red.
Randy quickly scoped out the area, making sure there weren’t any witnesses.
Pezzo picked up the paper bag, which fortunately hadn’t been burned, and snatched up the oil cans.
Having completed this brilliant combo play, the pair silently exchanged looks, and
—giving forceful, simultaneous nods, they cheesed it like the wind from the scene of the crime.
At last, at last, the time has come for my long-cherished wish to be fulfilled.
Life eternal. When I heard tell of it in legends and fables, I snorted at the notion, calling it a hackneyed pipe dream. However, now that I think about it, that ridicule may have been superficial, intended to force myself to understand that my own yearning…could never be reality.
Now, with this “reality” right before my eyes, I can imagine even that ridicule as the material from which my delight in this moment was formed.
A white rat struggles on the desk. This is the reality I sought.
Even this rat is a variety born from Master Szilard’s alchemy. In exchange for extraordinary powers of propagation, this short-lived species has a soul that lasts a mere seven days.
However, the specimen before me has already survived fifteen days, and, conversely, has demonstrated no growth whatsoever since the administration of the “liquor” on the third day. With the failed product, growth occurred, indicating that we were unable to halt the phenomenon of aging. On those grounds, we may consider this liquor to be a truly finished product.
I bring the hammer down. There is an unpleasant noise, and a red substance spatters across the desk.
Silently, I watch the small animal, now transformed into something appalling. No matter how many times I see it, the momentbefore the miracle feels long. When one is certain a miracle is imminent, one becomes all the more impatient for it.
In reality, the silence lasts a mere several dozen seconds, but to me, it feels like hours… No, like the
decades
I have spent waiting for this day.
The separate drops of blood that had spattered onto the desk begin to wriggle, as though each has a will of its own. Even the blood that has soaked into the wood fibers crawls up to the surface, like an adder drawn to the light of the sun. What else could one call this but a miracle?
Before long, the march of blood arrives at its destination: the place where I brought the hammer down. The white rat that has been transformed into a grotesque lump of meat.
It feels as though I am watching time roll back on itself. No, on this desk, at least in regard to the phenomenon of the rat’s death, time is indeed flowing backward.
If the flow of time changes, it is a miracle, nothing less than an act possible only for God or a devil. The day has come when I, too, will be added to the system of that miracle.
Yes… The exalted personage who summoned me to this miracle was himself incorporated into it more than two hundred years ago.
Twenty years ago, Master Szilard added me—then a mere Realtor—to the “members.” At the time, I had risen in the world of real estate and grown conceited, but looking back, it was a paltry appellation. That mundane title was no more than a tool to be utilized to obtain this gift.
A congressman of my acquaintance (who was also a member, naturally) introduced me to Master Szilard, and at first, I was incapable of giving him credence. …Until Master Szilard severed his own finger, that is.
When I witnessed its regeneration, the childish desire for eternity rose again within me.
Then one day, at last, I obtained the liquor. It was what Master Szilard termed the failed product, but through it, I acquired an indestructible body. However, the single exception was death from old age. In comparison to the finished product, which conquered even that, I see, yes, it truly was flawed.
Having drunk that failed liquor, I was honored with the role of employing and managing a blender who would create the finished product. I had very little expert
Randy quickly scoped out the area, making sure there weren’t any witnesses.
Pezzo picked up the paper bag, which fortunately hadn’t been burned, and snatched up the oil cans.
Having completed this brilliant combo play, the pair silently exchanged looks, and
—giving forceful, simultaneous nods, they cheesed it like the wind from the scene of the crime.
At last, at last, the time has come for my long-cherished wish to be fulfilled.
Life eternal. When I heard tell of it in legends and fables, I snorted at the notion, calling it a hackneyed pipe dream. However, now that I think about it, that ridicule may have been superficial, intended to force myself to understand that my own yearning…could never be reality.
Now, with this “reality” right before my eyes, I can imagine even that ridicule as the material from which my delight in this moment was formed.
A white rat struggles on the desk. This is the reality I sought.
Even this rat is a variety born from Master Szilard’s alchemy. In exchange for extraordinary powers of propagation, this short-lived species has a soul that lasts a mere seven days.
However, the specimen before me has already survived fifteen days, and, conversely, has demonstrated no growth whatsoever since the administration of the “liquor” on the third day. With the failed product, growth occurred, indicating that we were unable to halt the phenomenon of aging. On those grounds, we may consider this liquor to be a truly finished product.
I bring the hammer down. There is an unpleasant noise, and a red substance spatters across the desk.
Silently, I watch the small animal, now transformed into something appalling. No matter how many times I see it, the momentbefore the miracle feels long. When one is certain a miracle is imminent, one becomes all the more impatient for it.
In reality, the silence lasts a mere several dozen seconds, but to me, it feels like hours… No, like the
decades
I have spent waiting for this day.
The separate drops of blood that had spattered onto the desk begin to wriggle, as though each has a will of its own. Even the blood that has soaked into the wood fibers crawls up to the surface, like an adder drawn to the light of the sun. What else could one call this but a miracle?
Before long, the march of blood arrives at its destination: the place where I brought the hammer down. The white rat that has been transformed into a grotesque lump of meat.
It feels as though I am watching time roll back on itself. No, on this desk, at least in regard to the phenomenon of the rat’s death, time is indeed flowing backward.
If the flow of time changes, it is a miracle, nothing less than an act possible only for God or a devil. The day has come when I, too, will be added to the system of that miracle.
Yes… The exalted personage who summoned me to this miracle was himself incorporated into it more than two hundred years ago.
Twenty years ago, Master Szilard added me—then a mere Realtor—to the “members.” At the time, I had risen in the world of real estate and grown conceited, but looking back, it was a paltry appellation. That mundane title was no more than a tool to be utilized to obtain this gift.
A congressman of my acquaintance (who was also a member, naturally) introduced me to Master Szilard, and at first, I was incapable of giving him credence. …Until Master Szilard severed his own finger, that is.
When I witnessed its regeneration, the childish desire for eternity rose again within me.
Then one day, at last, I obtained the liquor. It was what Master Szilard termed the failed product, but through it, I acquired an indestructible body. However, the single exception was death from old age. In comparison to the finished product, which conquered even that, I see, yes, it truly was flawed.
Having drunk that failed liquor, I was honored with the role of employing and managing a blender who would create the finished product. I had very little expert
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