{"id":4543,"date":"2025-06-01T04:16:00","date_gmt":"2025-06-01T04:16:00","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/xrafstar.monster\/blog\/?p=4543"},"modified":"2025-06-01T04:20:39","modified_gmt":"2025-06-01T04:20:39","slug":"cunt-toward-enemy-22","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/xrafstar.monster\/blog\/cunt-toward-enemy-22\/","title":{"rendered":"cunt toward enemy [s3e7] the good life"},"content":{"rendered":"
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\"\"<\/figure><\/div>\n\n\n

\u2726<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Darkness forever.<\/p>\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n

<\/div>\n\n\n\n

Then.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

In this prison, he dug into the wall. A spoon, perhaps, or a turncoat stone come loose from the wall. The spoon bent, and the stone ground to dust. At last he dug his nails into his body and found the wires implanted all over, running from his chest into his neck, his ankles, his wrists. He rips out a throbbing handful. Thud. Thud. Thud. Telling time.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

They burst, spraying him with blood.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u2726<\/p>\n\n\n\n

You were napping, boss.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Another bad dream?<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He hunches over the table, nauseous and body aching. Don\u2019t want to make a mess on this nice tuxedo. In this restaurant of marble and ivory.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Glistening black caviar. Squid ink soup. Tall glass of milk. The good life. But he can\u2019t help the twinge of an ancient frugality, an economic anxiety that no longer makes sense. Growing up, he couldn\u2019t afford such things. But now he has everything he ever wanted. It takes time to accept this.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

You did it, Mr Bomb. You saved the world.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

His call sign. Retired at long last. He knows it better than his own name. Feels like throwing away an old pair of leather boots.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Is that it? The feeling of \u201coffness\u201d. Being turned off. No longer the center of the world. He stares at his soup for maybe too long.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cAre you suffering residual effects?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Residual?<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cFrom the virtual mission.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

That deep plunge into the grid of simulation that has corroded modern life. A mission to take down the Zhyber Valhalla corporation.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

But oh, the damage. Hallucinations. Sleep paralysis. Vivid dreams. Some lingering flaw in his cortex.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

It keeps coming, Mr Bomb says. Like echoes.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cBut you noticed, right, things weren\u2019t adding up? Little discrepancies. A departure from realism.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Yeah. It was getting ridiculous.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

But it felt so real. Of course, no technology could create a perfectly convincing reality. Instead of shaving the nth percent of a hopeless graphical milestone, it\u2019s easier to hijack your oneiric mechanisms, something like a lucid dream. You don\u2019t need to simulate reality. Just the feeling.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He adjusted too well. No one had ever been in the simulation that long. No one but the denizens of that twisted inner sanctum. They wore their coolant pumps like tails. Writhing in their black suits.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Someone was trying to kill him. He still doesn\u2019t know if it was a person, or a process. Like a dream, details are quickly forgotten, but not emotions. A stain of terror in his muscles, activated like that myth of spinal LSD.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cBoss?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He looks up with a wry smile, and offers something of his internal state. Trying to bring the mood up. Show that he\u2019s still with them. He says, when it nested the universes. I think that\u2019s where I started losing track.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cThe system starts to cannibalize itself in the absence of fresh data. But we never imagined\u2026\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

It\u2019s fine.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI know it came at a cost, old friend.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He feels foolish now. Bringing the mood down. And him in his tuxedo.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

It certainly wasn\u2019t family friendly in there, he says.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

That gets a warm laugh around the table. Reminds him of the good times. How much they\u2019ve been through together. His sidekick, Candido, in the white suit. His handler, Nero, black down to the dress shirt, tie, and buttons. And Mr Bomb in the tux.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

You did something truly good for the world. The mother of all bombs was about to go off. And deep in the guts of the simulation, you snipped the correct wire just in time. What color was it?<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He promised himself that when he emerged from the foul synthesis, he would go to the meadow of his childhood, and with real soil under his boots and real sun on his face, he would find a flower in the color of that wire. And he would stick it in his lapel and come to his lady love. He looks down at the breast of his tuxedo. No flower. Just this pain in his chest. He rubs it and something rustles.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

A piece of paper tucked under his tux. His big speech.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

That\u2019s why he\u2019s nervous. The need to summarize in a few sentences, a mission that took subjective years to accomplish. A world he can never share with anyone else. Try telling someone the dream you had this morning. The dream you had a lifetime ago.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

It\u2019s fine until someone asks him about it. Then a sudden rage explodes, or sadness like a broken bone.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He sits back, cleansing himself with a smile. He says, somehow I wish. Even after everything. That there was time for one more adventure.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cCome on, boss. Don\u2019t you want to go out on a high note?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

An inkling of fear spills into his soup. That he should not upset what he has achieved. It took so much to arrive here, after all. The long convalescence. The prayers of his family.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He scratches his chest again. This can\u2019t be a speech, this is denser than paper. He sticks a finger under his shirt and the ache intensifies. Bandage padding.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He says, what is this?<\/p>\n\n\n\n

They look at each other. \u201cWe\u2019ve been through this, sir.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Oh. Sorry.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cYou injured yourself,\u201d Nero says wearily.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cYeah,\u201d Candido says with concern. \u201cDon\u2019t you remember?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He stayed in too long. Years of meticulous work and he couldn\u2019t just throw it away. All he needed was 5 more minutes. And another 5. Hands shaking as he struggled to snip the final wire\u2014<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The suit overheated. Sensors burnt into his chest, nearly stopping his heart. The scar still itches, taking him back to that burning room.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He stares at his reflection in the spoon, upside down. Dark hair smeared and melting, white streaking into silver like he’s becoming mercury.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI\u2019m not hungry,\u201d he says.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u2726<\/p>\n\n\n\n

They go into the parking garage. A gust of gasoline hits his face like a Molotov rag. Black asphalt and white pillars of concrete.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

It\u2019s a gorgeous car. \u201883 \u041a\u0430\u0442\u0440\u0430\u043d, lemoncake yellow. The top flips up like a visor. He always idolized it. It was in his favorite spy show. The reason he got into this business in the first place. Action hero, but suave, not a meathead. Beautiful kinetics, percussive engineering for the world-machine.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

You shouldn\u2019t have, he says.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Nero tosses him the keys. \u201cOh, but we did.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cYeah, boss. Take her for a spin. You deserve it.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Iconic, credits-rolling car. And is that a big ass bottle of champagne in the seat? He could do with a drink. Drown these echoes in his head like late night reruns. And that burnt smell.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He squats down. In the dark space underneath the car, there is an oil stain.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cEasy, boss. You\u2019re not going to throw up again, are you?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

There\u2019s just something I keep missing. Like someone died in there with me.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI\u2019m right here, boss.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Black and white slacks surround him. Concerned. He says to their kneecaps, did I kill someone?<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWe don\u2019t have to talk about it,\u201d his handler says.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Mr Bomb looks up into those gray eyes. He doesn\u2019t find the pain he\u2019s looking for. The pain he feels.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Where even were you, he says. Stabbing pain in my chest<\/em>, he thinks clinically. This fucking bandage. He undoes a few buttons. Picks at it.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cCome on, boss.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Just going to take a look, he mumbles. The bandage stings like an electric zap, nearly forcing his hand off. But he peels it another inch.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cBoss\u2014\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

What time is it, he says suddenly.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I had a watch, didn\u2019t I?<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cUhh.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He says, I had a grappling hook and a special little gun. I had all this shit. So it seems like a sure bet. That I had something to tell the time with.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

It was. You know. That one color. The color of when you\u2019re feeling down, down, down. All the way down\u2026<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cYou\u2019re gonna hurt yourself, boss.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Are you sure this isn\u2019t infected? If I could just see the color\u2026<\/p>\n\n\n\n

His handler says, \u201cYou changed it ten times in the last week. Give it a rest. Let yourself heal.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cYeah,\u201d Candido says. \u201cAren\u2019t you tired?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He is tired. His feet drag. This tuxedo weighs on him, all this ceremony. But the bandage irritates him somehow. The mystery of this wound, the implication of lost faculties.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cCome on,\u201d his handler says gently. \u201cYour wife is waiting.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

My wife. My watch. I just can\u2019t seem to find anything.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cYou\u2019re not making sense.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

What does she look like?<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cYour memory loss can\u2019t be that bad, can\u2019t it?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Mine could, he says. But not yours. You were sitting in an office, right. With my whole biography in front of you. So tell me. What color her hair is.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cOh, you know. It\u2019s a kind of\u2026\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Silence. Reeking with oil. He finally looks up. Their faces are harshly shadowed from this angle. They\u2019re staring at each other instead of him.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

His handler says, \u201cI didn\u2019t want to tell you this. Seeing as I\u2019ve told you a few times now. But your wife is dead.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

No, he says. That can\u2019t be right.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cYou continually repress it. Beg for the suit again.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

It was my mother. My mother is dead.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cSo much subjective time had passed in the simulation. You began to identify your wife with your mother. A loss you had already survived.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He runs his hand across the smooth flank of the car. The yellow seems so pale now. He says, that sounds about right.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cCome on, boss,\u201d his sidekick says softly. \u201cLet\u2019s have a drink.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Mr Bomb rips the bandage off and it feels like skin. Red spreads on the white of his fancy dress shirt like the first color he\u2019s seen all day. A terrible feeling. It would have been better to leave it on.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cBoss.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

What time is it?<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI don\u2019t\u2026\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Not a one of you has a watch. Nice restaurant, nice suits, no watch. You can\u2019t find a, a device, with even the most basic, timetelling, uh, I\u2019d settle for a sundial at this point.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Nero says, \u201cThis analogue fetishism has gotten out of hand.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cYeah, boss. You know what year this is?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

No. Why don\u2019t you tell me?<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Again, they look at each other. Their mouths open, but nothing comes out. They spread their hands like, come on. Be reasonable. Mr Bomb backs up, ears pounding as the blood flows faster. He claws at his collar and rips it off like the bandage.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He says, I\u2019m not mad because you lied to me.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I just wish you told a lie I could believe in.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Because I\u2019m so fucking tired.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He goes to the concrete railing and looks over the edge.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Hmm, he says.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He thinks of the surface of the sun. If it was made of oil. The churning of lava in a black and white film.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The men are blurs. Coming closer. It\u2019s understandable. Blood loss, we\u2019re just trying to help\u2014<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He lurches away, leaving a trail of blood brighter than anything else. As he slows, the blood collects into a puddle, and he becomes sick and afraid.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cIt\u2019s just a hallucination,\u201d his handler says. \u201cWe\u2019ve been here before.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

No watch on his wrist. But his heart beats steady. He smiles, very pale, and falls on his face, into the red pool.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u2726<\/p>\n\n\n\n

<\/div>\n\n\n\n

\u2726<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Lazur was watching an old spy thriller. He always found the poorly paced onslaught of escapist imagery comforting. A parade of violent holidays. The ultimate tourist. A man with a gun.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He fell asleep before the end. In this small room, with the portable TV hooked up to an old VCR on a little wooden desk made by a village artisan a long time ago. Stripped paint, rattling whenever a door slams or he rolls out of bed. He stands up, and the sunlight reflecting from the snowy mountains slices across the green dawn forest and hits his naked body.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He always sleeps naked. Sweaty dreams. He unlocks the drawer of that little desk and takes his handgun out. He scratches his hip with the muzzle, then slides a magazine into the chamber. He thinks of his mother taking her pills in the morning. It hurts, this ocean between them. It severs souls. He wires her money but hasn\u2019t replied to her letter yet. It\u2019s so easy to put it off another day, and another day, and just be a walking gun. Bodyguard to one of the richest men on the continent.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The corny conservative psychedelia of that movie soaked into his nightmare. Mr Bomb under hypnosis. Induction within induction, the pendulum sway of a pocket watch. Tick tick, Mr Bomb. A gruesome graveyard. Your mother\u2019s skeleton. But Mr Bomb has an iron will. He\u2019s stronger than that. It says so on the tape sleeve. The Man With Nerves of \u2014<\/em>. Weathering has stripped away crucial nouns. Nerves of Shit<\/em>.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He found these old tapes in the basement. Mr Bomb is a bit cooler and cynical nowadays. His palette leans cobalt, not the molten evening colors of the acid era. They spray sweat under his armpits. He fights computerized terroristics and cocaine hyperplots. He\u2019s one beautiful dead woman away from crossing the line. It is increasingly difficult to be a gentleman.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

But you have to drive to the theater to see that. A long drive to the village. Here in the mansion, there are only old things. And a very young one. He sees the boy playing in the garden. The same sunlight on Lazur\u2019s thighs is shining on that blond hair.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

In his early 30s, he wakes with a snag in his bones. Quickly fading but enough to remind him how fast kids are. Unpredictable as insects, flitting if you blink. Some are straight up retarded. But this is a fast one. And in the way he’s responsible for his employer’s body, he’s responsible to some extent for what came from that body. So he rips the window open and rasps, \u201cNo firecrackers in the garden.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The cold breeze nips and reminds him of his body. He kneels by the window, covering his nakedness. Forced to rest his arm on the sill.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The boy: sharp white smile and pink tongue like a fox. Holding the match like a conductor. Bringing it to the fuse, then away. Then back again. This secret symphony between them.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

\u2726 Darkness forever.<\/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":[57],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-4543","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-cunt-toward-enemy"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/xrafstar.monster\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/4543","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=4543"}],"version-history":[{"count":14,"href":"https:\/\/xrafstar.monster\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/4543\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":4569,"href":"https:\/\/xrafstar.monster\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/4543\/revisions\/4569"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/xrafstar.monster\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=4543"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/xrafstar.monster\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=4543"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/xrafstar.monster\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=4543"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}