Día del Crío

     En honor a la ocasión -pues al parecer hoy es el día del crío -haré un viaje de introspección y retrospección, remontándome a las primeras animaciones que hice. Y digo primeras porque no se trata de una sino de una trilogía. ¿Y por qué he escogido este día para esto? Porque, como un bebé, esas animaciones fueron los primeros pasos que di en el maravilloso mundo de la animación digital.

     Era el 2007. Julio. Buscaba algo en qué ocupar mi tiempo, algo que no fuera vana ociosidad. Y entonces me atacó. No sé si fue por un sueño, una visión de mi inspiration o el hecho de pasar mucho tiempo frente al SNES jugando la versión del juego del mismo nombre pero me llegó una idea. Tan clara, tan pura, tenía que realizarla. Era sábado. El siguiente martes acudí a Blockbuster y renté Doom (Oh sí, esa película con Karl Urban, La Roca y Rosamund Pike). Una semana después mi primera animación vio la luz del sol:

O.K.

     Esa primera animación... bueno, no ha sido mi mejor trabajo. Tampoco el peor debo decir. La historia, sencilla (pero a mí me gusta). Los dibujos... minimalistas. Las voces, inexistentes (no tenía un micrófono). Los sonidos... bueno, se hizo lo mejor que se pudo. La animación corre a la fantabulosa velocidad de doce (sí, DOCE) fotogramas por segundo. Con todo y todo, para haber dibujado todos los gráficos (sin haber aprendido a dibujar formalmente), sin conocer el programa (utilicé Flash) a fondo y dibujando con mi ratón creo que fue una buena animación y una excelente primera vez.

     Y por supuesto, no me podía quedar así. No quería una rebanada de pastel, quería el pastel completo. Fui corriendo a comprar un micrófono (OK, no tanto... fueron unos audífonos con micrófono integrado... uno de esos headsets). Hice un pequeño guión, grabé una pocas líneas y... voilà:

Diez puntos al que identifique la película en que está basada la animación principalmente

     La animación tiene un montón de referencias cultura pop... o al menos intenté que las tuviera. El tío que rescata a nuestro héroe se apellida McCloud... así me sonaba el nombre de Connor MacLeod el Inmortal, es por eso que al pobre le vuelan la cabeza. Después de que Jules contesta 'You're damn right' es mi voz la que dice 'Shaft'. Jules, Jimmy ('Don't Jimmy me Jules') y Vincent (a quien matan en el baño) son todos referencias a una película. En fin, para terminar de sentirme todo un George Lucas y completar la historia nació El Regreso del... bueno, la tercera parte:

GROOVY BABY !

     Todas las animaciones salieron con aproximadamente una semana de diferencia. Las animaciones y los dibujos son muy básicos, principalmente porque era (vale, todavía lo soy un poco) flojo. La verdad es que más que un animador soy un cuentacuentos. Además, para este proyecto en particular creo que los dibujos le dan un extra que hacen que el cuento sea más gracioso. Un año después de la trilogía para conmemorar mi inicio en el mundo de la animación, y porque con Bubulubu siempre tienes una cuarta, nació esto:

Vaya que no hay una furia más grande

     La animación es todavía muy básica, pero creo que mejoró. También siento importante mencionar que toda la animación se hizo en un día (y todavía con un ratón). En fin, el spin-off no se convirtió en una serie recurrente (ni en una nueva trilogía ni vino a completar la saga como una hexalogía... ahem). Sin embargo, no sería la primera vez que hago una serie de trabajos que estén relacionados entre ellos, pero eso... es otra historia...

Lifetime

     It was she who called them. He never wanted to be a drag. Nine twenty-six. Sirens were closing in, disturbing the imposing silence of the night. He is prepared. She hardly is. He understands, it is the final hour... the end of his trail... no more breadcrumbs. She still wants him to read her his stories. Nine twenty-seven. Sirens were closing in, echoing in the darkness and escaping its grasp. No more promises. No more miles to walk. This is it. She goes down on her knees and prays, though she does not quite know what she is praying for. Nine twenty-eight. Sirens were closing in, screaming and screeching, muffling other sounds. Two minutes to go. Seconds drag as he is departing. Violins playing, though no tune can be heard. She opens the door as her sobs go into a crescendo. Nine twenty-nine. Sirens closing in, still nowhere to be seen. He is not struggling the strangling he feels, he lets the void in as air rejects his lungs' invitation. Her salty cheeks tremble as her heart does the same in fear and dread... dread of what will most certainly happen. Nine thirty.

     “Almost nine thirty,” said a voice.

     “Thank you,” responds another voice. This particular voice belonged to a man who had a watch. He needn't ask for the time, but was obsessed with it. Actually, 'thank you' was not the first response that came to his mind, as 'almost' was rather ambiguous and oblique for his taste and the exact hour was nine twenty-six. He kept on walking. Other than the ambulance hurrying down the street, this was just another night. Nine twenty-seven. He glimpsed at his watch. He did not quite know why he liked watching it so much. He enjoyed looking how the fearless seconds hand always moved swiftly and the way the huge hours hand painfully dragged itself at an alarmingly slow rate, but most of all he enjoyed the middle hand... the minutes one. Nine twenty-eight. That glorious minutes hand marked yet another minute. Impressive. That hand, never too slow and never too fast, reaching another marquee in sixty heartbeats. Nine twenty-nine. Time was always fast, never stopping or lending a hand. Down the street, at last, his house was there... and an ambulance was at the front door. He hurried along the path. Nine thirty.

     “Another night,” said a General Hospital nurse.

     “It would certainly seem so,” answered doctor Hobbes. He was a rather curious man, as he spent most of his time reading about various subjects and talking to all kinds of people. His wife was a doctor too, and she worked in the General Hospital also. Lately, he was reading quite a lot about fatherhood. His wife was not pregnant. While both reading and chitchatting, doctor Hobbes gazed upon a wall. Both solemnly and quietly, the clock of the waiting room stood. Nine twenty-six. Little more than a half-hour and his shift would end. He was hardly desperate about leaving the hospital though way back he only lived for quitting work and going home. He never went home alone, not since he got married anyway. Nine twenty-seven. Evidently then, the sudden change of perception and perspective of doctor Hobbes regarding his life and modus operandi relied on his wife. They loved each other very much and seldom had feuds or held grudges against each other. Nine twenty-eight. Sighing, doctor Hobbes watched the clock one more time. His concentration now laid afar from him. He could not help but think of the pressing matters troubling his heart, mind and soul. He wanted a child. He was sure his wife wanted a child as well, but she had made it very clear she was not up to the task. Nine twenty-nine. His first name was Robert. He tried to focus one more time. Futile. And so, Robert Hobbes merely stood there. He was not counting the clock's ticks anymore. Nine thirty.

     Moving very fast, the paramedics filled the gurney with Mr. Baxter's body. Gregory Baxter was a fiction writer. Three years, three months and five days ago, Gregory had a heart attack. He was seventy-nine years old at that time. It was because of his daughter that this eighty-two year old was being driven to the General Hospital. Melinda Baxter was a twenty-three year old loving child. Mr. Baxter and his wife craved for a girl -or boy- of their own and did have Melinda at a late age, but the latter was a perfectly normal, healthy and beautiful baby that grew into a perfectly normal, healthy and beautiful woman. Gregory Baxter loved both his wife and daughter, so hated seeing them distanced and falling away from each other. The struggle between the women on Mr. Baxter's life intensified by the hour. Amidst his shortness of breath, a thought rushed through his brain... he hoped his actual condition might subdue such a pathetic fight, a confrontation that really led nowhere, and inject new life into that mother-daughter relationship. Gregory Baxter was a good fiction writer.

     “What's going on?” asked anxiously Mr. Hawthorne. His breath was clinging to the air at hand; his sight was searching the room in an erratic fashion.

     “Your wife is going into labour,” said one of the two paramedics that were helping a woman to a gurney.

     “This is it,” said the woman as she hopped on top of the white vehicle. Ms. Hawthorne, maiden name Jennifer James. Almost nine months to the spot. Exactly eight months and twenty-eight days, “the day we were looking forward to.”

     “Already... oh... I don't know if I am ready,” John Hawthorne spoke with great difficulty. His heart was still racing, but not from running towards his house. He was very emotional and was actually a little bit frightened.

     “We will be fine my dear,” said Jennifer in the most convincing tone she could have spoken in.

     “Let's get going,” said the second paramedic, “you can ride with us in the ambulance.”

     And so, two couples went away into the night, swooshing across the asphalt jungle and towards the white tower, the General Hospital. It was nine thirty-eight... exactly.

     “Can you tell me your name sir?” a routine question doctor Hobbes had asked easily a thousand times.

     “His name is Gregory Baxter,” said Melinda at the verge of tears.

     “And you are?” asked Robert Hobbes.

     “I'm his daughter.”

     “What happened?”

     “He... just couldn't breath anymore... is he going to be all right?”

     “Let us work. You can wait over there.” Robert looked at a nurse who promptly made her move.

     A nurse grabbed Melinda Baxter by the arm and conduced her to the waiting room and then returned to the room where the writer was being treated. Melinda looked at a clock in the wall. She sat on a chair, not because she wanted to, but because her legs shut off. Seconds did not move for her. It has nine forty-three.

     Contractions grew stronger and stronger. At last, the gurney was driven through various hospital floors, reaching the maternity ward. Mr. and Ms. Hawthorne entered a room, followed instantly by doctor Cooper.

     “Hi, I'm doctor Cooper and I am going to help you through the labour.”

     “I'm John... and this is my wife Jennifer…” He was thinking only about his wife and the child she was bearing, mumbling words between what he thought were coherent phrases and responses.

     “Don't worry about a thing,” said the doctor, sensing the disturbed manner of Mr. Hawthorne, and then proceeded to prepare Jennifer for the labour.

     Indeed tough times bring people together. Ms. Helen Baxter held Melinda in her arms, both sitting on a pair of adjacent chairs in the General Hospital's waiting room. Her daughter's crying, compelling, had brought forward a truce. Doctor Hobbes entered the room.

     “Ms. Baxter?”

     “Yes,” answered Helen expectantly and yet unsure.

     “Your husband suffered a heart attack,” said the doctor as he crouched between the two women, “we were able to make his heart beat again, but his brain was deprived of oxygen for almost four minutes. We had to put a tube down his throat to help him breath and quite frankly, there is a big chance he may not be able to breath by himself again. I'm sorry.”

     “Oh my God.” The words came out even before Melinda reasoned them and almost before doctor Hobbes could finish his sentence. “Can we see him?”

     “He is unconscious, heavily sedated, but you may go into his room if you want to. Later, as his condition normalizes, we will transfer him to the ICU.”

     “Push! We're almost there, now push!”

     The first cry for air of baby Hawthorne echoed not only in the room but also in the entire hospital. The miracle of life -of his life -, embodied in that potent cry, filled the hearts of his parents. Other hearts were filled with a sense of loving and reassurance as well.

     Both of them sobbing, Helen and Melinda stood before Gregory's bed. His face looked calm, and bore a slight smile. It's not that he planned this, although he could have written it. This fortuitous scene jump-started a car on the road to recovery. The past behind both was forgot, their sins cleansed and their minds set only on the man in bed. The beep of the monitor turned into a linear sound... lifeless. He had no regrets. He lived his life fully the way he wanted to live it and, most importantly, always telling the two quintessential girls of his life that he loved them very much. He was fortunate, and that fortune was cast upon not only the two girls beside him, but also on a curious man watching the scene from the room's threshold. These three characters could have easily been identified as a new single persona now, eyes open and thinking differently... breathing a new air and living a new life. Doctor Hobbes did not want but craved to go home now. He never went home alone, not since he got married anyway.

     “Thank you very much,” said Mr. Hawthorne, shaking the doctor’s hand effusively.

     “Don't worry about it, and congratulations!” said doctor Cooper. Time stopped for a moment as if only to capture the moment: the husband, the wife and the newborn being watched by the doctor that helped through the process. It then regained its pace. “Could you please tell me what time is it?” asked the doctor after discovering Mr. Hawthorne’s watch.

     “Almost ten forty-five,” answered John, not paying much attention to any of the hands on his watch anymore, but feeling the most alive in his life, renewed and excited.

     “Thank you.” The doctor’s shift had ended almost forty-five minutes ago. Going home was the next step.

     “How was your day?” asked Robert to doctor Cooper as they met at the hospital’s main entrance.

     “It was fine.” Both stopped walking.

     Neither talked for a moment. They were just looking at each other, feeling as if something had changed.

     “Listen,” doctor Cooper continued, “I... I think I am ready...”

     Doctor Hobbes smiled as he grabbed his wife's hand. Words needed not be spoken and they resumed their journey home. It was the dawn of a new age, a new time, a new way of thinking and feeling. And maybe, just maybe, doctor Lucy Cooper would agree to become doctor Lucy Hobbes now.

Cuento Corto. Abril, 2009.

Psicosis Porcina

     No, no me refiero a la gripe aviar humana porcina batracotoxina doble con queso papas y refresco grandes galácticamente apocalíptica. Me refiero a... esto:

o.O

     La fecha, enero de 2008. Todo comenzó un viernes por la noche. Recibí una visita muy interesante. ¿De quién? De mi primo. Yo había hecho un par de caricaturas a lo largo de seis meses en 2007 y esa noche mi primo me pidió lo ayudara a realizar un storyboard animado (un animatic) para un cortometraje que quería realizar. Sin embargo, los tiempos que manejaba no eran del todo... amigables. Necesitaba el trabajo para el lunes. Dos días para realizar un corto animado. Cierto, el proyecto no tenía mas que mostrar los movimientos y elementos esenciales de lo que sería el corto pero aún así era bastante trabajo, especialmente con la poca experiencia que tenía. Mi primera reacción fue la siguiente:

Oh sí, vaya que lo hizo

     De todas maneras le dije que regresara dispuesto a trabajar a marchas forzadas y el sábado en la mañana pusimos manos a la obra. Él estuvo presente a lo largo de todo el proceso... y el proceso fue muy... interesante... Cuarenta y ocho horas trabajando non-stop, quince minutos para comidas, solamente un par de ellas en ese fin de semana. Nos alegrábamos cuando terminábamos apenas diez segundos del proyecto. Para el domingo en la tarde estábamos quebrados y hablando muchas tonterías. En mi cuarto tenía un par de figuras de acción de 'El Depredador' y mi primo constantemente decía 'Yo sé lo que necesitas... ¡teatro guiñol de depredadores!' sólo para empezar a jugar con los muñequitos.

Dramatización

     Cuando por fin terminamos ese domingo en la noche y pude arrastrarme a la cama la fiebre me atacó y me hizo soñar el contenido de la animación que se presenta en esta entrada. Anoche (tal vez hoy en la madrugada) la psicosis (no porcina) atacó de nuevo... lo cual significa que espero terminar un pequeño (muy pequeño) corto animado muy pronto.

Another One Bites the Dust

     Fue una larga guerra, pero al final prevalecí... el más fuerte... el que tenía que ganar al final. Las batallas campales dejaron estragos, días lúgubres y sin descanso ni sueño. Hasta el viento tenía miedo de nuestros enfrentamientos y soplaba con sus mayores fuerzas cuando, como titanes, nos disponíamos a luchar...

Ehécatl (Dramatización)

     Yo ganaba algunas de las batallas... él ganaba algunas otras...

Ni maíz paloma, no trabajo porque no trabajo y ya está

Oh sí, peor incluso que una BSOD

     Estoy hablando, por supuesto, del proyecto (que es básicamente un juego interactivo sobre los números, sus equivalencias y las monedas y billetes en México) que tuve que entregar esta mañana. Prueba de que el mundo laboral, chicos y chicas, es una ruina. Narraré pues la última batalla. Ésta comenzó ayer por la mañana. Confiado a terminar el proyecto temprano prendí la lap, dispuesto a trabajar. Vi que la batería estaba casi vacía, así que la conecté a la fuente y... no había luz. Señor, sí señor... Luz y Fuerza del Centro, la Comisión Federal de Electricidad, la misma puerca pero revolcada.

     Después de esperar un par de orugas a que regresara la energía tuve que optar por ir al campus a terminar el trabajo... fabuloso. Junté mis cosas y emprendí el viaje. El trayecto recorrido en autobús fue... memorable: El paso estaba cortado (a la altura de donde antes yacía la Puerta Tolotzin) por uno de nuestro finísimos elementos de Tránsito (o sea que el chavo fresa estaba tirando rostro mientras estorbaba y le causaba un zumbido de oídos a su madre santa), así que el autobús tuvo que dar una vuelta ENORME solamente para poder pasar. Como tuvimos que tomar un desvío había que recuperar el tiempo perdido. Lo único que diré es que si se hubiera tratado de la película 'Volver al Futuro' habríamos llegado sin problemas al Viejo Oeste (sí, me refiero a la tercera entrega de la saga).

     Al llegar al campus me dispuse a trabajar. Los problemas comenzaron cuando intenté añadir unos videitos a mi Flash. Ese hecho y algunas otras distracciones (una llamada y un par de tías que entraron al salón en el que me encontraba) hicieron que no avanzara demasiado antes de ir a mi única clase del día (de la semana, de hecho... qué pesado ha sido este semestre). Mi estancia en el campus pasó sin mayor pena ni gloria (mucho menos gloria). Cuando sí me divertí en el campus con mi proyecto fue de hecho la semana pasada, cuando tuve que intentar eliminar la pantalla verde de un video en el que salimos mi prima y yo dando una serie de instrucciones para el proyecto...

¿ Esa combinación me hace ver gordo ?

     La energía eléctrica había vuelto cuando regresé a casa. Para no hacer el cuento largo, cuando la programación sale mal puede salir peor... y fue hasta las dos de la mañana que por fin jaló el programita.  La verdad es que llega un punto en que las líneas de código se te mueven por la pantalla, libres como golondrinas en la primavera. En fin, el proyecto se terminó... la bestia fue amansada y llevada a su presentación hoy por la mañana.

     Cabe mencionar que el trayecto en autobús del día de hoy fue... interesante también, ya que alguien se las iba tronando y la música era un poco demasiado Romantic Style para mi gusto, pero bueno, eso ya da igual en este momento. A la gente a la que se lo presenté le agradó (aunque, por supuesto, me hicieron un par de observaciones que serán tomadas en cuenta) y me felicitaron y me pidieron que extendiera esas felicitaciones a mi equipo de trabajo (¡Ah caray! ¿Tengo un equipo de trabajo?). En dos semanas se hará otra junta y espero poder instalar en ese momento. Espero en el ínter el proyecto no vuelva a la vida como un zombie que me haga la vida de cuadritos. Mientras tanto espero poder adelantar algunos proyectos propios, pero eso ya depende de si Earthworm Jim (para SNES) me deja o no trabajar en ellos.

Será un gusano, ¡ pero qué dentadura más perfecta tiene !

El Séptimo Arte

     En algún punto de nuestras vidas tenemos que incursionar en el cine... el séptimo arte. Lo anterior ya sea porque sentimos la necesidad de contar historias, nuestras o de alguien más, o porque tenemos que realizar algún proyecto escolar como en el siguiente caso.

     Corría el año 2009 y estábamos en clase de Literatura. El proyecto del tercer parcial era realizar una adaptación en video de algún cuento que hubiéramos leído durante el semestre. Decidimos hacer una adaptación de un cuento de Richard Laymon que se titula 'El Rancho' ('Mess Hall'). Teníamos tres o cuatro días para realizar el proyecto (era un lunes, entregábamos el viernes de esa semana -si mal no recuerdo -y ese lunes fue un día feriado). El resultado fue una adaptación... bueno, mejor mira el video primero (en pantalla completa, porque se filmó con recursos limitados, ya sabes) y después te cuento de qué va el cuento:

Inhala y tómate un minuto antes de continuar.

     Ahora, a grandes rasgos, el cuento original narra la historia de Jean (la protagonista) quien, primero que nada, está fornicando con su novio en un parque. La pareja es sorprendida por El Segador, quien le vuela los sesos al novio y rapta a Jean. Este singular asesino la lleva a una cabaña alejada (creo que era una cabaña, el punto es que es un lugar donde nadie los molestaría) con la intención de matarla y dejar ahí su cuerpo inerte para que se lo comieran los coyotes -de ahí que el cuento se titule 'Mess Hall' y 'La Cafetería' sería una traducción un poco más fiel creo yo -. Jean hubiera sido la octava víctima si las pasadas víctimas del Segador no hubieran regresado de la muerte (como zombies evidentemente) para vengarse. Al ver el 'espectáculo' (especialmente ver cómo una zombie le arranca el labio superior al Segador con sus pinzas), Jean se siente tan asqueada que vomita. Una zombie del grupo se da cuenta del hecho (sí, de la 'vasca') y teniendo un cerebro un tanto... primitivo, prueba el desecho. De nuevo, gracias a su cerebro primitivo, a la zombie se le antoja Jean (no, no de esa manera) y le da un mordisco en la pierna. Jean y la muerta viviente comienzan a forcejear. Cuando Jean logra zafarse de la mordida la rama del árbol al que está atada se rompe. Jean entonces se levanta, golpea a la zombie con la rama, le tira una roca en la cara al Segador (esa parte no se ve en el video... recursos limitados, ¿recuerdan?) y escapa.

     La realización distó mucho de ser miel sobre hojuelas. No pudimos conseguir esposas (solamente unas con 'peluche' que no iban de acuerdo a la historia), la iluminación del primer día fue realizada con una linterna (pequeña... muy pequeña), ese mismo primer día se acabó la pila de la cámara con la que estábamos grabando, no contábamos con una cámara hollywoodense, de las que utiliza un gran y ambicioso proyecto cinematográfico, el maquillaje fue... minimalista (igual que los efectos especiales, en especial la escena de la cabeza explotando) y el frío de esas noches fue terrible. Sin embargo, todos pusimos nuestro granito de arena y la producción se sobrepuso a todos los problemas. Se terminó con un corto de siete minutos y quince segundos de duración y un compendio de errores de once minutos con once segundos de duración (11:11, ¡pide un deseo!). Curioso cómo hay más errores que grabación... para divertirse un rato:

Por si alguien se lo pregunta la frase final del Blooper Reel -dicha por el actor que interpretó al Segador -es "qué mal actor soy".

     Algunas otras cosas que se notaron post-realización:

1) Camarógrafo deja su Coca-Cola en la escena:

2) Hay una escena en la que El Segador está sentado sosteniendo sus pinzas. En teoría tiene sus pinzas al fuego. Alguien (yo) no insertó la hoguera digitalmente como dijo que iba a hacerlo:

3) El cambio brutal de iluminación:

     Al final del día, el trabajo que hicimos no fue bueno... ¡ FUE EXCELENTE ! Para un video amateur sin recursos y sin saber gran cosa sobre cómo filmar una película nuestro trabajo fue excepcional. La colaboración y participación entusiasta de Paco Romero, Erich Marín, Cristina Cebreros, Chivis Ontiveros, Roberto Bernal, Elisa Daniel y Mariana Barragán (junto con la asesoría de Carlos Marín) dieron un trabajo excelente, merecedor de la más alta nota (que obtuvimos, por cierto). Así que aquí está, nuestra primera incursión en la cinematografía, una experiencia muy divertida y que me deja muy gratos recuerdos.

En el Trono

     Las ideas llegan cuando quieren y en cualquier lugar. Hace ya unos buenos tres años, casi cuatro, estaba sentado en el baño con un dolor de estómago fenomenal. Recuerdo que había comido algo que no me había sentado bien, siendo esa comida algún tipo de garnacha -si mal no recuerdo -con mis padrinos (estábamos de visita). El punto es que al caer la noche, cuando llegamos a casa, corrí al baño. No sé si fue la fiebre o algún tipo de psicosis creada por algo que no sé qué que qué sé yo, justo en ese momento una idea me golpeó, tan fuerte como la diarrea. Recuerdo estar sonriendo cuando esa idea pasó por mi cabeza... con todo y el sudor en mi frente hirviente y mi cuerpo arqueado, conteniendo el dolor. A la mañana siguiente, cuando me sentí mejor, escribí un pequeño guión y nació... esto:

     Una animación que data de Agosto, 2007, se trata del Trío Fantástico de... Tíos Añejos. Ahora, en retrospectiva, me doy cuenta de la simpleza de los dibujos, la animación, las voces... por no decir la falta de... habilidad. Sigue siendo, sin embargo, una animación que me gusta y que tal vez modernice cuando tenga una tableta de dibujo... o sepa dibujar jaja. Esta fue una de las primeras animaciones que realicé solo, dibujando, animando y hablando todo (bueno, todo menos la música, en aquellos tiempos solamente cantaba), pero no sería la última... y tampoco sería la última vez en que una psicosis extraña me atacara para realizar algún proyecto extraño...

Die Happy

     “Hello, is it me you’re looking for?” The voice came from a young man who was walking slowly towards the bed. Luc wasn’t expecting a visitor, especially not someone who looked like this man. A fine shirt and a fine tie, both wrapped in a fine suit with a fine vest. Since he was lying on the bed and his body’s movement was very restrained, Luc couldn’t see the man’s shoes, but he bet they were goddamn fine.

     His smile was extremely wide by the time he reached Luc’s side, “Just teasing you.” The man grabbed a nearby chair and sat on it, “Au contraire, you’re just the one I’ve been looking for.” There was something in the sound of the man’s voice that made Luc feel uneasy. He felt even worse when the man’s gaze skimmed through his body, as if he was a rat being examined by a mad scientist.

     The suit started to lie back on the chair but not a second after he had crossed his legs, something grabbed his attention and made him stand up and walk to a nearby table. “Bad news comes, don’t you worry even when it lands,” he said as he picked up a newspaper. Le Journal du Marais had an article about some bombing on its front page. “Good news will work its way to all them plans,” continued the man as he advanced to the third page of the newspaper. It contained an article about former genius, philanthropist and all-around Messiah Luc Lenvers.

     La Ville des Marais, a little province some two hundred kilometres southeast of Paris -somewhere between Auxerre and Dijon -, had never been of great importance to anyone. It, however, was the place where Luc was born.  True, when Luc rose to glory so did La Ville, but when his downfall occurred all memories of it died and any glimmer it could’ve had was swallowed by the darkness of the once again forsaken town. It was just fitting that Monsieur Lenvers was dying on a bed at his hometown’s hospital.

     “It’s a bitch convincing people to like you,” said the man as he read the article. It barely mentioned Luc’s colossal contribution to the world of physics, a new way of improving life and lifestyle. Quite the opposite, it stated that Luc could have done many better things in a faster way. “You know it’s true what they say,” the man put down the newspaper and began making his way back to Luc, “you’re only king for a day.”

     The man stood quietly for a moment, his wide smile all over his face again. “Oh, but where are my manners? Please allow me to introduce myself, I’m a man of wealth and taste.” He leaned over Luc and put a little card in front of him. It was black with a red frame. The letters, centred and printed in the same crimson red, read ‘NAT A. S.’ no more, no less. After holding the card for a few moments in front of Luc’s eyes, Nat stuffed it in one of his pockets and sat down in the same hospital chair as before. “Pleased to meet you. Hope you guess my name”.

     Nat crackled his fingers. He liked the sound they made. “When I’m smoking, smoking put my worries on a shelf,” said Nat as he quickly lit a cigar without even looking in Luc’s direction. Inhale. He, however, turned to face Luc in order to exhale all the smoke out of his lungs. “Now let’s get down to business,” started Nat but quickly stopped. He noticed Luc’s eyes, apart from being red now, were lost. “The blues is my business, and business is good,” explained Nat.

     “We’re just waiting for the hammer to fall,” said Nat after a few moments trying to get comfortable on his chair. “It doesn’t make a difference if we make it or not. But you…” Nat pointed a finger at Luc, “you got to be startin’ something, don’t you? What did you think? ‘I could change the world. I could make it better’? Maybe you did, maybe you created something mighty fine… but mighty fine only got you somewhere half the time, especially here where people think that ignorance is bliss. I’ll say it again! Ignorance is bliss!”

     Nat stood up and started walking around the room. He started rubbing his buttocks as if caressing them. “It’s hard enough sitting there, rockin’ in your rockin’ chair.” Nat lit up another cigar right under the smoke detector. “We can play it safe or play it cool, follow the leader or make up all the rules, whatever you want the choice is yours… and you chose.

     “You were truly a prodigy. Little 15 and you already had a bright future. You got yourself a successful career as an experimental physicist by twenty-three and five years later your team and you gave the world cold fusion. Good public relations and the awe of your youth gave you fortune and glory, even more than to the others in the team.” Nat returned to Luc’s side but sat on the bed this time. “But it’s a cruel cruel world to face on your own, a heavy cross to carry along… and since you got all the fame -the spotlight -you were alone.

     “You kept on trying to help mankind. Along came the good Samaritan, a true man of God,” Nat gave Luc a gentile pat on the head that contrasted his sardonic smile, “Surely you’re not saying we have the resources to save the poor from their lot. There will be poor always pathetically struggling, look at the good things you’ve got… and you should’ve looked at them and held them close to your heart. All for freedom and for pleasure, nothing ever lasts forever. Everybody wants to rule the world, right?

     “It’s hard to find relief and people can be so cold when they are motivated by envy, greed, wrath… something that needs a lie trying to turn into a sin.  It’s harsh when people stab you in the back for money or for no reason at all… just because they dislike you or because it is you who the media prefer. Who truly stuck the knife in first?” Nat got up from the bed and fixed his tie.

     “Qui êtes-vous?” demanded a nurse as she entered the room.

     Nat turned and faced the woman. “Green-eyed lady, lovely lady,” he mumbled as he approached the nurse. He whispered something to her ear and in no time they both went out the door, the nurse giggling like a college girl. Luc wasn’t sure what had happened, everything was so strange and he felt like he was on some bizarre dream from which he couldn’t wake up. He tried to wake up by sleeping, but as he was closing his eyes Nat returned to the room.

     “Now, when I walk the streets kings and queens step aside, every woman I meet… they all stay satisfied,” said Nat, now a different type of smile on his face. “I’m sorry. I think it’s safe to say that I get carried away. It is very important though, female relationships.” Nat gave Luc a fatherly look. “Find yourself a girl and settle down, live a simple life in a quiet town.

     “Not a big fan of roses myself. You and me and a bottle of wine… now that’s more like it… but not your cup of tea, right?” Nat reached into his suit’s inner pocket and took out a pansy. Luc’s eyes widened as Nat waved the flower in front of him. “You’re aching, you’re breaking and I can see the pain in your eyes. What did she give you? A moment, a love, a dream aloud, a kiss, a crowd, our rights, our wrongs… well, your wrongs anyway.

     “What is love? And how many times,” Nat got his face closer to Luc’s, “how many times,” even closer, “how many times can you fall in love? And how many loves,” Nat pulled back a bit, “how many loves,” and a little bit more, “how many loves make a life?” Nat took out another cigar but didn’t light it. After staring at it for a moment he continued, “All these mixed emotions we keep locked away like stolen pearls. Stolen pearl devotions we keep locked away from all the world.

     “There were few things you wouldn’t have done for her, do anything for love, run right into hell and back.” It was Nat who giggled now. “Well long tall Sally, she’s built for speed. She got everything that uncle John need, oh Baby!” Nat stopped for a moment, laughing a little bit harder and trying to regain his composure. His eyes met Luc’s eyes, wider now, “She was a fast machine, she kept her motor clean, she was the best damn woman that I ever seen… and she went on to fuck a country boy named Johnny B. Goode while you were still married. Lost this little bitty woman, she’s just outta sight.”

     Luc turned his face away from Nat as much as he could, as he felt tears were coming. Nat began walking to the other side of the bed, “Que no quieres nada más de mí, que te fuiste con ese infeliz, ¿qué importa?” Nat was facing Luc again. “¿Qué importa?” Luc opened his eyes. He gave Nat a long hard look. Nat just kept smiling. “I bet you are dying to say something,” said Nat as he pointed to the endotracheal tube sticking out of Luc’s mouth. “Así es la vida de caprichosa, a veces negra, a veces color rosa. Así es la vida, jacarandosa. Te quita, te pone, te sube, te baja y a veces te lo da.”

     Nat sat on the bed, again, but he faced away from Luc now. He lit his cigar now and started examining the pansy he had. Its petals were violet and white, its pistils yellow. It was actually a beautiful flower, no wonder why they were Sally’s favourites. “It takes a special kind of thrill to stand out in this day and age. Everybody looks so good and everyone is good in bed. Can you tell me what was ever really special about her all this time?” Nat deposited the pansy on top of the bureau next to the bed. “Anyway, she took half your fortune and the house in Paris. That’s the reason behind why we are here in a god-forsaken swamp-city rather than the City of Light.”

     There was silence for a moment, the calm before the storm. Just as Nat turned to face Luc, all the medical machines went haywire. Luc’s eyes were closed and the ventilator to which he was attached wasn’t moving anymore. Seconds later the flat-line beep sound filled the air. “Don’t you spoil my sweet charade,” said Nat as he stood up and started stomping Luc’s chest, a quite barbaric form of CPR. Luc’s consciousness was not in that hospital room anymore.

     He remembered Sally… and he remembered John, of course. It was quite a shock when he found out about the affaire. It was just out of the blue. He never gave Sally a reason to go away. He believed he had given her everything she needed, in all aspects. He was really hurt, but time is the best doctor and he went on to forget her. He had stopped torturing himself over her and was, if not happy, at peace. He had let go of her and, right now, he could let go of everything. However, his eyes opened after feeling seven punches to his chest.

     “Not your time quite yet love,” said Nat after hearing Luc’s heartbeat regain its pace. “Yeah, you already know how this will end. Ashes to ashes, funk to funky… but I’m gonna take my time. I have all the time in the world to make you mine. What is it that you have anyway?” asked Nat as he picked up the medical chart from the foot of the bed, “Dead as dead can be, my doctor tells me,” said Nat as he looked at Luc again. He put down the chart and returned to sit on the bed.

     The atmosphere grew denser, an obvious by-product of a near-death encounter. “The foulest stench is in the air… and I think it comes from your feet,” said Nat as he picked up the pansy from the bureau and brought it to his nose. He walked to the window and opened it. The wind came rushing into the room, refreshing it. “Summer breeze makes me feel fine, blowin’ through the jasmine in my mind… or the pansy in my hand,” said Nat as he stared out the window.

     “What about the world today? What about the place that we call home?” continued Nat as a nearby junkyard caught his attention, “people keep on learnin’, soldiers keep on warrin’, world keep on turnin’. Everything will remain the same long after you are gone. You load sixteen tons, what do you get? Another day older and deeper in debt.” Nat threw the flower out the window and into the dusk. He remained silent for a moment, watching the sky. The sun was still going down and the moon was going up already.

     “I see the bad moon a-rising. I see trouble on the way,” Nat turned to look at Luc, “but not for you: for this hospital. See the junkyard just across the street?” Nat pointed at the junkyard and then realised Luc was not going to see anything outside of his room ever again, “Of course you can’t. Well, it is expanding and in no time it will take over this hospital. It’s survival of the richest, moving our sinful pieces ‘round and ‘round. It’s evolution, baby!

     “You are probably going to be the last famous person to die in this hospital. Now put away your welcome, soon you’ll find you’ve overstayed it. This hospital went bankrupt a couple of weeks ago and… let’s just say there are a couple of unscrupulous characters out there,” said Nat as he gently scratched his right cheek. “In disguise, as no one knows, hides the face, lies the snake. People only try to make big money, money for nothin’.

     “Profit… profit… vi ska alltid ta profit.” Nat walked away from the window and back to the bed. Luc was watching him, his expression of inquiry, as if trying to make out what Nat was all about. “It seems you’ve mistaken me for someone who cares. I’m just a dirt bag under the weather.” Nat lit yet another cigar. “Devils thrive on the drive that is fuelled,” he said as he winked an eye at Luc.

     “I actually could’ve helped the owner of the junkyard. Dirty deeds, done dirt cheap,” said Nat as he let go a little laugh. “But before I completely get away from the point let me just remind you what you people are all about: you go around thinking to yourselves ‘I am hiding from some beast, but the beast was always here, watching without eyes because the beast is just my fear that I am just nothing’. And you, Luc, are nothing. Just lying on that bed waiting until the clock’s run out, time’s up… over.”

     Nat walked to the bureau and picked up a jar of water and a glass. He filled the glass and drank all the water at once. “I thirst but never quench,” he said as he refilled the glass, “I know the consequence, feeling like I do. Never complete, trying to fill the emptiness with… something,” Nat drank another glass and started filling the glass yet again. After he finished the complete jar he turned to look at Luc. He displayed a new type of smile, one that denoted the savouring of things to come. He licked his upper teeth. “I couldn’t give you water, I don’t want you choking and dying before you need to.

     “On candystripe legs the spiderman comes, softly through the shadow of the evening sun. Stealing past the windows of the blissfully dead looking for the victim shivering in bed,” Nat had walked to the door of the room. Luc thought he was seeing a mirage, for he thought the door closed without Nat even touching it. “Quietly he laughs and shaking his head creeps closer now,” Nat began moving towards the bed again. Luc heard the window slamming shut. Must’ve been the howling wind. “Closer to the foot of the bed,” Nat leaned towards Luc over the foot of the bed. His eyes glowed red, “The spiderman is always hungry.” Nat licked his upper teeth again and then jumped on top of the bed, over Luc. He then slowly made his way to the side of the bed and achieved the same sitting position Luc was too familiar with.

     The laughter filled the room as Luc’s eyes got wider and a grim visage took over his face. “In my midnight confessions when I say all the things that I want to,” Nat stopped talking for a moment. He put a hand over Luc’s face and pinched his cheek, “Even if you’re not with me I’m with you, all along. Everything I’ve done I’ve done for you. I move the starts for no one,” Nat pressed his mouth against Luc’s ear, “but for you… every time you looked up to the sky and cried and begged,” Nat backed away a bit, just to see Luc’s face, “every time you said ‘Lord, what you’re doing to me, I have spent all my years in believing you but I just can’t get no relief, Lord’… it was me who you should’ve been talking to! It was me who turned your world upside down!

     “Where did we go wrong? Nowhere! You were on the fast track to success. You changed the world and you were so… happy about it! I had to bring you down,” Nat’s grin looked malevolent, his crazy eyes piercing through Luc. “When you see my face hope it gives you hell,” Nat gripped Luc’s throat with his left hand, “hope it gives you hell!

     “Everything is possible with promises,” Nat tightened his grip for just a moment, let Luc feel both physical and emotional pain, “and with a few promises I seduced everyone into cheating you out of your luck,” Nat’s right hand got hold of the tube protruding from Luc’s throat. “And after all this, won’t you give me a smile? After I made your co-workers defame you? After I made your wife cheat on you over and over again? After sin took the upper hand?” In a swift movement Nat yanked the tube out of Luc’s throat. “I don’t need your petty smiles of good will!

     “I want to know what you’re thinking! There are some things you can’t hide. I want to know what you’re feeling!” Luc was coughing violently, gasping for air. “It’s not pride, I’m just curious. You are, after all, the best Job I’ve had in years! How does it make you feel, that I took everything away from you? Let me gloat just one last time before you die… tell me what’s on your mind!”

     Luc continued to cough and blood started pouring out from his mouth. Nat was still holding his head, waiting to hear what he wanted to hear. The anger… the wrath that sure as hell Luc had built inside of him. His soul was there for the taking, a trophy to take down below. The taunts continued until Monsieur Lenvers began uttering a word… a phrase.

     “E-e…” started saying Luc, painfully. His eyes started to roll to the back of his head. “E… ex… ex-e…” Nat was getting anxious and started to shake Luc’s head. Luc tried to say something just before leaving this mortal coil, “Ex-e… ex… ex... excusez-moi?”

     “OH PUTAIN!”

Cuento Corto. Marzo, 2011.