The peasant local elders of northern Greece tell tales of a
God, THANATOS, who was the god of non-violent death. His
touch was gentle, like that of his twin brother HYPNOS,
deity of sleep. The very violent death realms belonged to
his blood-craving sisters, the KERES. Spirits of slaughter
and disease. Female spirits of violent and cruel death,
including death in battle, by accident, murder or ravaging
illness. The KERES were cravers of blood and feasted upon it
after ripping a soul free from the mortally wounded bodies
and sending them on their way to HADES. They had no absolute
power over the life of men, sure, but in their hunger for
blood they would seek killings beyond the bounds of fate.
The elders told tales of demon girls, fanged, talon, dressed
in bloody garments to their little boys before they sleep.
You wonder about who you`re sharing your bed with tonight.
You wonder if perhaps the old loons were on to something.
Where we`re at right now, I don`t know.
This is a bazillion years after I quit my job, left my home,
dyed my hair, and went after her.
Stupid fuck that I am.
With her bra for a blind fold, I can see only in pink shapes
and red shadows, me sweating and swelling every time she
touches the back of my neck, pushing me forward.
Move along piggy.
Not long now.
Almost there.
Where we`re at right now could be anywhere.
I stumble on what feels like some wooden steps and cut the
palm of my hand on a sharp cold metal anything. The air
smells of her sweet sweet Hermes 24 FAUBOURG and that
Applause and rotting dead flesh smell of dog turn. I can
hear her smiling just because she`s so close to my face all
of a sudden, and at this moment she decides to deep- throat
kiss me, Hoover-like violently, her tongue as stiff as her
teeth. I make a fist and try and loosen these plastic
handcuffs she put me in, which only cut tighter into my
burning skin. Have you been a good boy, piggy, she says and
sniffs around my collar-bone, my neck, and my ears?
This is nothing to be ashamed of, you know.
we`re all someone`s whore.
Something`s bitch.
You can curse every cigarette you light up, every drag you
take, and still plow through two packs a day. Every day,
until throat cancer gets you. Lung cancer. Emphysema.
You might ruin your career, lose your family, destroy your
life completely, wake up in a pool of someone else`s fresh
vomit and still put that Bushmills bottle to your lips and
nurse it. Time and time again.
You will get your heart broken for the hundredth time then
ponder about which be an efficient enough cut for your
wrists to bleed dry, and still wish her all the best in the
world. You hope she`ll be happy. Get remarried. Have a kid.
Get a dog.
You die and you can`t help it one bit.

I`ve been a good boy.
We go up the stairs, slowly, she`s leading me holding my
hand. Her sweat smells sweeter now and it`s not her perfume,
not any more. There`s the humming sound of an hair dryer or
one of those electric Toro compact leaf blower getting
louder and louder, and it`s everywhere now.

And she removes her bra off my face.