Xavier pulls my account with disdain. In a gasp, I said that I can do it alone, and he replied that if I did, I certainly cheat. Arriving at the number provided, I drop the bar, and be careful not to slip off the roof.
I take off my shirt to wipe the sweat from my face and my friend asks me how I can be such an exhibitionist.
"That's what your mom said when I asked him to film us in doing that.
-Yours is not as bashful. It must be family.
Breath still irregular, I begin a series of pulls, Xavier still counts aloud. This time I collapse when I almost finished, and lack of tumbling from the roof, dropping the bar.
"I think that's enough, orders me Xavier.
-Another small series.
He pinches the bridge of the nose, right between the eyes, and shoulders back imperceptibly. By making visible an effort to be polite, he asked me to get dressed. I think if I had the strength, I will go back to the bar immediately. I think he understands it, looking at me.
"It is your ninpo to you," he mutters, as if the evidence was overwhelming.
-Stop with your ninja stuff.
-The writer-warrior, "he whispers.
His eyes seem to question me as to ensure that its formulation has produced its small effect. I touch my arm, to check if the merest chance they have not enlarged. But no.
My friend sits cross-legged and with a tone that is meant mystery, promise to pay attention to his words. Xavier on the planet, "the writer-warrior" is a bit like a jedi knight. He assails injustice and infamy chase, using turns his pen and sword.
-From his sword?
"That's what you want to do? wonder there. You've agreed with the definition?
"I'm not sure.
Why you chained pumps and traction since you returned?
I take time to reflect, to put words on my goal, something I have not done. It does not take me long to get there.
"I want to make life better, I say. I want to fuck mouth full to those who are rotting.
-We will teach you to use a sword.
Vincent pretended not to hear Xavier, who is yet right next to him. He smooths his mustache mechanical gesture, and absorbed in the inventory of a carton filled with food, putting in the trash those that are outdated.
"I'm sure that a sword is not that hard to find, insists Xavier.
Vincent throws a pot of yoghurt and a packet of brioche. I get the pot, explaining that the expiry dates of milk products provide a significant margin.
-I not fit in your delirium, guys, finally mutters mustache. There is nowhere more weapons, and want a sword to fight against guns It's so stupid.
I dip a spoon into the pot of yoghurt, and the door to my mouth. A strong musty taste that I spit up almost immediately, but my two friends seem too absorbed in their conversation to respond.
-It is very stupid, totally gay, but I believe in him, "said Xavier pointing to me a nod, as if I were a pet. If he is stupid enough to want to become a writer, and go get banged by stronger than him, so we must reasonably support.
Vincent and I are looking for a moment logic to its conclusion. Looks like his speech out of a bad book of heroic fantasy that I loved to read. The emotion I suddenly tied the throat, and I can not speak. I wipe a trace of yogurt that sits at the corner of my lip, and starts a beatific smile.
-I preferred the days when you wanted to become an actor, Vincent sighs.
The future writer-warrior that I understand the reluctance of the mustache were defeated, or at least set aside. The sword is approaching, and with it the story escaped from bad novels that I like, and also comics.
I really see what I could not write. Upcoming events hectic and pulsate. The events do me no great inspiration, and lack of seriousness.
It is the battle, and before her workout. Finally I like very concise formulation of Xavier. The writer-warrior will do more than struggle.
Xavier pierces my defense, and struck me with a shot stick to the ear, which makes me a bad dog. Despite myself, I deal with dirty fag, and I stick a blow between two ribs.
-Hold your guard, "he said coldly.
I readjusted my hands on my broomstick, and looks to challenge my friend. Without seeming impressed, he crushes the big toe from the tip of his weapon of fortune. I start hopping in releasing a new volley of curses, which still careful not to slide off the roof. With your coach, Xavier grant me that I cash rather well, but that would be ideal to avoid his attacks.
"I'd be in if we trained more with real swords, I say.
"If we trained with real swords you'd be dead already.
And with these words, his broomstick and struck my shoulder fuse with a dull thud. I detect in his eyes that he takes obvious pleasure in beating me. He continued his onslaught, which fly at each stroke, typing harder and harder. I realize he returns once again in one of his mad rages.
On Planet Xavier, weakness is a crime. People who hesitate, make bad decisions out of cowardice, and do not assume shame are good for hanging. Those who are struggling to defend themselves deserve a good beating.
The wooden utensil comes flattened against my head and confuse me a few seconds, while my friend let out a derisive chuckle. On the alien planet, there's no real room for error. Those who do not comply with laws built by the young tyrant are expelled into the cosmos, adrift. Me, I'm holding the ground like an asshole, not to be sucked into the stratosphere and back to the world as I know him.
The weapon Xavier splits with large air whistles, and assailed on all sides. I clench my teeth, and avoid sliding back toward the roof. Without thinking, I put my broomstick, which confuses my assailant a split second, I put used to grab his weapon, I break in two over my knee. Xavier seems to emerge from a dream, and lets out a big burp, as it often happens after physical exertion.
With real swords, you would not have done it, "he gasps before being taken to a remand.
As often, a desire to kill captured me. I contemplate the gap behind him, reflecting on the best angle to push, and discards the smirk that fills his face.
-Fuck you, I say. Fuck spirituality, things that are beyond me. I so fiercely like a motherfucker and there's nothing else I can do. And I give a fuck whether it's enough for you or not.
His smile is dependent somewhat of malice, but it is certainly an impression. He puts his hand on my shoulder still hurt by one of his shots, and told me that I begin to understand the trick.
It descends from the roof, perhaps to go vomit. The stratosphere has suddenly less attractive on my body.
Recovering my broomstick, I weigh myself in projecting the near future where if Vincent wants, I'll have a fucking sword. I hold the tube between two wood fireplaces, too lazy to climb by some railings to go find my metal bar. If Xavier was still there, his enthusiasm for me down.
I begin a series of pulls, calmly, with satisfaction that the exercise is getting easier. Lost in my thoughts, I put a second too long to realize the joystick cracked under my weight and my body falls and follows a downward slope to the edge of the roof. Stupidly, I cling to the two sticks in my hands, as if they would detain me. I beat feet to slow down my slip tiles, and I finally the presence of mind to let go at the last remnants of joystick to hold on to a gutter.
The blood flows in torrents in my brain without much thought for me to come clear. Instinctively, I look at the emptiness below me, but do not really feel fear, as if the view was misleading, or that the Air was soft.
I climbed rapidly to a flat area of the roof, and finds that the channel is a bit twisted to where I grabbed.
Behind the adrenaline, a little thrill of satisfaction through me when I look at my arms, which seem thicker. Even if it's still probably a misleading view of history.
The heart ready to beat speed records, I cross a small personal triumph, as surely as I live a failure after a good night's sleep, or forget. Because écivain-warrior is such that it does not see the failures of life as a fatality or a lack of strength. He did not please either.
In fact I think he just does not care.
Note: Too optimistic
Soon: Martine increments
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