Conversation · Pissf****t

"You mean Cindy the SKULL?"

"No," the young man replies quickly, shaking his head. "A different Cindy. From out of town. She doesn't know shit about armoured gloves, that's for sure."

He did mean Cindy the SKULL.

All right -- we have a lead on the gloves.

"Where can I find this 'Cindy'?"

"You already said she's a SKULL..." he mumbles apologetically. "The last I saw her, she was hanging around the old apartment building near the pier."

"Just don't tell her you heard it from Piss and Fuck, alright? I think she wanted those gloves for herself." There's a plea in his eyes. "Be cool, man, okay?"

"Well, talking with you has definitely been something." [Leave.]

"Who are the SKULLS?"

"You don't know? What kind of cop are you?"

It's not a question, don't get into it.

"I'm so glad you asked!"

"The question was rhetorical," he replies, raising his open hand. "The SKULLS are the most vicious gang of the Besmertnyé."

Besmertnyé or the Besmertie -- the immortals -- are West Revacholian crime syndicates.

"The nastiest bunch of psychos ever! Jacking carriages and getting into high-speed chases."

"Possessing an infinite amount of fuck-all swagger, infamous for their non-verbal modus operandi."

Say nothing.

"They usually occupy the Burnt-Out Quarter in Jamrock. Or you can find them loitering around their brightly-painted, bottom-lighted vehicles."

"Oh, I can't wait to become a SKULL. Bottom-lights are wretched aggressive."

The lieutenant sighs. "No, they really, really aren't. It's porno-tuning. Say no to the porno."

"Non-verbal?"

"If a SKULL spots you, he will pull out his dagger and stab you without saying a single word."

The lieutenant's voice is as calm as usual -- a testament to the violence and death he's witnessed through the sight of his firearm.

"SKULLS don't talk to pigs. Or each other. They just fuck and fight."

"No, I really don't."

"The SKULLS are the most vicious gang of the Besmertnyé." His voice rings with excitement.

"Of course I do, I'm just testing you boys."

"Do you know anything about the murder that took place here?" (Point to the yard.)

"Murder?"

"Never mind, this is useless."

"A man was hanged in the backyard of the Whirling-in-Rags."

"Yeah, sure, we'll gladly tell you everything we know about it." He clears his throat. "It was a man."

"Also, he was hanged."

"Don't fuck around. I am the law."

"He was hanged from a tree."

"Yeah, I mean... duh."

"These punks don't know anything. Let's just move along."

"Hey! Stop right there! How does one know anything?"

Ah -- this sounds like epistemology. A field so occupied by thought that it begins to question thought itself.

"What does that mean?"

"Fucking philosophy, man. You can do aggressive shit with philosophy. Justify shit."

Like murder. Or wasting your life away.

"I'm not going to entertain you with this any longer."

"Sure, sure," the blond man says, quickly nodding. "Understandable. Fuck and I appreciate your effort though."

"I know that you don't know shit."

"Exactly! How can one know shit?"

The lieutenant sighs. "We should move along."

"Let's just change the topic."

"Couldn't keep up, huh?" The young man shakes his head. "Sure, let's try something different then."

"Please explain."

"Knowing. We think that we know, but where does the thought originate from?"

"It seems that we can only think but never know."

"So you're telling me you don't know anything?"

"Precisely."

"Exactly! How can one know shit? For example: How can one be sure that there truly is a body hanging behind the hostel?"

"What if it's art... or just a mere spectre?"

Maybe it's true -- the hanged man is merely a prop in a performance, we are the audience, and the artist is hiding somewhere in the dark?

"That could be the case, yes... a brilliant work of art!"

The lieutenant raises an eyebrow but does not comment.

"Believe me, I'd know. I know spectres." (Rub your temple.)