{"id":1701,"date":"2023-05-24T22:45:17","date_gmt":"2023-05-24T22:45:17","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/xrafstar.monster\/blog\/?p=1701"},"modified":"2025-09-28T22:49:51","modified_gmt":"2025-09-28T22:49:51","slug":"cunt-toward-enemy","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/xrafstar.monster\/blog\/cunt-toward-enemy\/","title":{"rendered":"Cunt Toward Enemy"},"content":{"rendered":"
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\"\"<\/figure><\/div>\n\n\n

*<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Everything is an explosive. Every thought is a sort of explosion inside the head. When you give me your hand I feel as if something is exploding inside you.<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u2014 Karel \u010capek, “Krakatit”<\/p>\n\n\n\n

*<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Don\u2019t move.<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

The LED screens and billboards around the Fuchsia World Mall all say the same thing.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

People run, of course.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The parking lot explodes. The mall shakes. Smoke rises from the courtyard at the center, or traps itself dark behind cracked windows.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Eventually, people stop moving. Some have the presence of mind to understand what\u2019s happening, the rest get lucky with shock and concussion, or the inability to move with their new bodies. The border is delineated by horrified bystanders, clean and unharmed, except for the powderized city drifting into the creases of their clothes and lungs.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Lazur drives into the storm of carcinogens, windshield growing grayer.<\/p>\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n

The smell of almonds, even half a mile away. A tribute to classical plastic explosives, Nobel 808s, and so much more than heartbreak.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

*<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Lazur parks his car. Rental, because things could always get worse. His second-best jacket, and the shirt he fell asleep in last night. Dark hair slashed with early white, and blue undertones when the sun hits it.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Car alarms are still going off like crickets of death. The almond cloy is overwhelming this close. At least it deodorizes the bodies.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He shows his badge, dropping it twice. His fingers shouldn\u2019t be this sweaty already.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cHe asked for you.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cHe\u2019s alive?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

But even as Lazur says it, he knows. Or they would have asked for a bomb technician closer than a six-hour drive. This is a very personal terrorist incident.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He finishes his milk tea and crushes the cup in his hand. He\u2019s about to drop it then remembers the cameras. It might look tough, rolling up the sleeves kind of deal, or it could come off as disrespectful. And littering is littering. There\u2019s already been enough of that today. Sneakers, sole detached like a skin flap. A handheld console, translucent purple plastic shattered into rare earth blood minerals. A wedding ring, perfectly lodged in a crack of the parking lot, like it was lost for years and years and years.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

His phone buzzes and he almost pisses himself. Through the cracked screen, over the wallpaper of him and his mother at Olive Garden, a notification hovers.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

You\u2019re safe for one minute.<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

He walks past frozen people sitting on the ground, or standing with aching legs, afraid to even kneel. Their eyes follow him. Waxwork museum of 21st century parking lot life. Authentic explosions included.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

How does it work? Motion sensors, toggled off? In which case, he could try to save some of these people. Tell them to run.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

But if it\u2019s manual, human eyes reflecting security monitors, then that is a very bad idea.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Facial recognition would be cute. The one face that won\u2019t blow up the mall. How special.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He walks past a crater, heat radiating through his sneakers. The blasted asphalt is like volcanic rock.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

*<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The mall is a cathedral of ice, reverberating with industrial aircon. The screens are playing commercials again, and the actors\u2019 wide smiles have a desperate, hostage taint to them.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

In the mall\u2019s courtyard, black sloughing waterfalls of structural gore. People stare down silently, more waxworks. A mother grips her toddler like she\u2019s going to crush him, trying to keep this panicking nascent mind from reacting normally to terror and setting off the nearest bomb, wherever it is.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Someone is still breathing in the fragments of that heavy mall pot, covered in plastic leaves and fake soil like he dug out of his own grave. Survived the initial blast, but fortunately for his neighbors, he\u2019s lost too much blood to thrash. He just writhes slowly like a worm, under the threshold of the bomb sensor.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

There it is. Like a dead pixel.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

A black box.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

This is the bomb. The one that matters. The others were just setting the stage.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Video screens drain of their commercials, happy families and pristine cars fading to black. An unfamiliar voice echoes through the speakers. But a familiar way of saying it.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cThere\u2019s enough to send you to the moon.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The screens turn back on. Grainy feed, but it doesn\u2019t matter at that scale.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Lazur doesn\u2019t recognize him at first. Broken in a wheelchair. Drooling out the side of a ruptured jaw.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

*<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Rubicon could make a very mean, very reasonable bomb from household parts by age ten. They flocked to his fingers like doves.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Money in the blood. Took his final exams at the atrocity. Flying colors, red mist to the troposphere. Arms dealt like hands. You know idiot savants? Imagine that, but really smart, with no downsides. His car bombs purr like a luxury sedan. Magazine spread, the blond bombshell. Hottest heirs under 30. He burnt up.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

*<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Lazur looks up at the twisted body replicated on every screen. \u201cCan you hear me?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The shredded mouth moves after only a slight delay. \u201cYes.\u201d Lazur wonders if they can trace the transmission. Probably. But not in time.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cYou look great.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Rubicon laughs, and Lazur can see how it hurts for air to pass through that surviving lung, up through a patch of miraculously preserved soft throat tissue, wheezing through the broken jaw. Each vibration dispersing through shattered ribs, and finally, amplified through mall-wide sound systems, showing him every bit of grit, an auditory microscope into fried tissue and bone shrapnel.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cIt\u2019s my twenty-first birthday.\u201d Rubicon tips back a mini-bottle, brown liquor pouring through the holes in his face. His face contorts with the sting.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Lazur looks at the bomb, that unadorned black box like an alien interpretation of gift giving. \u201cI didn\u2019t get you anything.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

“I disagree.” The screens turn off, leaving error messages tall as trees. Then something clicks and Lazur tries not to flinch. Rubicon\u2019s voice grates from nearby, a hidden speaker, close and personal, no longer audible to the hostages. \u201cWhy don\u2019t you take a look. I\u2019m kind of proud of it.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Natural light falls on the bomb from the open ceiling of the courtyard, cold bright afternoon tempered by clouds. He wonders if it\u2019s going to rain. Probably. But not the way you like to see.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cCan I bring in a bomb suit?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Silence, susurrus with the dead air of Rubicon\u2019s feed.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cSure. Let\u2019s embrace the ritual.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

*<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He walks back to the parking lot. As they bring out the bomb suit, a weakness passes through his legs, and he puts his hand on a car hood for support. He thought he was solid. But coming back out was the wrong move. It triggers too much a sense of visceral relief, fakes his body into thinking he survived it, when he hasn\u2019t even begun. When that black box is still there, unopened, fissile with secrets.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Everyone is watching him. He can feel the instability out here, the lack of coordination. So he goes back inside.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The bomb suit weighs 85 pounds. It was comforting the first time he put it on. Everyone wants armor. But now it feels heavy as his soul.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

People keep talking at him. Texts, emails, calls. But he knows they can\u2019t give him anything he needs. No amount of research, protocol, international expertise, tech specs, or cutting-edge tools can change the outcome. So he silences his phone.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He waddles toward the bomb. Out of reach of the hidden speaker. All alone now.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He swivels, taking in the mall like a deep sea diver. Those distant drawn faces. All bombs render their surroundings alien. Not just after, but before. Alone with this secret pressure. Inside the veil of its inverted explosion. Before a great noise, great silence.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The suit doesn\u2019t help with the alienation. Xeno-bulbous and oblong, something like those projections of what humans will look like evolved for cars after millions of years. Bomb world neanderthal.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Someone clears their throat. A woman laying against a wall, dark matter drying on her capris. She holds a tablet in her hands.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Lazur stares at her through the spacesuit.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

It\u2019s for you, she says in a dehydrated voice, but with some dignity, some subdued spirit of offense. She holds out the tablet.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cThanks,\u201d he says, not sure if she heard him. He wishes he could comfort her. Or comfort himself. Talk to anyone like a normal person. No. Emotion has a specific atmospheric cost inside this sweltering suit. And if he allows a single moment of softness, he\u2019s fucked. Because humans were not meant to commune with bombs. Hexamine demons, beasts of nitrogen, plastic deities that slowly and instantly invade reality. He has to be a device.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Lazur takes the tablet. Rubicon looks up at him through the faint smears of the woman\u2019s fingers. Tracks of her daily use: scrolling automatically through social feeds, tapping at gacha game rewards, gripping the edges to position herself in the best light for friends, family, a lover.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cHow much time do I have?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cLook at the bomb. Then maybe I\u2019ll tell you.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Lazur trudges to the black case. He\u2019d hoped that a closer look would reveal new details, but it remains surprisingly minimalist compared to Rubicon\u2019s past work. He can\u2019t see a way inside the monolithic form, it resists his touch, his interpretation. Maybe it\u2019s a joke. A combustible koan.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cIs there a timer?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cOf course. You need to stay motivated. But it\u2019s not the point.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

“Then what is?”<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cFunny you\u2019d say that.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Lazur sweats, trapped in his own body heat. It\u2019s only going to get hotter. If the suit had holes, it wouldn\u2019t be protective.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cTake the suit off,” Rubicon says.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI think it looks good. Kind of suave and sexy.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cIt won\u2019t help you. Not with the ordinance I\u2019m using.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He leans against the bomb for support, cooking in the wearable sauna, dizzy, dizzying, dizzier.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI\u2019ve established that you have nothing to gain with the suit. And you\u2019ll be more dexterous.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The crip fuck is right. It won\u2019t do shit. He needs his most important organ to breathe. Has to think his way out of this. He takes off the suit, getting a blast of that cool mall air.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He gets out his kit. Lays down his spudger. Wire cutters. Hex key. Hemostat. Cold chisel, made of beryllium copper to avoid sparking.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cThat won\u2019t help either. It\u2019s solid state all over. A hundred failsafes.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Lazur believes him. Rubicon tired long ago of the usual games. His last bomb was a gauntlet, testing every principle of bomb defusal, taking him through a history of explosives. Black powder, nitroglycerin, gelignite, dynamite, vintage plastic. A gift basket, a sample platter, a greatest hits anthology. It was almost interesting, after a career of defusing the same entry-level pipe bombs and garden-variety plastic explosives.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The point is, Rubicon doesn\u2019t repeat himself. A pivot to minimalism makes sense.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Lazur runs his hand across the case. Smooth all over. Well-machined but betraying nothing. Then he walks around the bomb, and finally sees it. A hole. Like a large headphone jack.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Maybe it emits something. A gas? That would reach a wide area.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He shines a penlight inside. The inside looks coated with some kind of rubber. There\u2019s a fissure at the end made of a similar polymer, a smaller hole within the hole.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

*<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cLean the tablet.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWhat?\u201d Snapping. Irritated.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cSo I can see you.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Lazur picks up the tablet. He thinks about tossing it over the edge. But it would be a pointless defiance. And with how much Rubicon is talking, maybe there\u2019s a negotiation angle after all. Or maybe the shattered anatomy just makes him look vulnerable. Unless the blast scrambled his brain, this is the same person, the same choice of weapons. Except both are scarred and obfuscated, skin as inscrutable as this bomb.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Lazur places the tablet against the glass railing. \u201cDo I get anything for that?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI\u2019m not the Nintendo Power hotline. That\u2019s what people your age used, right?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI don\u2019t play games.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Crackling laughter that turns to coughing. \u201cI thought I\u2019d get to use this body more. Or I never thought of it at all. Same thing.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Rubicon sounds wet and clogged. He spits on the floor, his saliva disappearing off-screen. The background is painted black. No hints to location. But probably in the same state, judging by latency.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI had a dream I was kissing someone. On a roller coaster. The roller coaster wasn\u2019t moving. It was inside a mall. Maybe that\u2019s why I chose the location.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cIt\u2019s a nice public place. Lots of people.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cSee. You get me.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Shrug.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI woke up and my face hurt. It\u2019s shocking, forgetting what shape it is now. I realized I\u2019d never kiss anyone again. After a certain point of ablation, it\u2019s just meat pressing against meat.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI didn\u2019t do that to you.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWhen you raided me, I was on a three day coke bender, up all night in my workshop. I panicked. Touched the wrong thing.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cHow do you know I was there?”<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cBecause my bombs didn\u2019t go off. The ones that were supposed to protect me.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI\u2019m not the only defusal expert in the world.”<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI think you knew my personality. Knew what to look for. Understood my sense of humor.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI was just one person, doing my job.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cIf it was just that. I could forgive you. But I think you weren\u2019t just a hapless little technician bumbling along. I think you showed them where I was.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Lazur doesn\u2019t answer.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cYou could feel it, couldn\u2019t you? In the guts of my last bomb. I was too forensically generous. Not enough details sanded off, too many exotic, hard to source ingredients. I overshared. I was just so excited to finally have an audience that could understand me.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cLooking at it made me sick.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Excitement breaks through Rubicon\u2019s fractured face, facets of flushed skin. \u201cI made you feel something.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cJust another night at the opera.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI wish I could have shown you what I was working on. But the only pieces remaining are inside me. Embedded around my skeleton.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cTell me about this one.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cYou know how it goes. Debris will rain for miles around. Cancerous materials will jet through the city. Radiation\u2014\u201c<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cIt\u2019s a dirty bomb?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cThe dirtiest.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cSeems overkill.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cLike a witch\u2019s cauldron. I put everything in it.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Lazur looks at his tools. Blank. Nothing. Useless. Maybe if he had colonoscopy equipment.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cIt\u2019s beautiful how such a tiny quantity of materials can blight so much land, for so long. Dominating the chromosomes of our fellow man.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Lazur doesn\u2019t respond.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cHey\u2014\u201c<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI\u2019m going to find the room you\u2019re hiding in, and I\u2019m going to shoot you.\u201d And all the bombs will unvomit themselves, and all the people will come back together.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cMaybe.\u201d The lazy word hangs there. Rubicon doesn\u2019t need to say anything else. The bomb is right there, total and commanding.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cYou could have done something with your life.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cShut up, dad. This is what I\u2019m good at.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cBlowing people up isn\u2019t a career\u2014\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cIt created your career.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cBombs kill\u2014\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cBombs equalize.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cAnother victory for democracy.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cTired macho quips won\u2019t get you out of this.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI feel tired.\u201d He thought Rubicon\u2019s death, supposed death, would end it. But every suspicious bag on the subway was full of fear, his pores rewired to pump rookie sweat, virginal trembling in his wire cutters.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cYou look tired.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

4th of July, on a date, baseball at night, the sky full of burning worms, popping and crackling with their consumption of the air, their gnashing of bismuth trioxide. How could fireworks be that loud, were they always that loud? Surrounded by thousands of mannequins, cheering coming from loudspeakers. He excused himself to the stadium bathroom and hid inside a stall, finishing his beer in quick, automatic swallows. It tasted like aftermath. He walked home, lost, unable to find the way back to his seat. She never texted him back.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cYou eating okay?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Potato chips. Moldy takeout. An insidious lack of appetite. As if waiting for something massive and inorganic, pica for rubble.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI could order you a pizza\u2014\u201c<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cAre you fucking me here?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cHuh?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Lazur grabs the tablet. \u201cIs there a point to trying, or not?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Rubicon leans back in his wheelchair, a defensive posture, or simply too weak to keep his spine erect. \u201cThere is a point. If you can find it.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Lazur kneels down, trying to feel under the bomb. Flush with the floor on every side.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cHow are you since the whole explosion thing? I feel like we have so much to catch up on.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cFine. Just beautiful.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI saw on social you\u2019re not with that one lady anymore.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cThat\u2019s not your business.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cYou probably brought home too much baggage. Pent up. Waiting to explode.”<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI never hit anyone.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWow. Defensive.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cYou have no idea what my private life is like.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cYou can tell me if something is wrong. You know how compromised I am morally. It\u2019s like having a therapist.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI\u2019m not the fucked up one. I\u2019m cleaning up your mess.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Wetness shines on Rubicon\u2019s lip-chasm, pink where the tissue is still alive. \u201cIt\u2019s not a mess. I worked very hard on it, very carefully, on every detail\u2014\u201c Spit catches in his throat and he coughs.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cChoking on me?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Rubicon wipes his face. \u201cI could ask the same thing.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cYou didn\u2019t give me anything to work with. This is just a nihilistic fuck me.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cIt\u2019s not.\u201d Rubicon leans forward in the wheelchair, and Lazur sees it. The lopsided cant in the boy’s spine, the wrists too weak to stabilize without pain. It must have taken many painstaking hours to make whatever this bomb is. He looks like he\u2019s going to say something else, but he just hangs there, in a helpless vibrance of neuralgia. He sounds like he was accused of faking his homework.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI know,\u201d Lazur says quietly.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI think a lot. About what I make.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cYou\u2019re good at it.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

As in all things, the instinct. Don\u2019t let it blow up. Things or people. The slightest vibration of molecules can build to an irreversible and shocking outcome.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Rubicon hangs his head, letting the saliva drip until he can talk. When he does, a strand of clear drool hangs from his tattered lip. \u201cThanks?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cBut it\u2019s not enough. Not after what happened to you.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Silence from the tablet.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cYou can\u2019t catch up anymore.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Wet rasp. \u201cCan you?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI have a real job. Helping people. Not blow up. I believe in something\u2014\u201c<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cSure. Casimir Pulaski with wire cutters.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cFuck you.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Rubicon assumes a posture that might once have been insouciance, but now comes off as muscle memory for a body that no longer exists. He reaches offscreen and Lazur hears the click of a keyboard.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The mall screens turn on. A red countdown.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Fifteen minutes.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

It doesn\u2019t matter what he does here. The elements of cheap, scalable annihilation have entered this reality. Bombs blowing through the world like storm clouds.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He thinks of the soul that enters each bomb, to act as its detonator, its tripper, some vital link in the mechanism. Surrendering to this bright new form as it explodes from the hyper-flagellating vest around your chest. Trading a dim, anonymous, interminable life for a single brilliant inversion of your hell.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

We are in a labyrinth and the string that leads us out is a wire.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Rubicon leans forward. A scrap of blond hair falls over his eyes and he forks it to the side with his fingers.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cDid you mean it?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cMean what?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cThat I\u2019m good.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Lazur thinks of the delicate mechanisms he balanced his very sweat against, trying not to contaminate them with his perspiration, rapt with surgical flow, discovering these new bodies of blast. \u201cSure.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Rubicon looks away, then his head jerks back, the scar tissue on his neck restraining him like a collar. \u201cI\u2019m a little embarrassed now. It\u2019s a different kind of bomb.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cDifferent?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cIt\u2019s not as sophisticated as the others I made for you. It\u2019s just. Different.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

“Okay.”<\/p>\n\n\n\n

“I\u2019m still good at music. I\u2019m just trying a new instrument.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cGot it. No judgment. I\u2019ll leave that for the war crime tribunal.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cThanks.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

*<\/p>\n\n\n\n

…your body is a sleeping explosive, and even the faded, trembling hand of Mr. Paul contains more explosive force than a capsule of melinite. You lie motionless in an ocean of immeasurable, unanalyzable, unutilized forces; you are surrounded not by the walls of the room, quiet people and the rustling branches of trees, but by an ammunition store, a cosmic magazine prepared for the most frightful deed. You tap matter with your finger as if you were testing casks of ekrasite to see if they are full.<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u2014 Karel \u010capek, “Krakatit”<\/p>\n\n\n\n

*<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Lazur stares at the bomb. It yields nothing. He feels like he\u2019s going crazy.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWhat did you mean, different?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cUh. Most of it is incredibly powerful explosive. No surprise. Packed very tight. Very dense. The rest is diagnostic machinery.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cDiagnostic?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cYou won\u2019t need your tools for this. Well. Maybe your tool. In the vernacular sense.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWhat the fuck.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cThe bomb disarms when it receives your DNA in seminal form.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cFuck off.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cCome on, Lazur. Your biological clock is ticking. Haha.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI have to stick my dick in some kid\u2019s edgy freshman art project\u2014\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Rubicon reaches for the webcam, and for the first time Lazur notices his pinkie and ring finger are missing. The camera swoops over the keloid canyons and emaciated valleys of his flesh. \u201cYou think anyone is ever going to look at this body and think of me as a kid ever again?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Fourteen minutes.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI know. A real boner killer.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Hostages whisper like jealous statues. Lazur leans over the bomb, eyes shut. It smells like chemicals. Workshop taint. A whiff of almond.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Rubicon rests his hand on the arm of the wheelchair. His thumb is missing too. \u201cWhat\u2019s the play, Laz?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Lazur runs his finger around the bomb\u2019s hole. Maybe he can jerk off instead. Push his cum inside\u2014<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI thought of everything. You have to physically nut in the bomb.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Hostages sit in front of a Build-a-Bear. One of them has a dark stain down the front of his pants. He stares at Lazur, or maybe he\u2019s just dissociating.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cRemember. The first part of fucking a bomb is acceptance.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cYou didn\u2019t give me enough time.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cA red-blooded patriot like you should have no problem fucking a bomb.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cYou don\u2019t know what color my blood is.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cA watery translucent effluvia. Microplastics and ennui.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cDamn.\u201d Lazur watches the red numbers change, huge and important like some event he couldn\u2019t possibly have anything to do with. He wants to be one of the people waiting for him to fix this.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI know you\u2019ll do it,\u201d the ruined mouth says.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Lazur covers his face, breathing through sweaty palms.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cBecause you\u2019re the best.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Lazur goes into a shop and drags out cardboard cutouts. Anime girl with insectile sword, exoskeletoned star marine, some kind of edgy furry mascot. He never played any of those games. They\u2019re just some dumb shit he never learned about and probably never will.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He positions them around the bomb. A startling sound comes from the tablet. He flinches, then realizes it was Rubicon laughing. Like someone trying to play a smashed violin.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cYou\u2019re really going to do it?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Lazur seethes. His lower half is hidden from the Build-A-Bear refugees. And the hostage panopticon, are they really going to assume he\u2019s fucking the bomb? Fucking perverts. Dick hawks circling overhead. No. It\u2019s probably not the first thing that comes to mind. He just has to, there, unzip, snake it through, keep his pants on. He leans on the bomb all casual, like he\u2019s about to eat his lunch. Just a working stiff. Hopefully.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

*<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Thirteen minutes. The sound of Rubicon\u2019s wet mouth like unsynced hentai FX. Still soft. He tucks himself back in and zips his fly.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cGiving up?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

In a Hot Topic next to the cash register, he finds a small half-used bottle of warm lotion.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cGood idea. I didn\u2019t make it self-lubricating.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cFrigid bitch.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Another laugh. That busted xylophone of teeth, a single lung\u2019s worth of air, and the tongue, bright and pink and intact, struggling not to fall out of the mouth.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

All bravado aside, he doesn\u2019t feel good. He just needed to feel like he wasn\u2019t helpless, so he did those things, without emotion, to shut that kid up. But now he\u2019s here. The pop culture cutouts surround him like a praetorian guard. The lotion sits on the bomb, a strand of hair smeared on the side. How long was it laying lukewarm and stale, soothing the eczema of a teen cashier?<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He unzips again. The tip of his cock brushes the rubber rim of the hole. He wonders what it feels like inside. Chop off his dick. Spew acid. Roast him like a sausage.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Is that really Rubicon\u2019s style? He likes big explosions. Or he did. His artistic direction has clearly changed. After all, he lived through a blast. Felt it intimately in his muscles, bones, nerves. How deeply was his mental process transformed?<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cBetter pop before my bomb does.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cDon\u2019t talk.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cThey call it total body disruption. The thing a bomb does. Chunks. Gibs. Meat cloud. I was in awe when I read the term. Twelve years old.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Lazur closes his eyes, trying to regulate his breathing.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWhat are you thinking about? What\u2019s your go-to?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He scans for mental images, desperately flipping through obscene fantasies tracing all the way back to puberty.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cYou probably need ol\u2019 reliable for this one. The stuff that gets you off when you need to fall asleep.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Get out of my head, you fuck.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Rubicon says, \u201cYou know the first thing I jerked off to?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cThey didn\u2019t mention it in the briefing.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cThe first thing I ever jerked off to was Kajaki.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI didn\u2019t think anyone else saw it.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cYeah. You never meet anyone who saw it.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cThey can\u2019t handle the circus.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cHalfway through I started laughing and couldn\u2019t stop. I felt like I was going crazy.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

This stupid conversation is the only thing keeping him from freezing up. So he allows himself to speak naturally, aimlessly, knowing he needs to relax on the deepest level. \u201cI always wanted to see it again. I don\u2019t know why. It made me so sad.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWe should watch it together sometime.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Lazur fingers the mouth of the bomb. Feels soft enough. \u201cDirty bomb,\u201d he whispers.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

“What?”<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Dirty little bomb…<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cKrakatit, Krakatoa, Kajaki, kraken, Krakus\u2026death is in the K\u2019s\u2026the STOP\u2026the voiceless velar plosive…are you voiceless, Lazur? Or plosive?”<\/p>\n\n\n\n

“Please be quiet. I’m trying to concentrate.”<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cMaybe I lied. Maybe I went small and cozy. Packed it so you\u2019ll survive. So you can be like me.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Lazur shudders, a gruesome, slimy dread coating every inch of his skin. Eleven minutes. He jerks off in small, weak, scared motions, part of him still trying to preserve his dignity even as he grinds against his death.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI made the interior extra nice for you. I didn\u2019t want you to have a hard time in front of all these people.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cRight. Then the razors come out, and the scorpions.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

“It’s not a fucking Saw trap. This is medical-grade silicone.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cFucking ridiculous.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cDid you go inside? Was that you going inside?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cSo fucking stupid.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

“Look around. Then tell me how stupid this is.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The dead bodies do lend an air of gravitas. Lazur presses flush against the bomb, trying to conceal his penetration. He gasps at the tight, sticky sensation of his cock embedded in a high-yield, block-leveling explosive.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWhy are you doing this?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI’d already tested your technical strength, took you through the intellectual games\u2014\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

“It wasn’t a game to me.”<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cIf you wanted to help people, you could have become a plumber. A nursing home aid. A shit scrubber.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Lazur pushes a little deeper, trying to relax. The bomb hasn\u2019t cut his dick off yet.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cBut you became a bomb technician. You headed straight for the alien apparatus, the archonic convergence of it all. The screaming edge of the future.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

With his cock soft in the interior of a doomsday device, Lazur feels the sudden urge to beg. Hey, turn off the bomb. Please? For the sake of whatever delusion you\u2019ve invested in me.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cYou were the only one who understood. All that effort that dissipates into nothing\u2014\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Ten minutes. His head pounds with blood, the wrong one. \u201cTell me about the bomb. Help me understand.\u201d As long as Rubicon is still on the line, the fantasy of negotiation is alive. Someone who can end the nightmare, even if he won\u2019t.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI wanted to make something high-concept. A blockbuster hit for the masses.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cAn accessible bomb for your average guy.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI think everyone watching will get it.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Lazur thrusts faster, fighting to keep his half-erection alive. \u201cI\u2019m just a low-concept guy in a high-concept world.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cYou\u2019re a component in my bomb now.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Lazur freezes. Wondering if he\u2019s fucking his way to some kind of ironic twist.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cDon\u2019t worry. You can be an off switch. If you believe in yourself. And uh, fuck the bomb real good.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Grind grind grind. His foreskin pinches. He adjusts it. Squirts more lotion on. Still not hard enough. He always jerked off with TV in the background. He needs a distraction. \u201cSo you\u2019ve just been convalescing this whole time?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cMy dad left me a lot of money.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI hate guys like that. Letting their kids grow up to be narcissists.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWhat kind of dad are you?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI\u2019m not in the right profession to have kids.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWell. I can\u2019t think of a more public demonstration of your virility.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

“Sure. Fuck off.”<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cYou should thank me for all the pussy coming your way. You could repopulate that whole parking lot.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI don\u2019t even remember to water the flowers.\u201d Dead and brown in his mother\u2019s garden. She\u2019s not mobile enough to go out anymore, so it\u2019s okay. Just another private desolation.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cIt eats away at the nerves. The work we do. Are you taking something for it? Modafinil?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI\u2019m fine.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cYou should have put Viagra in that kit of yours. Haha. I think I wanted something you couldn\u2019t solve with your obnoxious little tools.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Slap slap slap.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWhat usually works for you? What\u2019s the trusty fallback?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The countdown slices red all around him, LCD blades of death.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cTry boobs. That\u2019s pretty classic.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The trophy wife of a high-ranking politician came home one night with new tits. Implants done in water gel explosive. Her breasts exploded in his face while he was motorboating her. Charon drove the rest of the way.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Lazur shakes his head, trying to clear the memory of that room. A drop of sweat hits the bomb, trickling down the side.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Six minutes.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

One night at a bar, he went to the restroom and saw an honest-to-God glory hole. He stared at it, stupefied, as it started swallowing the universe. His pants were down when he noticed it, his bladder just emptied. Someone was definitely on the other side. All he had to do was turn and insert his Molotov cocktail dripping with vodka piss.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Instead, he took out the red marker in his pocket, and around the hole he wrote:<\/p>\n\n\n\n

FRONT TOWARD ENEMY<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

Four minutes.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He grinds his hips into the bomb. A tight, clinical fuck. It feels so bad, to fuck like this. So bad in his brain. Just to save a tiny part of this sick, doomed world. These people weren\u2019t having a good time before. They\u2019ll have a worse time after. If they survive.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

This is forced. The thought clarifies for the first time. Everything is unpleasant, everywhere, so it took time to get it. But it fucking hurts, being forced. Not just pushed toward something, dragging his feet, but slammed, slotted, expended like a piece of machinery.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Three minutes.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cAre you crying?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI am perspiring from my forehead.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWhat\u2019s on your mind? What\u2019s the hardcore sexual fantasy that\u2019ll save all these upstanding citizens?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cGood old tits and ass.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Rubicon leans toward the webcam, coming into mutilated focus. \u201cI don\u2019t believe you.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI\u2019m thinking of a landscape where everything moves at normal speed.\u201d He slams into the bomb, hard enough to bruise. The only hope now is adrenaline.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

One minute.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Can\u2019t do it. This dick-killing world. Everything is so weak and insufficient. He\u2019s been weak for a long time. Losing sleep. Jumping at loud sounds. Coming back from each mission with a piece of him sealed away. He was always a guy being inserted into things, and now he has to admit it. The blast will cast his soul in the shape of his weakness.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Forty seconds.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cYou\u2019re thinking about running.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

It\u2019s only natural.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cYou\u2019re cutting it really close. Even if you escaped the immediate explosion, you\u2019d have to outrun the blast radius.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Dick soft. Thirty seconds.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cMaybe you could make it. Depends how the explosion propagates. It\u2019s all so chaotic and unpredictable, isn\u2019t it?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

His legs tense, to run or fuck, he doesn\u2019t know.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cOn the other hand, you\u2019ve been exerting yourself. And you\u2019re not young anymore.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The countdown blurs into red bokeh. He fumbles for his zipper.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cGoing to leave all these people to die?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

A cool breeze falls from the sky, passing through the colonnades of each floor like a sigh so vast he can\u2019t hear the edges of it.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Twenty seconds.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He looks at Rubicon\u2019s face, really seeing for the first time. He always hated shock images, but it\u2019s like how you can look at your own shit in the bowl because it came from you, this is personal, I did this to you, fuck you, I broke your face, I broke your skeleton, nothing could dominate you more completely than that explosion, shockwaves fucking your bone marrow, punished on the molecular level, rattled and shook and crushed in the hand of God, you\u2019re a warning, a message, I did this, you submitted to me down to the last atom in your body.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Lazur is so hard his cock can barely fit in the hole, the suction blurring his vision. \u201cI did this to you.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cHuh?\u201d Confusion flits through Rubicon\u2019s face, exposed through the scarring.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI broke you. Like a toy.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cDon\u2019t say that.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI took your fingers. I twisted your spine.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

How long did you lay like that, before your people saved you? Like a shattered horse. The shape of you changed forever. Your skeleton threaded with the asteroid belt of your workshop. The one I ran my hand along, finding my way through a dark hallway, cool hard concrete, smooth as the devil\u2019s skin. They couldn\u2019t take everything out. Not without removing parts of you.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

You can\u2019t shut your mouth all the way because of me. The wind will always fuck you, cold and cruel, or hot with mosquito-shit. I fucked you. I broke your body. You\u2019re crying now. You can\u2019t even see me anymore. I see you. Every atom of your subtotal body disruption. I can look as long as I want, you\u2019re just a picture on the image roll, hand clawed, chest caved in, bleeding tears that can\u2019t even make it down your face without falling into the holes, I did that to you, you\u2019re the only thing I\u2019m allowed to ruin\u2014<\/p>\n\n\n\n

White-hot phosphorous explodes in his eyes, phosphenes blazing. He shoots inside the tight rubber hole, hot seed draining into the guts of the bomb, diagnostic machinery vibrating at the reception of his load, setting him off again, and in that climax he opens, deeper than skin, one with the bomb, mall spiraling around him, this entire building and all its souls held intact by his surging load, by the mere drip of his foreskin into the bomb\u2019s cunt\u2014<\/p>\n\n\n\n

When he opens his eyes, the tablet is dark. The screens are dark. The sky is cloudy.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

His cock slips out of the hole and he falls against the bomb, legs shaking. The dribble of semen on the mall floor feels more obscene than anything that came before. But they’ll probably waive the sex offender laws for this one. Yes, I exposed myself to multiple children, your honor, but their molecular integrity was at stake…<\/p>\n\n\n\n

His phone is blowing up.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Someone walks past him, covering their daughter\u2019s eyes. Others join the silent migration. Soon, he\u2019s the only one remaining.
He walks through the abandoned food court. Plucks a sugar-glittering churro, chugs a warm, stagnant orange slushy, plunges a fistful of fries into his mouth, grips a buttery pretzel like brass knuckles, picks orange chicken from the heated trays, stirring the queso dip with cummy fingers, too many wet sounds, he collapses behind a cash register, listening to the muzak, which never, ever stopped.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

*<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I can feel you sobbing out there, tears zig-zagging down the ruined landscape of your cheeks. Total boy disruption.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

You\u2019re already thinking about your next bomb. I can\u2019t stop thinking about it either. You tease my tight urban densities, drip hazardous chemicals through my logistic centers. My brain has become a list of parts and projections, the way I used to think about my favorite sports teams. You can barely move from your wheelchair but they\u2019ll put the mandatory handcuffs on you, and you\u2019ll look up at me with that crushed butterfly of a face, chained by those broken wrists, stuck in the exact second before ignition, knowing I ruined your beautiful explosion.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The countdown continues, in this red world.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

*<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He racked his brains in trying to decide whether the potential explosive energy of the organism depended upon the presence of certain enzymotic or other substances or on the chemical composition of the cells themselves, which constituted charges par excellence. Be that as it may, he would have liked to know how that dark proud girl would explode.<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u2014 Karel \u010capek, “Krakatit”<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

* Everything is an explosive. Every thought is a sort of explosion inside the head. When you give me your hand I feel as if something is exploding inside you. \u2014 Karel \u010capek, “Krakatit” * Don\u2019t move. The LED screens and billboards around the Fuchsia World Mall all say the same thing. People run, of […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"closed","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"_mi_skip_tracking":false,"_monsterinsights_sitenote_active":false,"_monsterinsights_sitenote_note":"","_monsterinsights_sitenote_category":0,"footnotes":""},"categories":[24,57],"tags":[51],"class_list":["post-1701","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-story","category-cunt-toward-enemy","tag-bombs"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/xrafstar.monster\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/1701","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/xrafstar.monster\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/xrafstar.monster\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/xrafstar.monster\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/xrafstar.monster\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=1701"}],"version-history":[{"count":62,"href":"https:\/\/xrafstar.monster\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/1701\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":5099,"href":"https:\/\/xrafstar.monster\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/1701\/revisions\/5099"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/xrafstar.monster\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=1701"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/xrafstar.monster\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=1701"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/xrafstar.monster\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=1701"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}