In this book I loved the hero is a bit crazy and think that a film turns on his life. In my case it is rather a bad sitcom produced for a cable channel.
I'm looking forward to viewers by disclosing to me so messed up. The bandage that made me Vincent is sketchy, and so big it makes me think of a cartoon bandage. To remain "public", we turned the scene where he extracted the bullet lodged in my chest, and cries very reassuring that he pushed then containing the bleeding with his hands.
It has been cut in editing. The episode begins with me lying on the couch to watch a cigarette in my hand, wondering aloud whether smoking will be as painful as I imagined. The replicas are rather disjointed, and I find it rather funny. I hope it will appeal to the public.
turns me smoking and I suffer martyrdom. I draw some tentative puffs that make me a bad dog, and fixed my tire in expecting to see gush of smoke. I try to postpone my attention to Vincent's apartment, and put words on what bothers me since my arrival.
I immediately noticed that the furniture had been shake, but there is something even stranger. I have not been surprised to find a new television set into one corner, or a second sofa, knowing the quirks of my friend. But it is as if the light was different, or the colors around me, and that the proportions of the walls ranged from a few centimeters.
-This is not the same apartment, by Vincent throws me into the room. You really are too stupid to smoke, man. A small generic
accompanies his entrance, because basically it is a popular figure. It will fill a glass of water, and just put it on a coffee table in front of me. Concentrate, he begins to sort multiple boxes of medicine in an order that makes sense only to him, rereading each instruction carefully.
-Begins with this, he ordered me, giving me a little green pill.
"It is not the same apartment?
"It is the neighbor below. We found it less annoying to move.
Why you want to move?
He frowned nervously. I just swallowed the green pill that has a white me, reminding me that since my latest "brilliant action" Irving Rutherford is determined to kill me and that I must hide. He continued to speak but his voice is lost in a muffled roar, while the darkened room in a plane accelerated.
The camera fades to black as I fall asleep, and Vincent made a humorous remark about the effectiveness of drugs.
With Xavier I wake up. He is feeling happy, and asks me if I misunderstood "writer warrior" and "kamikaze writer." Silently, then listen to his sermon that I found poorly written and preachy, praying that the ad break comes soon.
You astonish me that the show lost the hearing. People get tired of what critics call "gratuitous violence and self-indulgence" of my story. My character tends to do anything frankly.
The next stage will not like, but I want it to occur. I climb on the roof to breathe some fresh air. I notice that Paris is more banged up every day.
Like plague, buildings seem to slowly crumble into small pieces, or black like burn victims. The landscape is stunning, and I'm starting to understand now that I must not venture to descend into the street. I admit with difficulty that the city is at war. My
pulls iron bar is always fixed between two funnels. From a tottering step, I climb a few meters of the roof that separates me. This is approximately the time when people ask if I'm really dumb at that point.
I am. J'agrippe the bar and my feet leave the ground. Immediately I felt my ribs to depart, my skin and pull the stitches Summary me that Vincent applied. I bite my tongue as a reflex, like the pain to locate elsewhere. When I climbed to the force of arms, I feel the nylon's son used the mustachioed crack, and my wound reopened. My bandage changes color, takes a darker, redder.
I run a second to pull to impress those who have not zapped. I want to scream to the world that I fuck, but my tongue is sore too. I suffer now but it's nothing compared to what I'm going to inflict on one who did this to me. There is more "writer warrior" who takes. It no longer even a writer.
At the third pull, I feel like a fuse blow in my brain as if the pain had reached the point of overheating and the machine went out. My brain already spongy, almost becomes gaseous. My thoughts, good or bad, change into mist, and my nervous system goes up in smoke. My soft hands glide over the bar and inert I collapse on the roof before you start sliding down the parapet.
My body rolls up empty without pain, unaware of his impending doom, as soft as ever. Lorsqu'entraîné by the momentum I flip over the gutter, I discover what the true vacuum. This is not a metaphor for the con, or a feeling of lack. This is not a little asshole who wants to make the actor or write, for fear of admitting that he can not do much. Above all, this is not a poetic term that speaks of the feeling one experiences when one realizes that better days will not come down to us.
fuck the true vacuum is the great inert body that breaks the jaws of the top of a building, and sees the sidewalk next to him in a few seconds.
Everything goes so fast I have time to utter a single expletive, which I do not think, is "Poo". At believe that I am wiser about the end of my life. The
headfirst onto the concrete crushes me with a demonic roar. I feel my body sink into the sidewalk like a nail. Soon I stopped on my tracks, and once I stop down to the waist.
A little hazy, I somehow emerges, moving like a worm to get out of the hole I dug. As I drag myself off the pavement of small concrete slabs.
What I do then is quite unusual: I looked at the camera in front. I plunged my gaze in the lens, and gratifies the most provocative smile that I am capable. My temples throb
the rhythm of a disco that does not occur. I believe this is the beginning of the most spectacular headache I have ever known.
Vincent asked me to stop stirring for a review of my injury. He pulls out a needle and nylon thread, and I warn him that if he touches me I would tear his fucking mustache with his bare hands. It is his material with an air of jaded.
"Let me at least disinfected," he pleads.
While he supports a cotton swab in alcohol, I began to remove my bandage. He immediately a kind of panic, and wonder with a hurry to leave off the dressing itself. His lower eyelids slightly back, tic I know only too well my friend.
"What do I need to see? I ask.
"Nothing," he mutters.
I understand he does not tell me. When I look in the mirror, I do not see my tattoos. Actually they do remind me that when someone talks about it. I suddenly realize how spot the ball went through me.
hurry, I withdraw my bandage for me to realize the extent of damage. At the location or spread a sentence of my favorite underground poet I took a leitmotif, is a small round crater, which certainly give a scar. The irony is that the meaning of the sentence has changed: Instead of "Each day is hard, we can now read" Every day is golden. "
I raise my head to Vincent, who seems genuinely sorry for me. It comforts me in his way, tells me that I had a tattoo at the con, and now I have a tattoo con silly and misspelled.
Each day will be golden, my ass. I have a headache and ribs, and I do not heal enough quickly. Maybe I'll have to give up traction. In a weary voice, I ask where Vincent is still past Xavier.
"He's gone," he replies. He said you were too disappointing.
I sink into the couch, and attempts to dispel the fog in my head. I could probably sleep if the pain was less. My eyes are swollen and wet, and I like a desire to snatch to go with my fingers toss that big brain that works so poorly. Vincent loses his smile, and puts a hand on my shoulder with an air that is reassuring.
-I kidding, he says, he is just gone install an antenna on the roof.
Xavier down a few minutes later and told me he had to use my bar pulls for installation. It puts a cable in the living room, it plugs into the neighbor's television.
-We will pick up foreign channels, he announces proudly.
While he struggles with the remote and the latest device settings, Vincent and I are moving the wildest speculation. We wonder where are the United Nations against France, and when international aid is going to happen. The mustachioed think the UN will still see us as a country of shit disturber.
Xavier turns the post, and falls on a English cooking show. It leads to a zap and teleshopping German or Austrian.
"I'll put the news channels.
The camera, which we filmed close enough, begins to zoom out. She shows us back, facing the television, while Xavier zap every five seconds looking for a newscast that wants to talk about France.
Soon, the plan encompasses the entire flat, and the images become out of position sensitive. Simply means more presenters to speak in several languages of the economic crisis or future Olympic Games. A Belgian story recounts the adventures a dog makes skateboarding.
Our three protagonists remain motionless, his shoulders drooping, as the vanquished. The camera moves away from them, through the window, and leaves the rest of the world. She rises and we discover aerial map of Paris, gray and dilapidated.
In the distance, eventually to burn a building. A sad song just heard his first chords. The building collapses, and is black.
Notes:-You will lose more players (but ...) Why
"turd"?
Soon: Xavier does not know what he misses
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