deranged-ink

[deranged-ink]

Carta de amor.

Sere valiente o cobarde al escribir esta oracion? Sera demasiado tarde para pedirte perdón? Escribo con esta tonta y vana ilusion de curar usando palabras las llagas del corazón. Nunca supe responder todo lo que diste ni todo lo que hiciste, con este corazón gris que viste Por eso te quiero regalar un verso triste, una carta de amor para el amor que ya no existe. Tal vez solo nos tocaba esta parte, estar en el titanic y que nunca llege el rescate ¿Es triste? La tristeza solo existe en la añoranza y su debate. Mi corazón ahora es un chiste y sólo sangra cuando late Todo lo que tengo es nuestra historia en papel y el recuerdo de tus besos quemandome la piel, Y se que perdere mil primaveras y mi orgullo buscando en otros labios los teamos que habian en los tuyos. Yo te jure decir siempre toda la verdad: lo siento, no te supe cuidar. Solo creces cuando aprendes a soltar y entiendes en el dolor lo que significa amar. Aun sonrio pensando en dormir abrazado a tu calor Y ahora quiero verter todo ese fragor para escribir esta ultima carta de amor. Una flor nace y se marchita, el amor muere y resucita. Te extrañare por tres dias aunque parezcan treinta años. Recordando esos besos que curaban todo el daño. No negare mis pecados, lo confieso, no voy a negar que me derrito por tus besos Nos dijimos tantas cosas que ahora son eternas cicatrices Pero aprendi que lo que mas duele son los te amo que no dices. Siempre recordare a mi Musa, mi mente busca soñarte a la más minima excusa creeme cuando digo que quiero que seas feliz, aun cuando estes tan lejos mio.

[deranged-ink]

Wolves / 02. Disobedience. /For Elisabeth/

The corridor that followed was long, much darker than the ground floor and it was deserted, there were few doors on the sides, two on the left, one bricked up on the right and at the end a single metal door with a sign that read "Division Fenrir"

The murmur of the conversation on the other end grew as he got closer, and when he opened it, it turned into the laughter and insults of three men playing cards.

North, Silence, and Strider were playing cards on one of the desks, English cards and money in the center of the table, a thermos, a bag of sweet rolls, and a bottle of vodka to one side.

Silencio seemed to be winning, although the other two had their doubts about how he was doing it, the old Siberian kept his cards close to his body and his small mountain of coins just as close.

They greeted him raising their metal jugs inviting him to join the table. Refusing to be cheated with a smile, he took one of the buns and continued walking towards his desk. Even if his instincts didn't tell him not to, he didn't have time to play with them, he was just coming to get some papers before leaving. Six years ago finding something like this would have sent them to the streets or to the firing squad if a superior found out, but these days they didn't even wear their badges and Bjorn had more important things to worry about than a little more criminal activity in station Any other day he would have drunk with them until Strider's sister seemed like a good catch but today he couldn't get that feeling out of his head. As if he was only half an hour away from moving to Villa Santa Mierda: Inhabitants: 3,405,742,182...183...184 «We hope you come back soon.»

- Nero, won't you join us? - asked Strider as he dealt another hand of lame. - I need someone to tell me how this wretch is beating us.

Silencio laughed without making a single sound and didn't make a single comment as he deftly arranged the cards he was dealt.

- I'm sorry, I do come to work, ladies - he replied, stirring up the mess on his desk.

- For a change today I have a sale to go to, with some luck we will have new toys – he added taking his notebook out of one of the drawers to put it in his pocket.

He had heard about these sales a few weeks ago, unmarked high caliber, untraceable weapons. Bjorn just told him not to end up dead, that it was hard to find guys like him.

- Will you need a bodyguard? - North asked without taking his eyes off the cards. - I have nothing to do today, the big boss put me on hold for today.

- I don't think so, it would be better if I appear alone, your ugly face is capable of ruining the deal - he replied with a mocking smile.

- Where is the purchase? - asked Trancos as he left some shields in the center of the table, his face showed confidence in his bet, that's the problem with children like him, he still hasn't mastered the art of poker face.

- By the docks, near Pratt Avenue - he replied, emptying his pockets, making sure he wasn't carrying anything that says "police." The plate, his identification, his cell phone, the ring he received as a commemoration for heroic acts.

- Today I have to patrol near the pier, I'll take you to the avenue - the taxi driver mentioned without losing confidence in his cards.

The shields piled up on the table, the cards were revealed, and the Siberian took it all again.

Strider hit the table and got up. Nero only hid a smile as he watched how the old mechanic's agile hands shuffled again, some cards coming out of his sleeves, others going in, in movements almost impossible to detect.

Trancos began to wrap up to go out again and North with Silence played again. Nero stood to one side of the door waiting for the youngest of his companions but he couldn't help but look the Siberian in the eye and after making eye contact he let his hands do the talking for him, "Isn't it hot to wear a coat in here? " he asked quickly with hand signs. The old wolf's smile was rapacious and with that he said all he had to say.

They left through the back of the plant, the metal door led to a dark and dirty alley in which there was not a soul. A spotless yellow cab stood out like a thumb that wanted to be whacked. The car was a classic modified by the time, the Chevy changed its engine and dashboard for something more in touch with the 22nd century. But Strider had decided to keep all the rest.

They got into the taxi, the engine starting with a soft purr that Nero swore turned Strider on.

The car came out of the alley like a bullet, under the control of the puppy the taxi scuttled through the heavy traffic at more than a hundred kilometers per hour.

And so the trip that should have lasted about half an hour, lasted only five minutes. A few hours later he would like that trip to last a few more minutes.

- Good luck Nero, get me one of those new Hand Cannons they talk about so much - was the last thing Strider said to him before accelerating leaving him behind.

He hid his face in the hood and plunged into the sea of people.

At what point did everything go to shit, he wondered and closed his fist around the revolver before threatening him one last time and hitting him full in the face, the sound of his cheekbone breaking on impact said more than the promise itself. Undoubtedly, he achieved his goal. Surrounded by death the man from the ground begged and in fear, his will broke. Knowledge is an interesting thing, how many times have you heard them swear not to know anything, claim that they are pawns in the game but a couple of blows, some pain and as if it were magic even the most secret details come out of their throats.

- Where is my cargo? - The wolf asked while putting the still hot mouth of the cannon on his forehead.

The bald old man writhed, feeling how his skin was burning, but he did not dare to let out a single cry.

- Sorry Sorry! - he muttered no longer wanting to fight. - The Hells heard that we would be selling you weapons, Mr. Lobo, they orchestrated the ambush, you know how they are, right?... They don't like having neighbors and they fear that you will grow stronger...

Another blow, this time it was a kick to the stomach, after all, no matter how upset he was, he just wanted to get him to focus, not render him unconscious. You can't interrogate a man who's passed out.

- That does not answer my question - he growled looking at him on the ground. The poor fucker was gasping for air while the wolf beat the crap out of him, not caring that he was trying his best to respond. - I don't care if they have nightmares or wet dreams about us, I just want to know where my fucking weapons are!

-Y-your weapons, they-they kept them, they're in the port, hold five! - He answered searching desperately in his pockets. The poor bastard pulled out a dirty yellow piece of paper with an address on it and handed it over.

The poor devil spat out one secret after another trying to save his life. But his destiny was already signing. Coldly he hammered the revolver and pulled the trigger releasing metallic death at the pleading man. The flash must have been his last sight. Movies lie, they add too much theater, too much tempo to a fleeting act. In the real world everything is more cruel and childish; Like a puppet whose strings are cut, the body collapses against the concrete. The lungs are emptied. Perhaps one last thought crosses his mind and he dies. He just dies, without shame for emptying his bowels or honor for having fought to the death, without even a solemn expression. Just another corpse with a hole in its chest and a pool of blood below. No valkyrie is seen looking for the soul of the fallen, nor are glorious last words said. One only collapses before the overwhelming power of the bullet.

Movies lie, he thought, watching his left arm hang limp. Holstered the revolver as best he could and leaning against a wall, felt his arm judging the damage. The wound discharged pain without mercy. The shotgun had spat out a rain of iron that had gone in and out making a mess of his flesh, only a few brave shreds of flesh and skin keeping his arm attached to his body. He looked at the gray sky and sighed, it wasn't very difficult to conclude that this time the hot iron and some bandages would not be enough.

If he could only sleep for a couple of hours he would be so happy. No, he couldn't waste any more time. Against all thought, he wrestled with his belt to get it off and then to adjust it on his arm. He clenched his teeth tightly, stifling a scream that promised to be heartbreaking, and it was. The pain was like a slap, it woke him up in a certain way, he still couldn't allow himself to die and for this feeling pain was a good sign, it meant he was still alive.

He adjusted his jacket to hide the tourniquet, hid his face under the hood and with his hand against the wall began to walk through the maze of alleys until he managed to get out onto the main avenue, his body walked automatically, one step was placed in front of him. another without needing instructions. The avenue was full of people who were pushing to reach their destinations completely oblivious to the multitude of fresh bodies that adorned the ground just a few alleys from where they were. "They heard the shots but they don't care or maybe they're afraid they'll care" he thought as he began to make her way between them trying not to attract attention with her bleeding arm. Even leaving red traces in the dirty snow, walking invisible is easy if no one wants to see.

When he saw the "Santos Ángeles" hospital on the other side of the street, he realized where his feet were taking him, he forced himself to stop, cancel his survival instinct and change course. he couldn't get into a hospital, even if that could save his life, it was a bad idea, doctors and nurses often ask questions, questions that can't be answered with vague descriptions of an accident when the tongs keep pulling shrapnel out of the flesh, questions that reach the most voracious reporters who repeat them looking for a visceral answer, who knock on door after door investigating without stopping until they make so much noise that a press statement full of beautiful lies is not enough and what ends up in the Sunday newspaper It's nothing but the dirty truth. Nobody wants the truth.

The hospital was behind him as he moved among the people aimlessly, still. His mind weighed the possibilities, between moments of lucidity and sleep he ruled out each of the options, none was an answer, too far from a cave, without a radio with which to call for help. His best bet was a shit, a pay phone. The mere idea gave him a headache, Bjorn will put a bullet in my head when he finds out I did it, he thought as he quickened his pace a little looking for one. Almost all the public phones in the city, except for some that were almost a hundred years old, were for video calls and their security was poor at best, it was impossible to know if someone else was listening and watching

He walked six blocks before finding the jackpot waiting for him on the other side of the street, a blue booth with a phone from the mid-21st century and if it still worked it was a gift from Odin.

He kicked out a bum who seemed to have made the cubicle his home and brought the phone to his ear feeling like it weighed tons. He had a tone, without counting he put the coins he had on him and almost hitting the keys he dialed the only number he didn't want to dial.

- Here Bjorn, who is speaking? - The voice on the other end was harsh

- Here Nero, I need a taxi - he answered almost without strength.

The bear on the other end of the line cursed loudly, quickly typed some commands and checked the line. Nero was one lucky bastard. Not because the line was analog and nobody listened to what they were saying, because a taxi was nearby.

- Trancos is in the area, I'll tell him to pick you up.

Bjorn ended the call and picked up his cell phone

Like a drunk he left the cabin, walked to the corner, entrusted his weight to a light pole so as not to kiss the sidewalk and waited. And he didn't wait too long for the cab.

A taxi with a red flag painted on the door stopped next to the cab getting out a lady who did nothing but insult the driver calling him a damned, insane son of a bitch. The car was a golden carriage sent by the gods themselves, drawn by silver horses and guided by beautiful Valkyries with large breasts and flawless skin.

He shook his head to stop dreaming, put his hand to his mouth and whistled three times.

Strider quickly flashed his lights and approached, cutting traffic like a madman to stop in front of him and let him get on, or rather collapse into the seat before speeding down the avenue away from the onlookers.

-Nero, by God that's you, right? - He asked looking at him in the mirror without taking his eyes off the cars in front of him for more than a second.

From the back seat he just growled at him- Shit, you're terrible brother, what the hell happened to you? - The taxi driver exclaimed looking at him more carefully during a red light. - You are bleeding on the new upholstery, I shit on your ancestors, Odin's punishment...

- Puppy... Go fuck yourself and drive... - He answered trying to get the pack of cigarettes out of his pocket

- I should leave you lying in the middle of the avenue but I don't want Bjorn to skin me – he laughed a little, looking back at the pavement. The traffic light turned green and the taxi sped away dodging cars. Strider looked once more in the mirror, Nero was trying to light a cigarette, and took the radio from the taxi. - This is delivery man 623, taking Nero's bruised ass to the Needle, I'm on the main road, I'll be there in 3 minutes, is there anyone there? Over.

He waited about forty seconds.

- Needle, I'm on the main road about two minutes away, is there anyone there? Over.

- Don't even think about bringing that idiot here. - A woman's voice answered Strider couldn't help but smile at the answer, he recognized the voice without problems and it wasn't difficult for him to guess what was happening.

- Look little girl I don't care about the problems you have with smiles but here I have the very idiot bleeding and smoking on my new upholstery and do you know how long ago I changed it? THREE DAYS.

- Take him to Nómada, there they will treat him as he likes.

- I am more than fifteen minutes away from Nómada and less than two from Aguja. Do it for the good Strider seats, okay?

- Strider, nobody cares about your fucking upholstery, leave the stupid in Needle. Camila I don't want to hear one more complaint about this. - Ordered a harsh and rough voice - How is that imbecile doing?

From the back seat, with the cigarette half dangling between his lips, he raised his thumb and growled something incomprehensible.

- It's not good at all – answered Strider.

- A doctor will be there in twenty minutes.

- Understood, Bjorn – Camila murmured.

La Aguja is a notorious bar located between the edge of the commercial area and the port.

It was usually frequented by a few small gangs, sailors, taxi drivers and whores looking for a quiet place to work or get away from work. Nothing out of the ordinary. But if you went to the back you would see that it also has a basement, a place that few know and call a cave of wolves. That's where the taxi stopped.

Strider cursed looking in the rearview mirror, Nero was leaving his unlit cigarette in the ashtray, his face was white as paper. He looked at the closed door, hoping Camila would put her anger aside at least to save the idiot's life. He honked three times before getting out and opening the passenger door helping Nero to get up, the man weighed a ton, trembled slightly and was as cold as a tombstone, none of that pleased the driver who half carrying him took him to the armored door and finding it still closed, he kicked it twice, almost losing his balance on the second blow. Nero remained semi-conscious, it was promising, he was still trying to carry his own weight and slightly followed what was happening with his eyes, but he no longer responded to the words. They couldn't reach him behind the walls of his head, everything was losing color. Thus began the dark disconnection and although he fought against that peace, he no longer felt pain or fear. Behind the walls two ideas fought. The first was from his conscience that he hoped Camila didn't really open the door, that was a good way to die. Whoever lives badly ends badly says a popular saying of the city, although another one always seemed more accurate to him that said: whoever lives by iron, dies by iron. After everything he had lived through, after all the hands of cards he had seen dealt, finally dying was a good way to retire. The other idea was a little simpler, and had little to do with living, he just wanted to see her one more time. Between those two ideas, Nero's mind shut down for a second and his body lost the little strength that supported it. From one second to the next, Nero hung only from Trancos's grip and he chewed furiously.

Another minute passed and after a third kick, Camila appeared at the door, her face paling a little at the sight of Nero but she masterfully feigned a subtle indifference.

Strider was cruel - If he dies, it will be your fault - he said, pushing her aside to pass and he gave her one last look before starting down the stairs.

Nero," she murmured, watching them go down, and her voice woke up part of their lost thoughts.

Opening his eyes a little, he watched the world move without really understanding what was happening. The steps were steep, he watched them go by without feeling that his feet were stepping on them, little by little he looked up, Strider was there holding him and looking down again he understood that if it hadn't been for that puppy, he would have fallen down the stairs. He had no strength, but even so he tried to stand up, his feet tried to listen to him but he no longer had the strength to step firmly. Everything was becoming more and more blurred, darker and lost its shapes.

he growled. - Unnecessary theatrics - he murmured annoyed, disconcerting them. Although other than that he did spice things up a bit, he wasn't dead yet. The cave was one of the headquarters that had been hidden around the city in case something went wrong, after all a group of criminals couldn't use the police station during their coups.

The basement had a large space that served as a base of operations and a resting place.

It had about three rooms with several bunk beds each, a small kitchen, a living room, and a meeting room with a ceiling-mounted projector. It was almost always in the dim light, one of Bjorn's eccentricities, and he always had at least one person with him for emergencies like this.

Without thinking twice or consulting him, he took him to a sofa and laid him down, Nero didn't even react when he hit his arm again. His left arm was dangling from the sofa and not seeing the blood running down his forehead they would only think he was asleep

Camila walked into the room, hit the switch turning on the lights and walked over to the sofa. He looked at Strider for a second and the driver moved away almost instinctively, his gaze had abandoned that momentary fright to have one that bordered on anger. She hated him for bringing it, she hated Nero for coming here to bleed but she still carried a first aid kit and a bottle of hot vodka that she had already opened.

- Drink this, it will help you - he murmured and opened her lips a little, pouring a drink. The man coughed a little and after the second drink he was able to drink a little. - Now hold still. - He added starting to review it carefully starting with his head.

- A bruise on the jaw and a deep cut on the eyebrow - she muttered to herself making a mental list of the beating she had received - No apparent damage to the neck - she added and began to take off her jacket, the shirt was soaked with blood so he was not careful not to break the buttons - A vertical cut on the ribs - she examined the wound and poured some hot vodka to clean it - the cut did not go beyond the bone... although it seems that the ribs are broken. - she sighed with a little more relief - I can't rule out internal injuries... He lost some blood, but he will live.

Strider relaxed upon hearing the last thing and approached the sofa, watching as Camila took things out of the medical box to start treating Nero. He seemed to be sleeping, his chest was slightly inflated and the blood hardly came out of the wound anymore.

- Unnecessary theatrics, that's what he said, right? - He asked looking at how she began to wash her hands with brandy to sew the cut on her chest

– The damn idiot just wanted to scare us...

"Yeah, he's a lucky idiot" she replied and animatedly hit his left arm. Her spirits plummeted, the sleeve was wet and full of holes. Camila looked at her palm, it was painted red again, she noticed the pool of blood that had begun to slide under the sofa and quickly turned to see Strider. "Your knife, now," she ordered.

The taxi driver obeyed without understanding and remained silent watching as she began to rip the sleeve of her jacket. The tourniquet became visible, a dam that was trying to stop the biblical flood in vain. She ripped the shirt as well, losing the breath and the color in his face.

- Is it so bad? - Nero asked waking up for the second time, although he asked it almost jokingly, he knew exactly how he was. His almost glassy gaze had a glimmer of understanding that he hadn't before. - You all shouldn't be surprised, he didn't look like a shotgun surgeon.

Camila and Trancos were startled to hear it. They looked into his eyes, he seemed to be lucid again. But even so, the scare did not leave her, covering the wound with a cloth again, she looked at Nero and then at Trancos

- When will the doctor arrive? -

- In about ten minutes – The taxi driver replied and came a little closer to lift the cloth and look at the wound, he swallowed without knowing what else to say.

- Call Bjorn, tell him that the doctor is not going to arrive on time. - he ordered frantically almost unable to contain the desperation he felt. He looked at Nero again and he was almost closing his eyes again. Nero, open your eyes. Nero...NERO! Do not sleep. - Asked looking at him without knowing what else to do. He couldn't ignore it.

[deranged-ink]

Wolves / 01 A bad omen. /For Elisabeth/

Mace, sword, and spear fell on his head, cracking his skull, crushing his brains, and turning the fresh snow red with blood. A man desperately tried to get back home as his worst nightmares dragged him across the floor. A woman was crying alone, terrified of the seven deformed figures that danced around her. The sermon of a smiling and faceless priest silenced all sounds and the burning cathedral kept its doors open letting the poor devils in to burn with their God. The shadow seemed to laugh walking through the streets and even so everyone remained happy, blind, with death walking among them.

The alarm sounded and he opened his eyes tired. The same dream every night, the same nonsensical sequence of human cyanide demonstrations, but this time it was all so real that it took a second longer than usual to recover. He inhales, he exhales. In the dark he groped the bedside table until he found the alarm switch and silenced it once and for all. But he did not get up. A few minutes passed before the need to pee could overcome the desire to stay in the warm bed, but when he finally got up and the cold air embraced him he knew it was going to be a bad day.

He yawned, relaxed his bladder and let that hot yellow poison hit the toilet bowl, his body asked him for a cigarette while he looked out the bathroom window, outside a storm was slowly brewing, darkening the sky. The first snowfall of the year had come too early. A real bad omen, North would say.

Without stopping to think about it, he did a few exercises that woke up his sore muscles and went to bathe. The hot water hit his back and it was like being twenty years old again for a few seconds, forgetting all the pain that his body carried and the nightmares that wandered in his memory. He stayed like that for a few minutes, motionless in the rain and steam, his mind blank. He brushed his teeth without much desire and looked at himself in the mirror for a minute while holding the recently sharpened razor. The first gray hairs had begun to appear among his black hair and short beard, and although they did not matter to him, they had served to remind him that today he was thirty-four years old, he had passed the life expectancy of a policeman from the old world by four years. With a bittersweet smile he put down the razor, "What kind of thug cares about his appearance", he wondered.

Thirty-four years old, criminal, detective without children, alone in a small apartment in the south zone of the city, he has few friends, most of them are his companions from the unit and except for some lucky, and unrepeatable, stroke of fate A little over a month ago he would have gone almost a year without taking a woman to his bed. She never knew her father, she never cared to do so, and her mother was murdered thirty years ago, so it was her aunt who always tried to cover both roles to the best of her ability, from talking about why she was stopping to a sad and an embarrassing lesson about what porn was, the poor woman always did everything she could and that's why he always listened to her with respect, even though she insisted so much on her non- affectionate life had become a problem in recent years. It would be bearable if he didn't insist on setting him up with Strider's sister, Tina, with whom he was sure he would never be able to get a boner, much less fuck properly, firstly because she was the sister of one of his best friends which made her completely an asexual being, second because the poor woman was moody, serious and simply not pretty, not to call her irrefutably ugly.

The black and hot coffee failed to restore his humor, the blond cigar could not calm that feeling or silence that voice of self-preservation that told him that he should not leave the house today. He looked at the clock on the wall, it was eight thirteen, it was already late and he was still in his boxers in the kitchen thinking about things that didn't make any sense, eating bread with eggs pushed with coffee. If this were the old world, he'd be worried about losing his job. Now he didn't come to work until nine. He finished tying his shoes, adjusted his tie, the holster under his arm, and put on his black jacket, hiding the compartment for his weapon. From under the pillow he pulled out his Raging Taurus and checked that the drum was loaded before placing the revolver in its holster and lighting his jacket.

Gray snow-covered streets, full of people walking through the morning mist, all ignoring whoever was walking next to them. To tell the truth, the city had not changed at all, it was as if the chaos that filled it with life made it immune to the changes of time and the whims of man. Even when everything in appearance has changed, when the hows are no longer answered in the same way, the streets remain the same, labyrinthine, dark, dirty, crowded with people and vermin; The smells were the same, exhaust fumes, sweat, perfume, and fried food; The noise of a thousand murmurs is a constant next to machines and cars.

Nothing that remained static for so long could be sane and sometimes he wondered how close he was to the end. Close, he thought he was close.

But still, he loved that city.

He loved her for her details; The taste of coffee in a bar on the second; A young violinist who played at the station, played a masterful Alegro; A Wild Duck burger, hot with the fat still dripping from the meat; The conversation with the owner of a bookstore lost in the commercial region. Small things that for anyone else would not matter at all, but for him they gave meaning to life. Reasons to follow even when the path that had to be walked was the wrong one.

The police station was silent as usual, only the sound of dozens of typing, being beaten, entering fines into the system could be heard and that was all they did besides eating donuts. He sometimes thought that more than police they were office workers, they sold their souls, and their weapons became a notebook and a pencil with which to hide the world. Cops on paper. Of course, there were still old dogs like him, little pieces of the old world that no one in the new world wanted to admit that they needed and that is that even in a city where they did not want police there were crimes and criminals. Their job was to solve a few, the ones that the entity wanted them to solve and this does not always mean locking up the bad guy.

Thirteen years of madness and death had led to this. They began with naked and mutilated bodies in the squares, followed by bombs and letters to the press. They call themselves Hell and they run all the illegal circles in the city, from  robberies to drugs, weapons and whatever you need to satiate your sexual depravity. Hell is the worst cancer in town, and the hardest to treat since they have a strict policy when it comes to protecting their businesses, they swear that for every hundred thousand lost they would turn up a body. And they have always followed suit. Sooner rather than later people began to calculate, if the police acted, Hell would take it out on the people, one hundred thousand, one dead. There were marches demanding greater security and efficiency from the police, but everything exploded when the anti-drug group caught and destroyed a shipment worth twenty million in narcotics. They called it the black morning, it was not necessary to identify the remains, Hell nailed the identifications to their foreheads. Two hundred tortured and dismembered bodies were found dumped all over the city. Men, women, and children, regardless of gender, religion, or status, all alike, destroyed and thrown onto the pavement. In reality there were two hundred and one victims, the latter survived. No, they let her live and her story about what they did to them was so dark that it achieved its purpose. When the police announced that they would search for the culprits, only the direct relatives of the victims did not march to demand that the fight against Hell no longer continues.

This is how the terrorists win.

But one day the good man, the one who couldn't look away, opened his eyes. They say that the bad guy wins when the good man gives up, but in reality the bad guy loses when the good guy loses his patience, when the good guy stops being good. In despair the answer was born and now the game is different.

There were no more arrests, there were no more policemen. Wolves only.

He crossed the door fighting with his lighter to be able to light a slightly damp cigarette due to the light snowfall and walked directly to the entrance table, a blond boy of about nineteen was on the other side of the bar today, another one of those kids who after month and a half of training they gave them a badge that they were never going to use, first because they were never taught how to stop someone, much less a minimum of personal defense, also because obtaining a permit to purchase ammunition was almost impossible, but above all because in case of obtaining a weapon and the ammunition purchase permit, they would not even know how to load it.

Excuse me, detective, you know that according to statute No. 49632-B of the Ministry of Health and Welfare, you cannot  smoke in public places or workplaces, right? - He muttered almost swallowing his disgust at the smell of burnt tobacco but without really being able to do it. His expression was that of someone who smelled a rotten egg. And it wasn't necessarily from the cigarette smoke. Not even the "police" wanted the police.

Bite me, child - he replied without growling too much. Today he was not in the mood to listen to nonsense or debate the law, everyone at the headquarters knew very well his opinion on the prohibition of tobacco and alcohol. - Is there something for me?

The young officer rolled his eyes and looked back at his computer screen, typed in a few commands, then shook his head. - No messages today, except a reminder about not smoking on the premises.

He really didn't want to start arguing over something stupid today. He just nodded and stubbed out his cigarette against the counter before continuing on his way. It seemed like today was going to be one of those days where everyone was trying to ignite their egg sac. She walked slowly down the crowded hallway without really wanting to get to the end, rounding the turn that led to the stairs and stopping on the first step, the thought of turning and leaving crossed her mind, going back home, throwing herself away. In bed and call to say he was sick or something. He sighed and continued down.

[deranged-ink]

Cianuro Humano

-01- Sin Luz.

He vivido pensando que reimos juntos y sangramos solos, no se pedir ayuda, ni cuando sangro ni cuando me ahogo. Dando brazadas desesperadas cruzo rios de lechos secos, dejando sangrientas huellas subo contra escaleras mecanicas. He vivido rezando que en este universo estamos solos, no se rezar, lo intento, pero con las palabras me ahogo. Dando abrazos fuertes escondo que mi corazon esta seco, dejando mensajes alegres voy tapando respuestas mecanicas. He vivido soñando que al final no estaremos solos, no se como mentirme más, cuando lo pienso me ahogo. Dando concejos que no sigo "el desierto no esta seco", dejando las tuercas tiradas, me quejo de mi mecanica. He vivido riendo a carcajadas de quienes lloran al estar solos, no se como llorar, cada vez que lo hago me ahogo. Dando señales de humo para decir que mi radiador esta seco, dejando un rastro de aceite espero encontrar una mecanica. He vivido, no, pretendido vivir, tanto miedo a estar solo, no se como avanzar, en el lecho seco, con barro me ahogo Dando mi mejor sonrisa, te pido que riegues lo que esta seco, dejando todas mis mentiras, te desnudo mi mecanica.

[deranged-ink]

One too many forms of death.

Without a doubt, there are one too many ways to die.

This is so true that even the strongest and healthiest can fall without a single injury or condition that justifies it. One can even die of a scare, yes, "scared to death", Boo!! Dead.

The thousands of factors behind the concept of death are responsible for making the art of determining the causes or the time of death such a complex job.

Who should we listen to? Forensic doctors? Metaphysical gurus? Forgotten priests?

There are so many forms of death that sometimes when faced with those bizarre cases where death is beyond unnatural and inexplicable, some mistakes are made.

The clearest, darkest, and most aberrant example that comes to mind happened just a few years ago. In a small town, just like any other you could find.

One night, police were alerted by some concerned neighbors who heard the heartbreaking scream of a man who cried for an ambulance. Upon arriving at the scene, a beautiful house in the suburbs, due to some carelessness or maybe inexperience, they made a terrible mistake:

They reported four casualties instead of five.

Maybe their superiors would shield them saying that's an easy mistake to understand, after all, who would think that one of the deceased was still stroking the heads of his daughters, right?

Even so, it was a mistake, if they had done their job well, they would have noticed that the man who was sobbing, covered in blood and tears, surrounded by the remains of his family had all the symptoms of demise:

His skin was pale, cold, and covered in sweat - would say the medical examiner.

His eyes were dull, unfocused, and showed no reaction to external stimuli - would point out the guru.

He had lost those 21 grams of soul that made him human. - would sentence the priest.

The man had completely lost his humanity. He was nothing but a miserable being, an embodiment of all that is terrible and painful.

Why should we worry if his heart beats or if his brain still computes? When the first officers entered the house and saw him kneeling embracing the bodies of his five and seven years old daughters just steps away from his bloody wife's corpse, they should have looked him in the eye, their years of experience should have warned them that he had been broken, that his humanity died minutes before, that he was never going to be a human being again and then, out of pity, shoot him in the head. Showing some mercy for a deadman.

Instead, they yelled at him to put his hands on his head, they threw him to the ground, beat him, handcuffed him, interrogated him like a criminal, put him in a dungeon for months until they finally realized that he was innocent, and then forced him to live a shameful circus.

With the promise of justice, they drag him to court just to witness how a judge sentenced that, without consideration of previous transgressions, the homicidal rapist of his wife and daughters was unimpeachable for two simple reasons:

The first, that at the time of the crime he was just a seventeen years old kid, a minor in the face of the law.

The second, that his father was a politician with enough money to make "the law" happen.

So they sent a deadman to live with his mother, under a regimen of special care: Surveillance.

First, a psychologist sent him to a psychiatrist. The psychiatrist prescribed the most powerful antidepressants his money could not buy and sent him to a trauma specialist who determined a long and expensive treatment. The treatment he could not pay. And since psychology can only treat human pain, and there was no humanity left to deal with, one doctor signed that he was unfit for society and gave him a disability certificate. At work, not wanting to deal with his grief, they gave him an early retirement with a full pension, while his mother hid all the photos of her granddaughters and his daughter-in-law to start living as if they had never existed, hoping that one day he would wake up and be just fine. Fine and dandy.

Useless, senseless, and insane, all of them.

Don't get me wrong, I don't blame them for the poor devil's state and I also don't share the opinion that they should be held responsible for the final events of the story.

After all, from the beginning, this ending was to be expected.

The murderer of his family walks free while he not-lives without a soul. How could we forget about it? He lost it on a Wednesday night when he got to his house and found his family crying and bleeding on the floor to death. Lost along is faith. The irony of the latter is that he lost said faith praying for an ambulance that took more than an hour to arrive.

If only someone had done his job well at any point in this whole story they wouldn't have called him "Monster."

If someone had addressed the boy's problems sooner.

If the ambulance had arrived on time.

If justice was not a dirty latrine

If the experts had put him in a padded jail

If the policemen, who knew better, would have put a bullet between his eyes.

Now society wouldn't be in shock, nor would the well-dressed ladies be alarmed on TV, nor would the commentators without morals discussing in disgust the reasons why a man kidnaps, tortures, rapes and kills his family's rapist and murderer, before surrendering to the police dragging the body and begging for the death penalty.

And that's the one form of death that is one to many.

The living death.

[deranged-ink]

The Defeated

Blood, sweat, and tears they shed walking the long path of defeat. Some carried what was left of their friends, others, letters full of pain from those that stayed behind.

Their wounds won't close for a long time. Their spirits are battered and tired. Their minds are too stressed to keep going forward.

But not all of them are empty.

Rejoice, my friends, because the end has come! - proclaimed the buffoon of the town. - Rejoice because your chains have been broken!

Rejoice because you are finally free! - yelled his partner. - Rejoice because you won't be for long!

Both clowns jumped happily and played among the depressed soldiers and none of the wounded, tired and hungry men understood why they should rejoice when they had been defeated and sentenced to the worst of punishments, The After.

The line of warriors moved slowly towards the town square where their lives would end, the jesters encouraged them to walk listing all the things they had obtained with the painful defeat: Liberty, Serenity, and Time.

But none of the troopers understood those words. What had they won by being defeated? What could they gain by losing everything they wanted? Everything they had fought for, bleed for, and watched their friends die for.

They understood that they had not been the best warriors, they could list each of the reasons for their unavoidable defeat. Maybe since the beginning, defeat was their only destiny. But even knowing all that, they could not see why they should rejoice. Nor why did those lunatics make fun of them? Shouldn't those buffoons also feel their pain?

The line finished at an old and dirty granite house. The place was dark and moist, smelled like ink and rotten grapes.

One by one walked in surrendering their weapons, their shields, and their reasons to fight. In exchange, they received a sharp rock, a leather sack full of wine, and new boots.

One by one they left the house reading the short letter that the king addressed to them, he who had lost more than anyone.

Be happy! Because we are free! Free to walk the earth in new boots, free to drink our fill, and free to tear from the flesh all the marks of our old being. Because that is the duty of the defeated...

Walk until your boots give up and the skin on your feet cracks open - then you will be far enough to see the world.

Drink until the wine is all gone - then you will be drunk enough to cry.

And cut the marks of love from your flesh - then you will be ready to fight again.

[deranged-ink]

Raging Intro

You may be thinking: Who would wish for insanity?

And by wondering that, you would be on the right track about this. Because the real answer is "No one" or at least "No one in his right mind" and if that's the case:

That person already has what he wants! Why would he or she want more?

Greed? Some weird hoarding habit? He/She is really that bored? It's still don't hearing that voice that tells it to eat figs ice cream?

Maybe we'll never know.

Or maybe trying to be logical about a madman's wishes is just as mad and illogical as the wish in question.

But maybe writing about it it's the right way to go.

After all, the act of writing is just that:

Being a little crazy, but not too crazy.

A writer is always there, playing the fine line that defines reality and fiction, sanity and insanity.

It's his job to play god and who else could do that?

Here you can find medium rare stories, short tales and weird writings, some will be okey, others good, many bad, but all of them will be like that, a little crazy and maybe too much.

Just don't look for a hero, or a villain, just people who live however they want or can.

Whatever, it doesn't matter, this is just an introduction to this locker full of unfinished tales and strange stories. You know, the usual.

Hope you can find something you like or at least something you don't!

[deranged-ink]

Dear editor in chief.

Yesterday I was reading a magazine -your magazine- while waiting for my coffee. I´ll admit that I was so into it that, to my embarrassment, I failed to notice the girl approaching until she left the coffee with some croissants on my table. That would be a big mistake if I were reading on the company time.

I was too involved in a single line of your last editorial:

What is your hobby? A simple and dull question, but not to my eyes. I can't help but wonder about what kind of person is asking. Is it someone intelligent? Someone with a really deep understanding of the human nature or just the typical dumb brick monkey behind a typewriter. I can assure you that one honest to god smile cameforth to your inquiry, simply because it is one of those easy-to-answer questions using a triviality, difficult to answer with The Truth.

I suppose that if you force me to answer with nothing but said Truth I would have to admit, with the proper amount of blush on my cheeks, that I like to look at the people, please take note that i am not a stalker, it's just that in order to be good at my job I have to describe myself as a rather avid observer.

I like to look at people, especially on my job. You have to understand, sitting on an uncomfortable chair for countless hours, drinking cheap coffe and killing cigars in some dirty ashtray, just waiting for the phone to ring to do my job... I would have turned crazy long, long ago if I wouldn't found a way to kill some time.

But from my hobby something really good came up.

I learned, no. I found something fascinating while observing these biological machines. Well first, I´ll confess, everything started with a game: Guess what it will do now?

From that game I discovered that all this elaborated, commercialized and consumed idea of freedom is -for most of these poor bastards- fundamentally, a lie . A lie that may or may not be true, that's the beauty of the whole subject. A liar's truth.

Before you burn your brains trying to imagine something like that, let me add something, whatever you imagine, it will be right.

If you think about it, it's a beautiful "oxymoron". Freedom is a useful farse (A dream for the most) where you must be aware of what you do and stop doing. You must fully understand each of your actions from its very root. Thats the really hard part.

Do not get me wrong, I have always said that true freedom is real, a primordial part of what reality is. The problem lies in the excuses that the lower minds uses to escape from the weight of freedom.

They fall for the supposed "unmeasurable plots" of some great powers and some others imaginary enemies (that for some not-even-god-knows reason will try to brainwash or enslave them).

They gave these plotters this divine attribute of being untouchable. And closing their eyes, they turned themselves into beings without a real opinion, without control over their lives. That's nothing short of stupidity. Themselves wrote the fairytale that they now fear, and did it in order of escaping the responsibility of knowing/taking control of their lives.

Themselves choose their imaginary chains and in the same thought, choose the more imaginary saviour that will come to brake them! Just look at those pocket warriors of the social networks, reading only what supports their ideals and burning the rest!

-Oh, traditional book burning! The irony!-

Thats how they define themselves acording their position on said system: left, right, pro-life, pro-choice, feminist, traditional, pro-system, anti-system, pious, atheist.

But what they call "the system" is just a playing field. Not some godwritten rules that will never change.

And there they meet failure without being able to realize that they act as the said system expects them to act. All the pieces on the board have a use. Even when trying to escape, when trying to think and act outside of the box, they only succeed -in a beautiful way if you ask me- to prove that they are wrong.

They do not realize that the system is not a box, but actually a box of many, each box is full of boxes and the fact that you can "get out" of the box only confirms this.

You can -with ease- point out all the poor bastards who buy a t-shirt with the face of Che Guevara (or someother communist symbol). Ironically, they are being part of a capitalist market with them as their target. The same can be said of those really patriotic friends, they really love America and they also really love their flag to be made in china. Sweet irony.

This is the same for freedom. To be free, you must be aware of what you are, truly aware, also accept what you can and can not do and that each of your actions has an effect on the great cosmic pool that is this life, each action is a small or a large stone that falls on water. You will imagine that with so many rocks that big pool is not calm at all. And thats life my friend, actions that modify our actions in one way or another. The real freedom lies in understanding this, accepting it and continuing to live.

Playing "Guess what it will do now?" I had an eureka moment some years ago. From an open window I was looking at the people on the street with my telescope, when I learned something that saddens me: "People" sold their freedom for a manual.

Life is not easy and that´s why most decide to live thinking it is. I honestly ignore the reason behind such a stupid decision. "People" gave away their freedom in exchange of beliefs, just to not question. Just to take the world as it was presented, without thinking, without asking. Only assimilating it and calling it true.

Name your manual however you want... Luck, Destiny, God, the almighty Horoscope, Reptilians or Super corporations that plan to dominate the world. It is in their hands that our world and our lives rest and not on us.

I bet that sounds better than the truth.

Everyone is free to believe in whatever they want, even when those beliefs take away their freedom.

Especially when they take away their freedom

The "manual" depends on many things, such as their upbringing, the books they had read, the books they didn't, their general education, but above all these things, of something greater, something with more force than those preconceived ideas of a man's life being the direct and ultimate result of those first twenty years of his life.

-Those who affirm that are the "intellectuals" who seek to justify mediocrity by blaming society.-

I discovered a truth, a sad truth, that goes beyond. Are you ready?  Our life depends on ourselves

-Surprising, right?-.

It depends on our decisions, our actions and how much we want to be ourselves. How much do we want to be free.

For the rest the world you have that manual that handles their lives or that simply points to the people or entities that will do it. Manuals that dictate the routine of each of them, from how, when and where they go to work, to what they stop to eat and why. What they believe in, how they think, how they feel.

So many "children" blame the manual and I can only feel sorry for them.

I can only look at them straight in the eye and say: Do not blame the manual, blame yourselves for accepting it. Blame your weakness for letting yourself be destroyed to that point.

To the point of acting... In automatic, each and every one of "them" lives like this, in automatic.

I say "them" because I do not know if "you", whoever reads these words, also do it. And no, do not let the fact that you are a reader of newspapers, books and intellectual publications make you think that you are beyond this fundamental flaw of the human being. Maybe you are also, a zombie, a computer that acts according to a list of things to do. That is why I refer to them as "It" or "them", maybe you are, or not, so I consider that these words can be one of two uses for you;

1: A call to wake up.

2: A lesson in what you should never do to yourself.

"They" are predictable, "they" are stupid. A person is a completely different topic, the problem is that there aren't many individuals left, individuals are now an endangered specie. But there are many "people". There were many individuals who decided to stop being individuals to become people.

Good people. Bad people. That doesn't matter. Cuz people is predictable. And it's something that in my line of work I've learned to do, it's a fundamental part of it.

For example; Look at this guy, for the last six days I've seen he it come and go, always in the same old beige suit and dull shoes, with its eyes on the ground, dragging its feet every morning. That's when I guess it goes to work. But not so surprisingly, it walks with the same vigor when it goes back in the afternoon. Two days ago was the day of "bring your son to work" but it didn't bring anyone. I got curious so during one impromptu walk to the donut shop I passed by it and could not help noticing that it doesn't have a single ring in its hand, nor a scar, much less any characteristic feature or mark added by life experiences. It was programmed that way, throughout his life it decided to accept what the rest thought of it, from its parents to its classmates, it let each and every one of their opinions form what it is today, unfortunately those opinions were everything but positive.

If forced to guess I would said that when It was a He, was one of those people with an artistic mind, a characteristic completely undervalued by his parents, repudiated by his peers and misinterpreted by his teachers who were unable to see beyond their own mediocrity.

If I have to bet: I would say that he did not grow up in the city, he was born and raised in a dying small town, one of those that somehow still linger in the 21th century. His parents decided that the life of an artist was not for him, that he deserved better, that he had to be someone "normal". He decided to listen to them. And being a person of unique thinking is not difficult to guess that he ended up in an office job that hates, earning a pittance to make his boss buy a new car every year. Thats how He became It.

But it's not the boss's fault, it's just that It is not good at what It does, it's almost like wanting to screw a chair using a rock. The wrong tool for the task. That is why this could be the best thing that ever happened to It, it may be the wake up call that leads It to recover its life. To become a He.

We can also see the perfect opposite; with a badly rolled joint in the mouth, practically finishing learning to smoke without coughing or looking like a complete idiot: A skinny boy in a leather jacket that barely fits him, too tight jeans, expensive but too big shoes, hair full of hairspray and tinted in three shades of pink that I do not have the slightest intention or desire to learn how to differentiate.

I always see him in the same place, the alley that is right beside the donuts shop, pretending to be the most badass punk of the block for hours. Actually, that doesn't seem to be the place he choose to spend every morning, I think that it's the place that was chosen for him.

He is never alone, always accompanied by others who dress just like him, the same spiky hair but of different colors. They skip school to spend their mornings laughing at the people passing by, provoking them, intimidating them, smoking, but until now they have never said anything to the police.

- Every time a cop walked in front of them they just kept quiet hiding their eyes in their expensive last generation smartphones. They even treat the "autority" with the utmost respect! It's funny but sad.-

This is fashion. Just a trend, fighting against the system, to rebel against their parents, against society, to paint walls with messages of anarchy and rebellion. With no actual desire to do so.

Just playing to be free without accepting consequences or duties, to be free to do what you want while keep on sucking from the old tits of your mother, a whole case for Freud to write two more books. Want me to guess? He never felt hungry. He must come from a boring and average middle-high class family. His parents gave him everything he ever wanted, but never a proper slap, must be the only child or at least the youngest of the siblings. And the only reason he plays the whole punk behavior is that he is bored

That's why he came up with this whole idea of rebelling against the system or rather, copied it, like his friends, without noticing the most comical aspect of all this, wanting to be different they all became the same. Acting the same, acting from a manual.

I bet that He will run, shout, beg to the police as soon as he sees the red rush. If he is smart, he will realize that he is wrong, that the system is not the enemy, is not the monster that makes this world the shit hole it is. The actual monster is the man with the rifle.