Aj bez komentíků k prologu tu máme pokráčko... Ehm, dobře, tohohle už nechám. Docela nevím co si od další "kapitoly" slibovat, ale prostě se mi zalíbilo jak z poměrně necíleně zvoleného jména psa vznikl podnět pro celkem funny nedorozumění. Miluju nedorozumění, je to můj živel, dalo by se říct.
Um... části budou takto krátké, protože delší by četlo ještě míň lidí než čte teď, což by byl průšvih, páč to číslo by muselo být záporné a kdyby nějaký takový čtenář-antičlověk potkal svojí "normální" polovičku, byl by to docela poprask (při vzájemné anihilaci čtenáře a antičtenáře, z nichž každý má hmotnost 50 kg, by se uvolnila stomilionkrát větší energie než při výbuchu bomby Fat Man shozené na Nagasaki.)
A teď už bez dalšího zdržování:
It’s been a week since I engaged in my biggest necromantic affair yet, but my new involuntary friend, while not showing any signs of decay, hasn’t done anything lifelike, or even undead-like, yet.
The corpse’s mysterious disappearance has caused a lot of wrinkles to appear on father’s brow. Good thing he’s a plastic surgeon. Good thing he doesn’t acknowledge my existence.
Day after day, I spent all my free time looming over the makeshift coffin, unsure what would happen if I dared to touch the ruff, yet peaceful face. It was nothing but a mask and I knew it. Through an inexplicable link I established while pulling him back “up,” I felt an immense hunger churning inside even as the body was slowly consuming its own innards.
“What do I do with him, Lord?” I ask, not really expecting the dog to answer as he is busy chewing an old squeaky toy. “I’m starting to fear we can’t have him up here. There’s too much malevolence in his heart.”
The two of us exchange expectant glances. I want to find a way out of this turmoil. He wants to play fetch.
As I’m sitting atop the now open freezer, something tugs at my shirt. Surprised, I turn my head to look inside to meet the gaze of a single eye, tired and wary.
The undead takes a deep, raspy breath.
“Let me stay, please,” he says in a whisper.
“Well...” Words seem to have abandoned me at the most crucial of moments. His plea is an honest one. I seem to be the only one realizing that his coming back to life is significantly fueled by revenge.
“Merciful angel,” he presses, “beg the Lord to let me stay.”
Wait, what?
“You aren’t dead... anymore,” I tell him after a brief pause to gather some thoughts, “and the Lord I’m speaking to is my dog.”
He eyes me for a moment, the surprise in his expression quickly fading. Slowly he sits up, never looking away or even blinking, and then says with all earnestness: “But you are an angel, right?”
There is something about him that makes me smile. Of course, it may just be his own mood pretending to be mine: our lives have been closely connected by the contract calling him back to this world. Is it possible, though, that there was something else that made me take the risk besides the body being so readily available?
“Maybe.” Maybe it’s good to leave him wondering. Maybe it wasn’t such a great idea to bring this one back after all.
“And what is the name of my angel, if I may know?”
By all hells, even with his throat dry, this guy’s as slick as dog drool. Speaking of which... Once again I look over to Lord who doesn’t seem the least bit concerned about his recent coffin-mate getting close to his master. That calms me down a little, although this dog is of the sort that would not only invite a burglar into the house, but also help him drag the loot.
“Dominic.”
“Tom. Nice to meet you,” he reaches out to shake my hand. When I don’t respond to the formal gesture, he stands up and pats me on the shoulder instead. “You know,” he continues suddenly in a much grimmer voice than before, “I’d been wanting to die. Regretted it the moment I did.”
There it is again: a desire of violence so great and dark it’s a mystery how he managed to suppress and hide it for a whole five minutes. It’s not directed towards me, but still sends shivers down my spine.
Besides that, there are many more questions standing in line for answers, some more important than others and none easy to ask. Guess for the time being I’ll have to contend with having... someone by my side: a figure shrouded in mystery and clothes still reeking of cheap tobacco and alcohol. A person whose murderous intents have been brought forward by their own death.
But does either one of us have anything to lose?
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