Fragments IX


By Airton Paschoa*

six short pieces

How to talk to fascist

As a pledge of civilized treatment, without which dialogue would not have been possible, it is essential that you display an open mind. Hands and feet bound under the table, stick his head, tapas if necessary, into the opening in the center of it, intended for that purpose, and adjust the tourniquet on the side, suspending it by the hair, if not by the ears, if they do not have them. , to the point of immobilizing his neck, hoping to silence the revolving gogó slang. A good, showy and vertical hatchet, splitting the gourd in half, enables him to hear it under controlled conditions. Under no circumstances is it recommended, like living monkeys, to like the soft core, whose appearance of a poisonous mushroom should not deceive. Throw it all away and move on to the next one.


On the cardboard note nailed with a thick, deep nail to the samango's chest, it spelled out between footprints of earth and trampled blood by way of punctuation: “MEGANHAS QUE ARREPIAM ARREGANHAMOS BP” Popular Brigade I think to translate the acronym — with two Bic perforations finishing the times of the stitches. The transcription does not reproduce the torn, perhaps shaky, block letters. The body hanging on the improvised clothesline no longer trembled, as if to allude to the impossibility of washing dirty uniforms at home. Agitated thoughts, forgive me, of someone who was shivering in place, from head spinning to feet and legs without slices, incapable of kneeling, possessed of that strange emotion, almost aesthetic, that we come across when encountering a well-executed bank robbery, without a victim. A similar sensation, I don't know, I only know that I was shaking, God knows if it was from the wind or the advent.


Shoot and fall. A full helmet flies further than a runaway motorcycle. Headless, the doll dodges the pole and crashes against the wall. Right in the bull's-eye! Even greater delight when he squirms, electrified, before stretching his shins. School why? Tasty is to burst them robust. Or temple. Send them to hell—praying?! Didn't you learn anything from Hamlet, the vacillator? Waiting for them to leave is the commandment and, as they inhale deeply the heady ether of the superb Sunday morning, giving thanks in pectoris to the miracle of existing, filling their peacock lungs with buckshot, opening the red-goo syrup and the jelly of little eyes. No, there is no more sustainable action than blowing brains out. Here's what sets us apart from the shooting chicken. Rest your chin on the mouth of the barrel, waiting for the fiery declaration, and attack with silly hands the lower, inner parts, the two holes around it, the fingers perfecting, designers, contouring it, G — the point, G of enjoyment & kitten.


At least he had something to do. Number 1 glowed face to face against the transparent background of the serum. She was supposed to be the circus presenter. It was like opening the curtains and finding her, rubbing her paws with glee, as if announcing the greatest live show on Earth. They appeared at night, I think they flew, which is when she woke up. Or when she thought she woke up and they flew. Number 2 was more suspenseful. Mimicking the background of blood, it allowed a glimpse of a distracted antenna, a wisp of it waving to the fans. The artist was there, the audience felt it, breathing heavily. This when she didn't say goodbye to the entrance, to change the number, unexpected and circular career, returning to the backstage, showing off a little leg, if not the curved rear, like a good cancan dancer. She just didn't like it when number 3 or number 4 appeared, which disrupted the start. Fortunately it used to happen only later, like the public invading the track on the finish line. Not at first. At the beginning, number 1 would make its inaugural presentation tour and wait for number 2 to appear gracefully, go down the thread and finally debut in disgusting splendor, from inside the bag as if coming out and dropping the trickle of blood in its wake.

I didn't know how long it took, so many marches and counter marches, and why not confess at this point? occasional naps, but he was sure they would come. There it was fun; though he didn't see them, he could feel them, the jocks wiggling to keep from drowning in his furry chest. And before reaching the edge of the bed, exhausted but saved, it made him smile, in thought, intubated as he was, the involuntary tickle of desperate swimming. Now it was time to wait and bet on another race.


In a century or two, when man is wiped off the face of the earth and the cockroaches clap their hands in glee, the Book will remain. In a century or two, when they have deciphered the black tracks left on such thin walls, they will exult with the beautiful goal of the ancient world, the great original Mother breaking out of the human shell. Attentive criticism will then praise the parabolic rhapsode, which, with the pointed ears of a K, already sensed the emergence of the parables of the Final Judgment.

total burn

When the Earth is no more than a lunar cemetery spinning out of space, there will be no shortage of tombstones (orders accepted) for all tastes. A book, a painting, a car, a tomb, a violin, a viaduct, a Shopping… Nothing like free choice! There will be a shortage of readers, connoisseurs, artists, engineers, gravediggers, consumers, in short, but we must not, in addition to the label, regret it, the sale of stock. An 80% humanity off lives in liquidation.

*Airton Paschoa is a writer, author, among other books, of the life of penguins (Nankin, 2014).

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