- PROLOGUE -

— The real problem with this, Major Meowington, sir, is how the hell are we gonna get those blasted mice into the old mine in the first place. Even they aren’t that stupid. Damn rodents will sure as hell fight back. We need superior tactics.

— What do you propose, lieutenant? asked Meowington visibly shaken by the latest turn of events. This is our one and only hope. It’s not a prefect plan and we will encounter both friendly and civilian losses.

— But is it really the only way, sir?

— What do you….Oh no! No! No way, no how, not here. not now! I will not permit it!

— I believe he’s already on his way, sir.

— Correction! He’s already here.

Both Major Meowington and Lieutenant Whitenose gasped when they turned to find the source of the last remark. One gasp was of awe and the other one of desperation and there were both understandable, for on the doorstep of the war shack stood none other than Miguel “Ninetails” Kowalski, international man of mystery, lady’s man and pain under the tail for every rule-nut in the United Force of the Cat Guerilla. His look alone was breaking half of the Uniform and War Gear Code Book whilst his attitude was breaking more rules than anyone could invent.

— I heard you got quite a situation here, Meowington, old champ.

— Ahem! First of all, Ninetails, I am not your chump! Old or otherwise. There is no work for you here. You’d better return to headquarters and put yourself on the line for another mission. Maybe something concerning a volcano. Or a dingo.

— Thanks, Henry but although both those scenarios seem much more fun than being stranded here with you, in the middle of the fuckin’ jungle, I do have an assignment, and I am going to do it, even if you like it or not. In fact I’m gonna do it even if I like it or not. It’s a little thing called “orders”. Old chump.

— You’re the one to talk about orders, Kowalski! I believe you’re a disgrace to our purpose and to our forces. If I had even the vaguest shadow of authority over this you would be flying right over the fuckin West wall with the little help of a catapult.

— Now, now, Henry. Aren’t the code books of the Guerilla advice strongly towards the respect of your superiors, major?

— How would you know? You never read them.

— “How would you know? You never read them.”…what?

— How would you know? You never read them …sir.

— Aaah, drop it, Henry. I’m just fuckin with ya’.

Henry Meowington was beginning to lose his authority in the camp and now he was losing his temper too. He knew Ninetails ever since they were 10. They both grew up under the same staircase, behind the same carton box. They both joined the army. Meowington did it out of patriotism and respect for the strictness and discipline of the army. Ninetails did it for fun. They were amongst the best in their year, yet Meowington was always the one getting promotions, because of is iron grip on discipline and Code Books. Ninetails, on the other hand was the black sheep of the Whiskas Military Academy, always getting into all kind of shenanigans and misdemeanors. Although not standard army material, Miguel Kowalski graduated the Academy. Henry Meowington was the first in his year and achieved the Major rank while still in training. But that’s when the sun stopped shining on Meowington’s street. Mere months after the graduation he started hearing his men telling the tallest and the most far-fetched stories about the bold missions of Ninetails alongside the usual cafeteria talk. He didn’t believe them. He didn’t want to believe. “Must be someone else. Same name. Coincidence!” he used to think.

— Damn it, Ninetails. This job was looking like a real piece of pie before you showed up.

— Actually, sir; tried Lieutenant Whitenose, we still have absolutely no plan what so ever regarding the…

— Thank you Lieutenant. That will be all.

— Yes sir.

Meowington’s rage was beginning to rise into never-before reached levels as he saw Whitenose stopping to ask Ninetails for an autograph for his daughter and some others “for the guys”.

— It’s a real honor to have you amongst us, sir, said Whitenose with a look of bliss on his face. How long do are you going to assist us, sir?

— Until the job is done or we’ve all run out of sour milk, ha ha! Ninetails bumped jokingly on the arm the amazed man who was making his way to the door without taking his eyes off his superior.

In Major Meowington’s head suddenly appeared the paragraph that was detailing the sentence for the murder of a superior officer, from the Disciplinary Code of the U.F.C.G. He hoped he will be in control of the following discussion, now that Ninetails can’t flex his ego’s muscles in front of anybody else.

— Look, lieutenant-colonel, started Meowington boldly. I don’t know what you think you are going to…

— Colonel.

— I beg your pardon?

— Colonel. I’m a colonel now. I’ve been advanced 2 months ago, after the mission in Rwanda. Ninetails was saying all this while inspecting his pockets hastily, clearly in search of some matches to light up the cigarette that was lolling in the corner of his mouth. Meowington’s internal pressure was rising rapidly, to the point that his tail was rising menacingly.

— Let your tail down, Henry. I’m here to help you, not to fight you.

— Help me? Help me? All you did since you arrived here was to insult me in front of my lower officers and bragging about your fucking promotion.

— Touchy subject? Look, I’m sure your time is going to come and you’ll be promoted according to your merits too. Or maybe that time is already here, eh? Haha, be a sport, old chump. I’m here on a mission. And the sooner we get this job done, the sooner will I be out of your hair.

The major’s tail slowly started lowering and so was his energy for fighting Ninetails.He was ready to break, to let his old friend know that he won this one.

— Fine. Meowington seemed to speak as if he had an anvil instead of Adam’s apple. We’re gonna do this by the book and we are not gonna screw it up, right? Tell me you’re not going to pull any of your crazy shit while we’re doing this, Miguel.

— You always sound so formal when you call me by my first name.

— That’s because “Ninetails” is a stupid nickname. It doesn’t even make any sense.

— I think it’s a perfect name for a cafeteria story character. It represents our nine lives by linking them to our favorite part of our body.

— That’s sick and blasphemous. I don’t think our God-sent spiritual attributes are to be made fun of, Miguel.

— There you go, with the formalities again. Listen, Henry. I’m really looking forward to us working together again. It’s gonna be just like back at the academy.

— That’s what scares me the most, mumbled Meowington.

— So when do we get to work? I didn’t come here to sit idly; I’m a cat of action.

— Oh, my friend, you’re gonna get it. And if my latest pieces of information are accurate, you’re gonna get it sooner than I expected.

— Great! This is gonna be great! Just like the good ol’ times. I’m gonna go outside and meet the guys around here.

— You mean you’re going to feed of their silly admiration for your notoriety.

— Call it what you want. I still thing that a good bond with your troops is one of the…

Ninetails was stopped in mid-phrase by the revolving door which hit him over the face as it was slammed to the wall by the man who just entered the shack, clearly with urgent matters.

— Yes, Spot. What is it?

— It’s Threepaws, sir. We’ve…we’ve found him.

- to continue -

]]> http://zeulodin.wordpress.com/2009/02/02/masinile-se-pot-vinde-si-altfel/ Mon, 02 Feb 2009 01:00:40 +0000 zeulodin http://zeulodin.wordpress.com/2009/02/02/masinile-se-pot-vinde-si-altfel/

Pur si simplu, una dintre cele mai smechere campanii de advertising pe care le-am vazut. Reuseste sa distruga canoanele fetelor imbracate sumar care fac orice produs sa se vanda si sa isi faca reclama in acelasi timp. Kudos!

Vi s-a intamplat sa mergeti printr-un loc atat de familiar si totusi sa gasiti lucruri intersante? Eu am patit-o, in timp ce traversam grabit parcul Bai din Moinestiul meu cel de toate zilele am vazut stand pe banca un om si un cocos. Amandoi stateau linistiti si tacuti fara sa se priveasca. Amuzat, m-am apropiat si l-am intrebat pe cel mai batran dintre personaje daca ii pot poza. Am primit acordul asa ca am tras repede aceste poze. In timpul asta omul incerca sa il faca pe cocos sa se uite la camera. Conversand cu el.

- “Hai ma Ţuţule, de ce esti suparat? Hai uita-te la camera, te rog eu.”

Am ramas descumpanit dar nu am avut puterea sa intreb care era relatia dintre ei, de cand se cunosteau sau care e parerea lor despre viata. Sper sa ii intalnesc din nou, poate voi afla acum mai multe

Nicaieri in alta parte nu te simti mai mic, mai nesignifiant, mai sters decat la metrou. Momentul in care usile se deschid si masa compacta de oameni care pare o entitate de sine statatoare incepe sa se tarasca incet pe scarile care duc catre lumea de la suprafata simti dureros de mult ca faci parte din sistem si stii ca nu ai cum sa impiedici acest fapt. Trebuie sa iti pastrezi pasul masurat, exact ca al celora de langa tine. Nu poti sa te grabesti si nu poti sa mergi mai incet. Daca ai scari rulante e si mai simplu. Te urci pe treptele murdare, te sprijini de balustrada miscatoare ce colcaie probabil de toate bolile posibile si il privesti in ceafa, fix, aproape fara sa clipesti pe cel din fata ta. Sau incerci sa inregistrezi figurile tuturor celor care coboara pe sensul celalalt, sperand sa vezi un cunoscut caruia sa ii faci din mana pe fuga, ca in filme. Urcarea dureaza de obicei in jur de 20 de secunde. Poti sa faci multe in timpul asta. Sa te legi la pantofi daca ai siretul desfacut, sa schimbi melodia pe care o asculti in casti daca nu ai chef de ea, sa verifici cati bani mai ai in buzunar sau pur si simplu sa incerci sa iti aduci aminte pe la ce gura de metrou trebuie sa iesi ca sa ajungi mai repede la destinatie.

Termini ascensiunea, treci de barierele verzi pe care le izbesti cam tare, cu o ciudata satisfactie datorata faptului ca treci prin ele fara sa folosesti cartela, urci treptele, eviti cersetorii (pe care ii cunosti deja atat de bine ca ai putea sa-ti dai seama la ce statie te afli doar uitandu-te la ei) si urci ultimele trepte, mai goale, dar mai murdare, catre suprafata. Asta in cazul in care nu trebuie sa „schimbi”. E frustrant faptul ca singurul motiv pentru care ai stat ingramadit in metrou cateva minute unde nu ai avut altceva de facut decat sa citesti Libertatea sau Compact, sucindu-ti gandul ca sa vezi mai bine titlurile si tinadu-te in acelasi timp cu putere de buzunarul unde ai portofelul este sa mergi inca cateva minute printr-un tunel plin de oameni pe care nu poti sa ii depasesti, doar ca sa ajungi din nou intr-un vagon probabil mai plin si care va merge mai incet.

La inceput e greu. Nu stii rutele, te incurci in hartile ciudate si nu stii in ce directie trebuie sa o apuci. Dupa cateva luni de folosire zilnica in schimb, metroul iti dezvolta un simt al orientarii ciudat. Din momentul in care ai pasit pe treptele ce coboara inspre pasaj si ai simtit mirosul specific, unic, de urina si Fornetti si vezi primele siluete intunecate (caci nu-i asa, aceste edificii au fost construite pe timpul marilor economisiri. De ce ar avea nevoie cineva de lumina colo jos?) o busola magica se declanseaza in tine, ghidandu-te automat spre trenul corect. Daca te opresti si stai pe loc cateva secunde vraja dispare, te vei pierde si nu vei stii in ce directie trebuie sa continui. Te ghidezi dupa reclamele pe care le cunosti deja pe dinafara si ajungi pe peron, unde te asezi in rand cu toti ceilalti.

Incepi sa te intrebi la ce se gandesc cei de langa tine? Pe ei oare unde ii duce metroul? Poate la munca, poate la scoala, poate la spital, poate la biserica. Pe domnul cu tricou rosu si figura simpatica poate il duce la un orfelinat unde e voluntar. Pe fata in rochie verde si privire pierduta poate o duce la spital unde va face avort. Pe batranelul care a incercat sa se imbrace la moda poate il duce la intalnirea cu nepotii pe care nu i-a vazut de ani de zile. Pe femeia cu sprancene subtiri poate o duce la gara, de unde va pleca pentru totdeauna din oras. Dar iata ca vine metroul. Vine repede, si pentru o secunda crezi ca te va ignora, ca va trece mai departe indiferent la nevoile tale. Dar incetineste si se opreste. Ca de fiecare data. Isi deschide larg usile si lasa afara cativa oameni grabiti care te privesc cu un fel de dusmanie inexplicabila si ii primeste inauntrul sau pe toti. Si pe batranelul chic si pe fata cu avortul. Pe toti. Lui nu ii pasa unde te duci, el nu te judeca. El doar te duce si te aduce, motivele tale il lasa rece. Si de ce i-ar pasa? De parca nu are si el destule probleme. La cati oameni duce el zilnic ar iesi din functiune dupa doar cateva zile daca le-ar cunoaste problemele tuturor. Are grija sa urce toti calatorii dar nu are timp sa ii astepte pe intarziati. E grabit, el e mereu grabit. Si tu esti grabit. Dar nu ai ce face, depinzi de el. Daca te-ai apuca sa fugi in sus si in jus de la un capat la altul nu ai rezolva nimic. Stai linistit si incerci sa ajungi langa tipul burtos care citeste Libertatea. Iar e Simona Senzual pe prima pagina.

„Atentie, se inchid usile!”

El merge.

Prin ploaia marunta si deasa, merge strecurandu-se printre sutele de trecatori din jurul lui. Merge prin ploaie, fara umbrela, doar cu gluga trasa pana peste ochi. Are mainile adanc afundate in buzunarele hanoracului de parca ar vrea sa il traga in jos, sub genunchi, si de asta gluga ii aluneca pe spate. O aseaza inapoi deasupra ochilor indesandu-si in acelasi timp suvitele de par de pe frunte sub ea. In urechi are castile la care asculta aceasi melodie trista pe care a ascultat-o toata ziua.

Pe trotuarul ingust ploaia de peste zi a format balti imense pe care trecatorii incearca sa le ocoleasca ingramadindu-se cu totii prin cele cateva poteci uscate care se formeaza spre marginea strazi. El trece prin balti fara sa le simta. Inca poarta bocancii de iarna cu talpa inalta. Desi tine capul putin aplecat priveste fiecare om ce vine din directia opusa in ochi iar dupa cativa chiar intoarc privirea. Cei care ii intalnesc privirea il masoara scurt si se uita stanjeniti in alta parte. Intoarce capul si incepe sa se uite in vitrinele din stanga lui. Dupa cateva minute isi da seama ca nu mai urmareste de mult continutul magazinelor ci doar reflectia propriei sale siluete in geamul prafuit. Isi intoarce privirea spre trotuarul plin de lume pana si pe vremea asta pacatoasa. Toti par grabiti sa ajunga cat mai repede la destinatie, ba, unii chiar au inceput sa se uite dupa vreun taxi care sa ii scape de rapaiala ploii care intre timp s-a intetit. El merge si atat. E drumul pe care il parcurge zilnic si il stie prea bine. Il imparte in segmente ca sa para mai scurt cu toate ca stie exact cat ii va lua sa il parcurga.

Ajuns la gura de metrou coboara repede treptele. E singurul loc unde se grabeste – pe scari. Si numai la coborare. Pasajul in renovare nu e altceva decat o gramada de moloz si praf care pare sa iti intre in fiecare por. Desi e tarziu inca sunt muncitori acolo. Dar nu lucreaza. Asteapta ceva ce numai ei stiu.

Strabate pasajul pe diagonala si urca scarile incet, fara a se sprijini de balustrada. Priveste absent spre afisele de pe perete dar le stie pe toate si nimeni nu a lipit vreunul nou. Isi continua drumul. Se gandeste ca daca cineva ar trasa cu creta drumul exact pe care il face in fiecare seara trotuarul ar fi probabil inscris cu o singura linie foarte ingrosata. Trece prin statia de autobuz si cumva printre acei oameni care asteapta tacuti unul din ultimele autobuze care mai circula in seara asta se simte bine. Se opreste doar pentru cateva clipe si se uita in jur dar nici unul dintre cei care asteapta nu ii intoarce privirea. Pleaca mai departe trecand pe langa aceasi cersetoare pe care o intalneste in fiecare zi de mai bine de sase luni. Nu ii da niciodata bani. Nu i-a dat prima data pentru ca nu avea, a doua oara din rusine ca nu i-a dat prima data iar mai apoi din reflex. S-a domolit ploaia.

Ajunge la capatul trotuarului exact in momentul cand semaforul se face verde asa ca nu trebuie nici macar sa isi incetineasca mersul. Trece pe langa sirul lung de taxiuri care isi asteapta clientii. In spatele lor a oprit un autocar neinscriptionat plin de oameni. E foarte luminat pe dinauntru asa ca ii poate vedea pe fiecare in parte. Isi plimba privirea peste figurile tuturor si nu vede nimic interesant. Trece mai departe, catre ultimele doua segmente imaginare ale drumului sau. Intrand spre straduta ingusta observa cum femeia care mergea in fata lui se uita nelinistita in spate din cand in cand. Isi incetineste mersul. Citeste dintr-o privire numerele tuturor masinilor parcate pe marginea strazii. Cam toate ii sunt cunoscute. Isi da seama ca pe unele le stie pe de rost si le asociaza cu masina pe care sunt montate. Ce risipa de memorie! Intra pe ultimul segment al drumului, cel mai scurt. Aici e momentul cand mereu simte oboseala de peste zi. Fiecare pas e parca de doua ori mai greu de facut acum. Muzica incepe sa il deranjeze asa ca isi scoate castile din urechi fara a o opri insa. Intra pe poarta intredeschisa pe care are grija sa o inchida cu zavorul in urma. Descuie usa si intrra in casa. Isi da gluga jos si intra in dormitor unde colegii de camera se uita la un meci. Intreaba din reflex cat e scorul si isi da seama ca nu stie nici macar cine joaca. Din fericire un coleg ii spune si echipele odata cu scorul. Aude cuvintele dar nu la retine nici macar pentru o clipa. Se dezbraca, se aseaza in fata calculatorului mereu pornit si deschide Word-ul.

El scrie

Nu poate omu sa se culce la 8 dimineata dupa o noapte de Planescape Torment ca se trezeste cu accidentu’ peste el. Sunt obisnuit cu tamponarile si injuraturile de prin zona pentru ca au o frecventa aproape zilnica dar de data asta a fost destul de interesant….adica, de cate ori ai ocazia sa admiri dedesupturile unui Logan la un unghi de 90 de grade?

Au mai fost implicate alte doua masini, amandoua lovite destul de urat. Politie, salvare, gura-casca, etc, etc. Mai multe poze (de o calitate execrabila, bineinteles) aici: Accident pe strada Sperantei