AF Interlude - A complex case

And he kickstarts by saying he is "Inspector Burzum"

I am Inspector Burzum.

I can solve the most complex cases using what we can consider to be my sharpest weapons: my analytical spirit and the interpretation of black metal song lyrics. A challenge that for you, foolish, mortal assholes turns out to be as simple as walking into a tobacco shop to buy a pack of Merit cigarettes, for me represents an epic challenge. A tension, a zeitgeist: my will against that of the tobacconist.

Creatures.

We are only creatures. Torn, ripped apart. We exist as a tear in Nothingness, and with our death Nothingness regains its fabric. We are only a quick glance through the keyhole of eternity, nothing more.

Good morning.
I am Alexander.
I am Inspector Burzum.
I am the Great Fucker.

My analytical mind has always allowed me to face colossal shitloads of fuck but at this moment I don’t deny being in slight difficulty. There’s a lot of dust, today, around these parts. The shopping mall seems like something to you, to me it seems like something else. An immense expanse of screaming fog, crucibles of scarred flesh.

I have to buy cigarettes.

Simple: you take four steps, you enter the tobacco shop. You ask the tobacconist: excuse me, could you give me a pack of Merits, you leave, that’s all.

I pull Uncle Vincent out of my pocket.

Come on, they’ll call the police, again.

Uncle Vincent help me. There’s too much dust. I can’t do shit.

So what? You’re just a schizophrenic fatass looking at an image torn from an encyclopedia of Vincent Van Gogh’s portrait. People won’t pay too much attention to you. They’ll say: look at that jerk, and they’ll move on.

Yes but there are consequences.

There are no consequences, Alexander. Come on. You just have to enter the tobacco shop and say: excuse me, could I have a pack of Merits? He’ll give them to you, you pay, and you go back to the other guys.

Ok.

I enter with a decisive, almost military step. Uncle Vincent is right when he says I worry too much.

But let’s face it, is Uncle Vincent really right? What if there were trapdoors around, traps?

They say that tobacco shops are places of quantum torture. They say that a certain combination of steps unleashes the apocalypse. They say that some writings, finely inlaid, may contain phrases from the Necronomicon. They say that immense shits to take will torment my existence even after death, and that my sadness will last forever. They say I’ll never go home, that there’s no place for me.

I leave, I pull Uncle Vincent out of my military pants pocket.

Uncle Vincent, they say I’ll never go home.

I don’t know what to do with you anymore, Alexander. You just have to go in and buy a pack of cigarettes. What does all this mean?

That I need a plan to get home.

There’s no plan, you damned asshole. Do you realize it or not? This is your place, this is your life. Go inside. Buy the cigarettes. Come back out. Find the others, so you all go back to Hallowell together, and that’s it. Tonight dinner, Wheel of Fortune, and that’s it.

Of course that’s what they want me to believe. But don’t they know that my dick is an artist, and my canvas is the universe?

But do you realize or not that the only person trying to make you maintain a shred of mental sanity is a hallucination?

Do you think I won’t go home?

What do you think?

I think my sadness will last forever.

I think you’re the most unfortunate son of a bitch on this earth. It would have taken so little, and yet here you are. There’s only one thing you can do to make your condition less miserable: go in and buy those fucking cigarettes.

I enter the tobacco shop with a military step.

I stop, I look at the tobacconist. A tall man, who knows maybe he has a name like “Richard,” or “Robert.” Maybe he’s already dead, and doesn’t even realize it. Who knows if he isn’t some fucking spirit, that would be really unfortunate.

He says to me: what can I get you?
I say to him: Merits, please.

He hands me the cigarettes, and when I reach out to take the pack I feel something. I feel virility being exchanged between us. A sincere gesture, masculine, and also vaguely pleasant.

I pull out the money. Simple operations.

Processes.

Then I leave. I walk, and under my feet I feel the void. In my heart, the spirit of victory, the one that has dwelled in men after colossal massacres and rapes. If I could, I’ll tell you what I would do: I would exterminate all of mankind, to inseminate the earth with a new race.

After this very thought, I stop, I start crying. I see that far from me are the guys, but I don’t want to contaminate them with my quantum anxieties.

No.

Uncle Vincent. I pull him out of my pocket.

And what the fuck is your problem now?

I don’t know, Uncle Vincent. Maybe it’s just the dust blinding me.

Maybe it’s just the dust blinding you. Alexander?

Yes?

You know you’ll never go home, right?

I know. My place is with the guys.

Your place is with the guys, but that’s okay.

Yes. Life is just a vat of shit.

No. But that’s okay. Light yourself a cigarette and go back to the guys, they’ll take you home.

Yes.

Welcome to the maze of fuck