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macht kaputt was euch kaputt mach

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It's the molasses kind of Monday afternoon; a day that goes by slow and sweet - okay, maybe the day itself wasn’t sweet, but what you were doing was saccharine.

 You were sitting at the kitchen table. To your left, you had your coffee (just the way you liked it). To your right, you had two cups of coffee (just the way you didn’t like it), and right in front of you was an open photo album, filled to the brim with pictures of you and your family over the last 60 years.

You were smiling softly as you looked through pictures from around 1969 or 1970 - you couldn’t quite remember - and you were bubbling with nostalgia and a little bit of meth, but then your eyes froze on a single picture.

 

 

You didn’t see yourself, or any of your other family members, but you recognized these children, and you especially recognized the bastard boy in the yellow shirt. Christian Emmerich. The boy who killed your passion for the triangle and made your school days a living hell.

“Parental guardian, was is you doing?” asked your teenaged goth daughter as she levitated into the kitchen.

“Oh, just looking through old photos -I’m not sure how this one got here though,” you said through involuntarily gritted teeth, and she peeked over your shoulder at the photo.

“Is that...Blixa Bargeld? Like, when he was a kid?” she tilted her head and put her hands on her hips. Habits she got from your godawful spouse.

“Who?” you looked at her, and she furrowed her brows as she mustered up the energy and brain cells to explain.

“The kid in the yellow shirt? I think he’s Blixa Bargeld? He’s an, um, musician - anti musician? He’s the lead singer of Einstürzende Neubauten.”

“What kind of music do they play? Pop music?” you asked as you gritted your teeth even harder. You picked up one of the coffee cups with a shaking right hand, your knuckles going white around the handle as you took a sip. It was the coffee you did not like.

“No,” she blurted, “They play experimental, industrial, avant-garde kind of stuff. I don’t really care for what they’re up to these days, but in the 80s their music was very, uh...” she paused a bit awkwardly, “bang-bang crash. drilling things, bashing sheet metal, stuff like that.”

You threw your coffee cup across the room, your daughter floated away from you and your body tensed up. Your teeth sunk into the inside of your cheek as you held your arms to your sides, your hands curled into fists. ‘Blixa’, huh? He was born with a name that was so goddamn boring he had to name himself after a pen and tack the word ‘cash’ on behind it. He was so good, wasn’t he? With his fame that he got from banging on-and-in dumpsters? The kitchen light was so bright now, or was it the sun in the window? You felt so much lighter, but there was still a twist in your gut. The world around you was stark white, yet you had a vague feeling of where you were. Some kind of weight was in your hands, and you could hear the sharp chime of a triangle ringing out. You looked down and saw two small hands with all fingers intact, a mallet in the left, a triangle hanging off the right. They were your hands, everything was technically off but there was something that was bothering you especially.

 

“You suck at playing triangle. Idiot.” said a boy’s voice. It was echoing through your mind, bouncing off the inside of your skull, and jabbing the inner workings of your ears. You looked up slowly. Pink trousers. Yellow shirt. Christian Emmerich. You opened your mouth and nothing came out, and he laughed in your face, each sound that came out of his mouth contributed to the sensation of dancing knives within your head. You wanted to scream, you wanted to cry, you wanted to cover your ears, but every inch of you was cement. Amid Christian’s insults and his laughter, you started to hear your own screaming and sobbing. You heard your childlike shriek, but your mouth did not move.

“Leave me alone, pee-pee shirt!”

Something in those pale blue eyes of his darkened, and he stood there and stared at you with the expression of a dead fish. Your intestines had almost twisted themselves into the perfect figure-eight knot, and each of your shaky breaths pulled it tighter. You almost knew what was about to happen - you know you had been here before - but it seemed new, and when Christian smiled at you all the blood in your body chilled. You dropped the triangle, the sound of it ringing through the white space you were trapped in. He approached slowly, each step sending a jolt of anxiety through you. He knelt down as if he was going to pick it up, but he looked at you and took your hand into his. He knew what he was going to do, and now you knew. He opened his mouth, took your index finger into it, you could still feel the disgusting warmth of his mouth years from now, and he bit down into your finger just behind the second joint, and you let out a bloodcurdling shriek. You were in your kitchen and your right hand was raised up to your eye level. You no longer had ten fingers. You had nine, and Christian Emmerich had taken the tenth.

 

“Mom? Dad? Are you okay?” asked your daughter, and you turned to look at her and she was staring at you - staring like him - and you grabbed another coffee cup and threw it at her, missing her narrowly. She flew out of the kitchen screaming, and you flipped the kitchen table over. Photo albums be damned, you had a bone to pick and blood to spill.

 You were going to kill Christian Emmerich, or as he has come to be known, Blixa Bargeld.

Of course, the first place you went after tearing your front door off its hinges was to the swimming pool - Christian was one hell of a swimmer back in high school. You had screamed the entire way, and people stared at you and slowly retreated as you ran through the streets on all fours, tearing down signs, ripping fire hydrants off the street, cursing all who crossed your path. You were frothing at the mouth and crying as you bust down the doors of the public swimming pool. Mothers with their young children turned to you as you let out the most ungodly shriek.

"CHRISTIAN EMMERICH THATS FUCKING - THATS - THATS FUCKING BLIXA THATS THE FUCKING GUY WHO TOLD ME I DIDNT KNOW HOW TO PLAY TRIANGLE!!" you screamed as you knocked children into the water and hurled recliners through the room, the panicked shrieks of parents, lifeguards, children, and chefs alike filling the air, bouncing in your head like Christian's words. The world was going red, your face flushed, veins popping out of your arms and forehead.

"NOW HE'S OUT HERE! SMASHING THEM??!! AND HE'S SUCCESSFUL??! WHILE I WAS THE ONE WHO HAD NO TALENT??! FUCK!" you saw a young boy who vaguely resembled Christian Emmerich, and then another, and then another, and you began pulling rocks out of your pockets and throwing them at the Christianlings, one of the stones hitting the second one in the back of the head. He fell to the floor with a thud and blood started to dribble out of the wound, and a woman screamed and ran towards him. Every male child in this building looked exactly like Christian - and one of them could be Christian, so you could not show mercy. You began tossing rocks faster than an AK-47 could shoot! 

You couldn't hear the police sirens over the screams, and you were so focused on assaulting children that you didn't defend yourself against the hordes of adults tackling your elderly body.

"Getting a little violent there are ve?" said the police officer that was handcuffing you as you were held down by several retributional mothers, you struggled under their grip but to no avail. Your rage-induced strength was dwindling, and you laid there limp and sobbing, murmuring "Christian" over and over as the police dragged you out of the building. 

 

On a nearby road, a pitch black Trabi had pulled over, and a police car was parked behind it.

An officer strode over to the passenger's window, and the driver lowered it.

"Going a little fast there, vere ve?" said the officer as it leaned into the window. The young rubber-clad man inside looked at him coolly, not bothering to remove his sunglasses. With a shrug, Blixa replied "Immer," and hit the gas, speeding away from the police as he had always done - until the officer pulled out a lasso and roped his car, pulling him back as quickly as he had tried to leave.

"You've been evading us for years, but you're not getting away this time you terrorist accomplice!" it's voice boomed,

"You are under a rest!"

 

=to be continued, in jail=>