It is of memorys' propriety to remind playing cards: you hold it in your mind shreaded in fragments. Diversed into those you've used, those you value, those you want to get rid of.
Either telling or writting something, I just pick a card and show a trick:
And here I am sitting on a sofa - a can of beer in one hand and remote control in another, a local King till first comer makes a coup. "Most awesome car crashes", CNN and all sorts of advertisements were at my service when I heard the sound. The wery special sound I was desperate to hear from the TV when it shows a squared-jaw touch-guy often produce while separating fellows from bastards. Not from behind my head, for Crist sake.
The sound was like "clink-clank". That is how a shot-gun chimes right before being loaded. Slowly turning around I almost hit the barrel with my nose.That was Charles the houseowner. "The hamster" as we called him between ourselfs.Pointing a goddamn shot-gun at me.And his nervous smile was telling me "yes, I'm ready for ill-considered actions". I cant help but wonder if hamsters bite.
"BANG!", a micro-blast, round goes down the barrel,releasing a hail of pellets at 500 meters per second. Fast enough to turn my scull into puzzle.Takes time only scientists operate with. That what usually happens after the shot-gun is loaded.
Before that happened my confused smile met the sight. Inly I was wondering if my cell-phone works in the better world, so I could call my mother to tell I'm fine after all the comedy happens.
-The most fucking recognizable sound in the world. That is why I bought it.
- Charly?
- Whats up, bubble, like it?
- Yes... can I hold it for a while?
And here I am, holding a shot-gun I considered to be murdered by. It's a damn joke, the mag was empty.
