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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Little Red Riding Hood

Little Red Riding Hood (by Gloom82)

The awesome illustration by Gloom82… it was love at first sight. Thank you very much for your works, Anton!

– Oh, grandmother, what big pears you have!
– Stop! What is this? What the bullshit did you say?

(The wolf stares at me… Damn! I always fail with accurate quoting!)

– You should say: ‘Oh, grandmother, what big ears you have!’

(I nod. My red cap slides down to my nose. But I don’t surrender.)

– Oh, grandmother, what big wands you have!
– Are you jeering at me? Hands! What big hands you have!

(I keep silence and wait. The wolf is looking at my resume.)

– I cannot understand how you coped with your role in ‘The Green Hornet’! Who is your custodian? I should devastate him! I gauge your dramatic talent like the dramatic talent of a fruticose lichen!

– I didn’t have a big role. I was a lame ship’s boy on the ark ‘Young liches’… and a corpse on the skiff in the next scene…

– And what are you doing here?! Why do you think you can cope with this role?

– I believe in myself… My grandmother always said…

(The wolf is almost growling. The wolf is almost ready. The wolf is almost near me…)

– Stop! Stop wasting my time! Get out!

(The wolf is bending over me… and I’m wresting his Adam’s apple.)

– My grandmother always said: ‘For be it my mask, or be it your blood, red will be the last color that you’ll ever see…’

(OMG! I’m a hero! I didn’t make a mistake in this quote!!)

…I come out to the yard. This morning I see gnomes around the adjacent pavilion. ‘Snow White’. I throw away my red cap and put on a white apron.

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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!

a Cuckoo

They call me ‘A Cuckoo’.
Because I always know the right time for death.
I don’t have ESP.
I don’t have a magic mascot or subtle vibes.
I don’t have an affiliation with the Fortune-teller Club.
I just know it.
And I’m calm.

They can aggro.
They can say I’m a gory, cruel bird.
I’m a fucking accounting cuckoo.
I’m calm.

One… Two… Three…

They can’t bust out.
I stand on the roof.

Four… Five…

I lift my munition – a bow and arrows with cuckoo’s feathers.
I close my left eye…

Six… Seven…

It’s so easy!
It’s like skeet…

Eight… Nine…

Welcome to hell, loser!

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