I understood that this would be my last seance with him. ‘You have to sacrifice some habitual pleasures for the sake of it…’ To hell with that! I don’t want to give up my pleasures!

The first bullet was for Mr.Brainwash. The second bullet was for his talkative portrait… Sometimes a gun is just a gun!

Do you remember who said that?

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My special thanks to Cyan Ryan
for the grammar corrections and improvements on this essay!