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Saturday, June 7, 2014

The Hitman. By John von Daler

                 I shot him at the worst - and most propitious - moment: just as he was putting the last touches on their home-to-be. With the genial touch of the master builder that he was, he had just put in place the final piece of the east side of the round wall and was admiring his own work, when I let go a ruthless round from the sub-machine gun.


                Do not judge me too harshly. Hear me out I beg of you! The crime itself has never been discovered nor noticed by any other than its perpetrator and its victim. Telling the story now would lift my spirits no end. Goodness knows, he deserved better when you consider all the superb sides of his nature. Here is my tale in all its brief brutality:
                The #composer in the early morning light, his head cupped by his hands, elbows on the computer desk, sought the ultimate harmony. How does a jealous clown sound if his consciousness becomes music? The composer was on to something; as usual Satie had lead the way hand in hand with Richard Strauss. But suddenly a martial kind of cackling sounded off:
                "At-ta-ta-ta-ta-ta-ta!" The racket of a metal brush banging on a tin plate.
                "Damn him!" yelled the composer. He's at it again! The musician put on his headphones in order to hear better the sounds flowing out of his computer: strings and a flute playing a march meant for clowns, but now a-rhythmically interspersed with this infernal din from without.
                As the non-rhythm began working its insidious way into the fiber of the music the composer also began to notice the tones of the noise. Even this clatter was made up of notes, each of which insidiously sought to overpower and unarm the innocent sounds of the melody in the computer. Soon his music had been turned into caucophony, his work stymied and diverted and destroyed.
                Not being able to stand this destruction of a whole night's work, the hapless #musician threw off his earphones, lunged from his chair and grabbed the ill-fated tool of his anger. He had no time to consider the many fine attributes of his victim, nor could he restrain the anger that would soon be directed at this other living being.
                Picking up the submachine gun the composer ran into the bathroom and threw open the window onto the apricot tree that grew just these few meters from the house. Pointing the weapon at the most distant of the branches and pulling back the green trigger of the gun he let loose a stream of lukewarm water that not only hit the object of his anger but also drenched the whole nest in that dripping, unpleasant liquid, the water from the toy gun that now stunned and sent cawing bitterly into the spring night his victim, the hapless and dazed #magpie.

                Do not tell me what wonderful creatures they are! I sleep with my gun by my side!



My book, "Pieces: A Life in Eight Movements and a Prelude" (WiDo Publishing) can be purchased at Norwich (Vermont) Bookstore:
or through Indiebound Books:
or in Copenhagen at Boghandleren på Godthåbsvej:
Hope you enjoy it!

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