Conversation · The Deserter

He squints and looks you straight in the eye -- two black beads, moist from the sea air.

Embers going out.

"So if I can shoot rabbits, then I can shoot fascists too."

"What are you talking about?" He squints and looks you straight in the eye -- two black beads, moist from the sea air.

He doesn't recognize it.

"How did it go..." He looks at his gun on the ground and shakes his head slowly.

"First, it wasn't some Samaran shit. It was 'Boy with a Scythe'..."

"I fucking know what they sang!" he hisses. "I watched those little fuckers die in my arms -- little ones came to help us. Got cut to shreds..."

"You don't fucking tell me what they sang..." He closes his eyes and exhales to calm himself.

His nostrils are still flaring with rage. He brings himself back under his own stewardship, slowly.

"La Revacholière... I've heard that name, somewhere else. In a dream."

"Everyone has. They named a fucking perfume after it."

"No, that's not it. I've talked to her."

"Talked to her?" He raises his bushy brow and looks down from the sky -- straight into your bloodshot eye.

"Yes. In the church." (Point southwest.)

"God's shithouse." He chortles. "Should've taken it down like they did in Graad; dismantled it for firewood."

There was something there -- when he said talked to her? He was curious...

All around you, the air slowly circulates the islet, carrying little swallows and black-beaked seagulls in its slow drift. They all -- every one of them, every bird, mammal, and crustacean...

Rub your sides.

The cold dissipates. The old man watches you, carefully.

"When I said I've talked to her -- you were curious."

"I've seen kids lose their minds and start talking to the city. Asking it to protect them, when the shelling gets bad. Calling it La Revacholière..."

"Cities can't talk. It's bourgeois idealism... I don't wanna talk about this shit anymore."

No, he was just confused. Let it go...

Don't be so sure...

What?

Keep their distance.

"Yes. I get these... cold spells."

"It's the drugs you're all on. Druggies, winos, and whores..." He closes his eyes in disgust.

"Nothing. We have serious things to talk about."

"Doubt it, dog..."

"Yes. Must've been that."

"A fucking perfume..." he sighs.

"Thank you for clearing that up." (Conclude.)

"Heh". The old man squints and looks you straight in the eye -- two black beads, moist from the sea air.

"I'm not a misanthrope, I'm a half-dead police officer who's just doing his job."

"The job of a shit-licker."

"Understood."

"You don't understand anything." The old man squints at you -- you see two black beads, gleaming.

"I know La Revacholière. It's the marching song of the World Revolution."

"There you go." His eyes remain fixed on the sky as he sighs and adds: "One of three."

"I'm not a shit-licking boujee dog. I'm a half-dead police officer who's just doing his job."

"The job of a boujee dog."

You need to address that remark.

"Real music. It's La Revacholière, you shit-licking boujee dog. Chanson de soldat of the black-and-whites."

"Minions of capital," he spits. "What do you want?"

"Minion of capital." He spits. "What do you want?"

The old man leans on the frame stock of his rifle, looking up at you.

"Sorry for disturbing you. Good bye."

"Fucking clowns..." He squeezes his eyelids shut and shakes his head slowly.

"I shoulda known they'd send the fucking clowns for me..." You hear him mumble to the blackened logs.

That was not the right move. You should have pushed on.

"Fucking clown..." He squeezes his eyelids shut and shakes his head slowly.

i wanna see phasmid with kim

"You don't like this uniform?" (Gesture toward your coat.)

"Oh, I love it. Makes me nostalgic for the time we..." He pauses for a moment, catching his breath.

"The time we wiped every last fucking one of them off this Earth."

Grand, violent pride swells in him.

"Oh yeah... that's hard core, Cuno's gonna like this."

Pride of the "at least we have this" kind. This is a cracked honour, a bitter pride. The man sounds like a communard. Be careful.