Anyone Knows This Song Dun Dun Dun

Conte to illuminate the night (H. Mousset)


Dear Marie-Claire,

How I've found? But the Internet, simply. I remembered the name of your small shop, and I typed: "Iridescence". From what I see, little shop became big. It is a kingdom that you have now. Your pretty little lights, those little globes gleaming where the light pulsated like a heart, seem to have made you happy - At least your fortune. It is far away, the little street of our beginnings. So it seems, everything has been razed and rebuilt, is unrecognizable. Whatever, I never returned, even if I kept some contacts. Like others, I took the check from the developer and I went farther north. It's going pretty well.

Remember, Marie Claire, the little cafe down the street? It was our headquarters for both industrial relations and human each other for the business heart of a few. Do not deny, Marie Claire, the close attention that you awakened in the male clan of the street. You have graciously but superbly ignored elsewhere. I thought to offer contact lenses, while others expressed their disgust by various deviations.

Look, Pierrot, for example, who had always pain at its business tax. You have snubbed so he began to fill as a quince for your attention. There's one that you should bless is Isa, the little flower of 14, who wanted his Pierrot. You pushed her in his arms. At present, the Pierrot walking Vichy-strawberry things go, and opened a gallery Isa Art.

But that was the west face of the bar over the coffee machine. It must be said that we would just east! And quite to the east, we saw them arrive every morning such nice, but lonely and taciturn, who had converted to office the store at the corner of our street with this little impasse ended on a bizarre big house with walled entrances - in principle, because we thought the squatters. But no one would see!

He was tax counsel and, like a hermit, he spent his days in front of records and to his PC. We also wondered if he had a life outside of Taxes. He left the last, and we never heard of him. One day, however, I met his sister who told me what had happened. I hope your site is strong and that I will not saturate your email with my story.

was the last Christmas before demolition block. There was more than him on the spot. Everything was empty desert, walled. He was immersed in the accounts of its customers. The night was clear, not like now, where the amount of Kilowatts which towers and glittering department stores like jewels set in the adornment of the night prevents me not to feel like a wartime atmosphere when I walk into town at night.

But how did they enter, these two children, a boy and a girl? Diaphanous, they regarded him with that mixture of timidity and insurance for children who know what they want and they know they will.

"Give us the VAT, all VAT

Stunned, he looked incredulous, and would first take it as a fantasy:

" And why not the business tax, children ? "

" We do not like the color of the paper. This green it is a bit murky. "

" Tell yourself, children, the Treasury is not an impressionist painter. "

But without further delay, the children went to his PC, set to keyboard and mouse, and the figures began to dance a jig. And they said to him: "Now, grab your checkbook and credit card, and follow us." Why obtempéra he? He did, anyway.

They disappeared into the night in the neighborhood. Not far: they took the dead nearby, and entered the abandoned house by a notch opened in the planks which condemned the entry. At Upstairs, they found a young couple in extreme poverty. They came from Eastern Europe, and the young woman seemed to have become a mother soon. Driven by unemployment, they had finished their course here, distraught and overcome with hope.

Overwhelmed and uncertain, he saw the children, who simply told him: "Take VAT. Once again, he complied, without even wondering why this time it had become so docile. Soon, a doctor was called and the young woman was admitted in the clinic. It was time, he was born on Christmas night, beautiful twins, a girl and a boy. The young man, meanwhile, was installed in a warm hotel, paid in advance for a month, with enough to see come and find a job.

Children do not allow him to breathe. Leaving behind the boy who knocked out of surprise and happiness, did not know how to say his gratitude, they went around the neighborhood. There was not a homeless person for whom that night, Christmas was not a softness in reserve, not to mention the girl who came to take her little cream bar every morning. Do you remember? Hustler of us suspected, and feared that one day does not end up falling under the sway of a "protector". It was actually a student who imagined he could safely be funded and part of his studies. A little help enabled him to deal with urgent deadlines, time also to think, to turn away from a life at risk, and not to lose her friend, she really liked, and that she had said nothing .

As always, there was one night, and there was morning. But it was a special night for the neighborhood! At dawn, the children smiled at him with a malicious tenderness, then disappeared into the wall.

Alone on Christmas morning, he wondered how he would explain to her why her Inspector of Taxes Accounting like a day after raves . Mechanically, he lit his PC, and consulted the balance of his accounts ... and did not return.

In short: he was VAT credit and account fees receivable had increased. And everything was fair and justified. The Treasury repaid him his credit in 15 days. As for his customers, they also found themselves in VAT credit, which put them in so much joy they réglèrent all their fee notes with a quickness usually unknown species. And to top it off, he received an extension to the promoter's compensation for expropriation. There were months that the dispute dragged Call in, and no one thought more.

In total, he received three times seven times what he gave. Shortly after he closed his business and left. The bulldozers were at his door.

that settled in Marseilles, with his sister, who had, and it always has, a company that seems to work well. At first, he helped his sister manage the business, but it did not last because the Accountant of the company threatened to drop them. Indeed, every day of VAT, the firm's employees returned in tears, as our friend remade all their statements and submitted them an interrogation worthy of a criminal investigation of the judicial police. He therefore ceased to interfere.

Anyway, that's when he fell ill. He based visibly, it became almost transparent, but he was beaming, to believe that its substance was gradually replaced by light.

I dream, Marie Claire, to take you with me in Marseilles. Say yes, please ... We assemble in the morning at Notre Dame de la Garde. When the sun comes out from behind the horizon, there, behind the islands, behind the Chateau d'If, the cloak of darkness that covers the sea, the bay, Hills, retired, and the city gradually penetrates into the Kingdom of Light. We did not want to go down when we saw it up there ...

is what he saw every morning since he had settled on the hill, and all parts of his apartment gave sea, where his sister was found dead on Christmas morning. He smiled at sunrise, to believe that the sun and he had made a contest of light, which both radiate the most.

Hear me well, Marie-Claire, I swear to the city, the sun, sky, earth and the sea that morning, for once: The sun is lost.

A Marc and Verena Tenneroni.
Hervé Mousset

Time Equivalent To Tanning

Routine (Sandro)

Night fell on the street. It was one of those evenings that we can not decide if they are cold or mild. The rain had been falling since morning and at times slipped into slush. I finished my espresso, the eighth day in the brewery where I have my habits. The room is noisy and smoky, but the clouds, there are pretty girls who are thinning. At the next table there was one who seemed to be waiting for someone, but we felt it was wrong soon grew tired. She was so beautiful that time I wonder what I liked in her, she had already handed his coat and sent me a slap of cold air through the revolving door.
Finally, it was a cold evening.

was almost a good day: I did not have a corpse on his hands and had had to kill someone today. In short, things were rolling nicely. Soon it would be true at night when the streets turn orange, with the crunch of smoked down to those descended from the limousine in front of the carriers of luxury restaurants. The time also when the riverboats harshly illuminate windows of the rich, on the covers who are missing teeth and poor alike. In town, in those moments, there's always cooing pigeons to you all that makes no sense. Gallieni bridge, they were three.

This will soon be Christmas and flashes across the city as a red light. People going about their purchases, screaming and gesticulating on the sidewalks as if their lives depended on it. The caps are in full swing but from time to time in the middle of the brothel hallucinating, you meet an old man with wandering eyes, a little lost with his empty basket, and that counts his steps to return to his two-room kitchen. Species visions diluted, figurines wet really already there with the mower that perhaps waiting to kiss the pavement slippery.
There are also teenagers who talk like machine guns. They are blond. They laugh. Me, more so.

I got back in the old navy blue Safrane, with its creaking door and slamming it takes three times to close it. In "the box" 10 years ago, the Safrane was for the chiefs. Ten years and 250,000 km later, they are for people like me. Maybe I became chief, then. Or old.
I drove for five minutes when the radio crackled something like "mayhem to disused warehouses of 106 Quai de l'Avenir, a neighbor had heard gunshots. "Calling all cars available.
As I close, I said" OK, you take. On site in five minutes ".

I say" it takes ", but this is not my area or my business normally. But now, all flicards base are taken from the demo, matches football and the bomb is in the air. Bigger world to do business the old way.
I say "it takes" because I'm supposed to team up with Steff tonight. But it will operate in the prostate in three days, and he wanted to sail with a "small" one last time before the curtain is finally drawn on the high tide. He asked me if he could slip away two or three hours. I said yes. I understand.
I understand everything, and that's what I tired more quickly than others, I think.
I tabled in town, and just now, I'll call his wife to say they had a corpse that will keep us quite a while.

I "put the blue" to try to fight my way through the tide of woodlice asleep on their GPS screen, and I got the old warehouses along with a rinsed frighten squirrels.

I waited a moment in the middle of halberds which ricocheted onto the roof of the car, the time to look around if everything was normal. In doing so, I met my gaze in the mirror.
My eyes eaten by the beard of three days, my tired eyes that ever sailed yet, after my hand trembling a little to have done so much clinking ice cubes. I have eyes of sailor. It makes me seem to know everything that goes into the sea as sung Souchon.
Souchon, the nickname he gave me many years ago.
But people sometimes say anything.

I got off the car without slamming the door, taking my Beretta in his right hand, wrapped in a plastic supermarket bag. Not bother to play cowboy and rouse the neighborhood. I work with old, to vice.
Got into the warehouse through a door window smashed, I advanced cautiously, intermittently, by putting me under cover. From time to time, I turned on my mini flashlight, holding it away from the body, not to provide too easy a target. I progressed slowly in huge auditoriums abandonment, frozen in their mineral state, sometimes walking on broken glass or debris.
But there was no noise or anything suspicious.
Finally, at the foot of a huge loom, I found the body of a dog, a shepherd-type Undetermined, who took a dump right in the chest with buckshot. The blood was fresh and I stood there the explanation of the shooting. No doubt that the homeless shelter here sometimes, or a dog dealer making transactions.
I pulled a tissue from my pocket, and told her closed eyes. This was probably not useful, but it will do for the times I could not sleep with men, with the UAS which always gesticulate on the corpses to avoid giving the impression of having come to nothing .
But even so, it does not please me halfway.
I removed my old mac green water, one that is full of tasks diverse, and threw him on the body.
is what I always tell young people who enter the profession: "the stiffs, you can not save them and murderers, you do not stop often. So be respectful of the dead, if that's all what you can do. "

I found myself in the open singles jacket and it was still raining, but long ago I feel nothing.
I lit a rod in the recess of the metal door of the warehouse. Yes, the rain will not relax its prey, it always drooled his rage and I have blown smoke in my face. It makes us all one. I noticed
lost a black cat who was walking on the sidewalk. He had the hair stuck in places on the spine, and advancing by leaps and bounds from its hindquarters sway. He had been wounded in the pelvis. Twice, he turned to me her slender profile, pierced by two green-eyed panther. That is all that remained of his grace lost.
And then he hopped towards an alley toward a garbage can, another, about anything.

I also observed a Santa tempered regained his old van parked straddling the sidewalk. He had not removed his disguise, presumably to protect a little rain. When to throw on the siege, he just removed his beard and cap. And I saw he was black, no longer young, with curly hair almost white, like the old uncle packets of rice heartily wished his friends. It started with difficulty, to appear again in a store or two for ten bucks an hour.

I got back in the Safrane, I took the microphone in hand to tell the radio station "RAS, case settled on the spot". But at the end, I realized that I did not know the names of the warehouses. I looked up, peering through the windshield drops her crying and I read with great penalty, on which the rust black letters running down the wall:
"Ets Bonaventure. Cutting wholesale" .

And that, in wanting to take the microphone in hand, the iron grip tightened on my chest and my jaws. I took the hot flash like a wave higher than the others you wet the towel at the beach. The sweat came to me, oozing everywhere, like a stream under rocks. I heard my heart beating in the last beat, and then the stuff I farted in the head. I took all of a sudden, as we drink the cup. My head hit the steering wheel, I saw km / h, rpm, oil , Airbag and then nothing. This heat and sticky liquid in the head, this small pool of blood like a leaky faucet stubborn. Perhaps like childbirth.

It made me think of my Mom, and I wanted to send a message as a closed winter under a duvet, words to say nothing, or rather to say the opposite, because here it becomes urgent, it's cold, it's scary, it's random.

On the Quai de l'Avenir, the caps are now very important, especially at the No. 106, where vehicles must laboriously around a blue Safrane the windows fogged up encroaching on the roadway. We see in column three, lines of those who pretend to rush into something, someone, or anything. Prisoners of their beetle plate, one can not distinguish the red from their stop lamps. The rest is already night. They hasten slowly, sheep without a shepherd.

One day they will have to burst too.

Sandro

Philip Baudou