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A Tale of Gruesome Men

por O Gil, em 11.01.16

Keaton lived a tiresome life. To him, the overarching experience known as life wasn't much more than an accretion of singular meaningless moments that failed to provide a suitable riveting whole. An exterior observer would imagine his life as a non-stop festival of action and thrilling madness, but he always failed to muster the necessary arguments to convince himself that he was indeed part of something else besides a metaphorical car ride through the fiery forests of nothingness.

Never finding solace in his memories all he could do of his life was instilling chaos and provoking improbable occurrences in an order-hungry society, while still retaining his anonymity and avoiding death and prison. The only possible inferior outcome to existing in Keaton's opinion was either dying or going to jail. Nothing more boring than utter darkness or eternal imprisonment.

Those were all thoughts that ramped through his mind as he sat on a simple man's chair in a simple man's apartment, looking suspensefully through the window with the looming illumination of the blueish tone of the evening defining his silhouette, while the simple man's mangled body laid dead on the floor of the living room, right next to him. In the child's bedroom, the wife's putrefacting body veered within it's own shape, as half of it seemed to desire escape and half intended to save her child from similar fate. Still, the offspring remained alive, crying in desperation in the corner of the room, barely a decade old. Keaton only went as far as his desire for chaos allowed, and keeping the child alive with no parents allowed for further destruction in the future. Another agent of chaos, perhaps. 

The apartment, modern in style, was filled with an eerie atmosphere of blue silence and peaceful intimidation.

A car was stopping down in the street, five men armed with automatic weapons stepping out. The moment had arrived, another chaotic result of Keaton's uncaring actions towards the dealings of the Russian mob. For countless times complicated events surrounding his poor character forced criminals and even honest people to attempt to terminate his life, but this time was different, because hanging the daughter of the boss of the Russian mob in her bedroom after having sex to her may be considered too much for any person. "How do they know I'm here?" - Keaton wondered. Breaking into an apartment and killing a couple with a Kalashnikov after being persued through the city by gangsters for a bounty on his head should trigger enough alarms that allow him to be detected.

Nothing was heard besides a distant kick to topple the entrance to the apartment block downstairs. No shout or step was heard until all five men reached the already broken door of the apartment. Keaton remained seated in his chair, smoking a cigar while looking out the window, magnetically fixated on the horizon.

Upon reaching the living room, the five men realized the house was empty. No sign of living humans. A child hiding in a closet unknown to them and a cigar burning in an hashtray near the window. After a quick gaze at eachother, the group loosened the grip on the weapons and headed through the quicker path towards the hallway of the apartment, but when turning arround the corner of the hallway, their retreating intention was met with the presence of Keaton aiming his weapon right at them, and not a second later he tightned his fingers in the trigger and started raining bullets on his enemies. Two fell almost instateneously on the floor with the other three scattering to any hiding place possible and available. Keaton steered from the center of the hallway and pushed himself against the left wall and continued to shoot carefully at any trace of danger. Two of the men were slightly further to the right on the hallway, and their hiding failed to prove useful since both got shot in the head in a matter of seconds, causing Keaton's weapon to run out of ammunition. Hearing the ring of the trigger without firing, the fifth man evaded himself from his cocoon with his weapon out, but was met by Keaton jumping in the middle of the air straight at him with his knee aimed at his face. During the time that required Keaton to reach the face of his foe with his knee, the latter still managed to land three shots, one on his unsheathed leg and the other two in his abdomen. The clash caused both men to fall on the ground still near eachother, giving time for a struggle by Keaton to draw his knife out and cut his dazed enemy's throat. Keaton rolled on his back to the side of his fallen enemy, on a moment of relaxation and realization of suffering. The pain of the wounds quickly came to be known to him, but it wasn't the first time he had been severely damaged, and it wouldn't be the last. Without knowing, his purpose for life and driving force was his uncaring pleasure for chaos.

Keaton limped and dragged himself through the living room towards the chair by the window, seated himself confortably and rekindled the flame of the cigar he was smoking earlier. 

Refocusing on the stable horizon he felt a strange moment of bliss occurring inside him, letting out what could almost be a smirk. Then, he heard steps.

The son of the parents he had killed earlier in the day was coursing lightly through the dust-filled room. In him Keaton sensed a duality of fear and determination, a facial expression of anger and agony unique to a god of chaos.

Without words, a proper farewell nor even a hint of resignation, Keaton saw the boy raise his arm and his hand holding a pistol on a tight grip of revenge at him and shooting it in his face, ending his peculiar life. 

There was neither a thought or perception in Keaton's mind in his last seconds, only the unraveling of events that his whole life had build up to: a gunshot to the face. Killed by a little child. 

 

 

 

In the end, even the most existential of humans meet a meaningless and stupid ending, just to prove that none of it was supposed to make sense.

 

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publicado às 17:43



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