Imperfection. It was just a word. But it meant so much more after, you know what, happened. Full of indignation. His head stuffed with morsels of old crack and an incurable ankle injury. The perfect recipe for alienation.

 "Hahahaha! Why bother, dude?" he smirked and dropped his cigarette in his table mate's tea. He stood up, without saying another word, spat on the treshold and closed the door. Harder than that was necessary. 

 Once outside, he saw the guy. 

 "Hi, I am Marcel.” 

 He turned white. 

 For a second or two, he contemplated returning to the bar. It's sleaziness now strangely appealed to him. He know he couldn't. It would make no difference. They found him. Nothing to be done about. 

‘They can’t just get away too easy”,
he hinted at the pool of swollen steel.
The hour glass where angst recides.

 'Fuck, and fuck.' he murmured. 'Fuck!', he repeated. This time, a bit louder. Eternity dawned upon the moment and took possession of the grimly parking lot. There he stood, minutes ago the intimidator. The guy stood tall, but at first sight not even threatening. Actually, he looked rather innocent and friendly. Harmless. A joke. But he knew better, after being addressed. His voice sturdy, not loud. Soothing, yet uncanny. 'So, then this was Marcel?', he thought. He'd imagined him a time traveller, not this much of an average, sophisticated hillbilly. He felt the urge to smirk, but nothing happened. 

Infinity, the turns of the hour glass
it wears the bottoms out their flasks.
The grains are brittle as are their bones,
and crackle when they kneel. Or bend over.

‘They can’s just get away to easy’,
he hinted at the pool of swollen steel.
The hour glass where angst recides.

 He then tried to force a smirk. Nothing happened. He look Marcel in the eye and decided to have a look at his feet. But nothing happened. Time had frozen over. Or so it seemed at least. His body would not react to any brain impulses and he could do nothing more, but wander in his mind. Looking at the effective time traveller in front of him. Time traveller. Time stopper. Whatever the fucker was doing, it made him realize that this indeed was it. What he had always feared and even longer dreaded to visualize.

Dates outdated, past passed. Pesticides. My Uncle Ian.
Where would they take him. He dreams a dream, 
the same old dream. Over and over.

It goes around and comes around. And dreads.
Unsung hymns spun inside his head.
Insatiable. Unstoppable. Like the Walker.

 Here he stood, now. In an immobile time continuum, looking at they guy he had secretly hoped was a myth. 

 Behind him, he heard to door to the tavern open and chatter filled the empty lot where he stood. Footsteps nearing. Laughter. The tinkering of a dropped can, the high heels of a hooker. Probably that hooker, with the fancy dress. Oh my, did she ever look out of place in that joint. He did eyeball her when he was still inside. Only for a couple of seconds, and then realised she would be the trouble he could do without. Trouble he'd gladly would have exchanged for the ordeal he was dealing with now. 

It goes around and comes around. And dreads.
Unsung hymns spun inside his head.
Insatiable. Unstoppable. Remember the Walker.

 So, time hadn't stopped then. It was just him. Him and the Marcel guy. The party of four, with the hooker somewhere in the middle walked straight towards the time traveller. Surely they'd have to swerve around him any step now. But they didn't. Nothing collided. The walked right through him. As through a ghost. As he wanted to shiver, or sigh, or yell some obscenities and knew that he could no longer control his body, just his anxious mind, Marcel started walking in his direction. Thirty feet. He walked slowly. Twenty. 

 His vision blurred, while the unlit parking lot turned bright yellow... 

...and filled up with great river mammals that seemed to be in labour. Marcel was now standing right in front of him. Marcel's casual appearance had changed. He now looked like someone to fear. And he was.  

 When the blade entered the flesh around his os coxae, it slid through it like it would have through warm stick of butter. He didn't feel any pain, but he heard the wedge scratch the bone as it ricocheted. His body gave way and he sank to the ground. The bastard had cut him. He had cut him deep! He regained control over his senses and muscles but was unable to stand up.

The alleyways are not like they are now,
and the wind no longer plays
with tumbling rubbish paper, paper sacks and cans.
It smothers all that’s left to vanish.

‘They can’s just get away to easy’,
he hinted at the pool of swollen steel.
The hour glass where angst recides.

 He was no longer in the dim lit parking lot. He was somewhere where he had not been before. 

 Cramped. Degraded. Painful laughter. It grew wildly on the walls and in the dark niches of the cellar they had thrown him in. Crazed noises crept slowly, but steadily through the moulded walls. A roach. Famine. The thirst! Swallowing hurt. His eyes burning in their sockets and the pain in his head was excruciating. He grabbed for it and felt bolts on both his temples. Got up to his knees, tried to utter a word as he looked straight in Marcel's eyes. Eyes that kindly looked at him. Fatherly, almost. 

 'It will all be alright, my friend. The hurt will stop soon.' The voice balsamed his fears and it made him look forward to the end. 'Please', he whispered. 'Please.’

 But Marcel was not kind.

By Fred Händl