A dead tree stands a mile from the port. The husk stands tall, fifteen feet, and the branches holding solid even though being corpses. The tree stands on the edge of a hill looking down upon the village, the boats, the products. Building of thirty stands below looks as dead as this tree. No tree stood near that of the dead tree. The grass is four inches tall. A rotten fruit hung on the dead tree’s dead branch. The dead tree’s dead branch’s dead fruit’s neck has almost been cut through. His eyes were eaten by ravens, as well as his fingers, toes, and most of his skin. He was rotting away: guts, shit and piss, blood, gore, gobs of flesh, and pieces of cloth would have once littered the ground. Some gore, flesh, and bones still lay underneath the fruit. For the last five, ten minutes, I’ve been craning my neck, staring at this scene. Letting the rot fill my nose and the scenery fill the clear moments of my sight.

  Thud.

  His head now lying on the ground a few inches from what a man can call a body. His reminding skull flesh was torn off, and whatever was left in the corpse came spilling out with the drop. I move his skull with my cane, making it stare at me. I drag his body to the tree, setting it up as if he was just using the tree as back support, and place his flesh-rid skull on the body.

  American Indians, Apache, if I remember right, it was said without the skull you would not be free from these lands… or was it that they won’t have a head in the next life? Trying to remember what Geronimo said in his damn book… I place his skull back on top.

  Monochrome still fills the land through this eye of mine that sees. Alcohol fills the stomach and guts. The mind's sense of reality and humanity had left with Amaterasu. The bikes are in the forest 2 to 4 miles back. They will be left there till we return. Maybe the monochrome represents the wasteland of the mind. A desert filled with pop culture and philosophy… and sand… and a hate for the French.

  Conrads, if the mind would be adventurous, friends should give emotions to a man. But the brain seems to have scraped any dopamine, serotonin, and endorphins.

  Why shouldn’t of it?

  Miyamoto should have been able to find another being interesting or at least a reason to leave that town.

  Celeste should have been able to kill the Tyrannosaurus by herself, save the kid, her friends, and stomach the horror.

  I should have died on that snowy night in December. I’m sick of man and his petty squabbles. I should have just lived in some desert and killed myself with cheap booze and cheaper smokes.

  Now I’m here seeing reality in black and white.

  Smelling the breeze coming off the water causes a part of my mind to reminisce/recall living in Japan… Why did I live there? Not like I fit the part of a local. Even if I did live there for the first five years of my life, Tsuki is, or would it be was, Japanese, and being in the ballpark of fifty percent Japanese or something, none of those things matter. When a person sees me, all I am is just a funny-looking white man; what more is there? A faceless White Devil whom acts full of malice and mind fills of nihilistic sicken ideals… A being like myself isn’t much of a fit for the culture of the Rising Sun… that image, flag, always reminds me of Men Behind the Sun, and that rears the real Unit 731 and that… that something else. I don’t feel any more love to that of Japan then of the States, so why did I leave the “land of the free”? Was it the sickening feeling of drowning in the patriotism? But in such a department of that, Japan once more doesn’t really beat America. I was already a citizen of Japan, so maybe it was that. Or was it just once more leaving my problems behind? Some may call it running away from them… Nothing in this life is worth fighting for; it's always easier to just pack up and leave… no man matters, not even the self.

  Don’t like walking downhill these days.

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  Reminds me of an execution.

  And the Leg.

  The gang was already down in the port; all of them had walked past me while I stared at the dead. I think Celeste stayed looking the longest. Miyamoto took the kid with him down. Celeste and I stare, and at some time Celeste went down too.

  Seeing a body in monochrome is a strange experience.

  The streets are barren, with only the sound of footsteps running into buildings echoing as quiet hymns. Wooden buildings and a few boats are sitting in this harbor. One of these buildings within this town holds a resemblance to a brothel, maybe even with a gambling den. Another that catches the eye is the location watering hole, and that is where I start to walk to. As I said a long time ago, within any land, a watering hole is the best place to find what you need. Walking through this wasteland of shuttered windows and overgrown plants or dead plots. The wood has blackened and cracked. There was a feeling within my mind of true oddity. There was no smell not of death or shit or anything else, just nothing. In a world that's filled with that of men dying, buildings crumbling, and all summing up to be a land that's merely a long death march to the end. What's wrong with this world where everywhere I go it's dying?

  Walking through the doors of the bar, I find two men sitting opposite from each other at one of the few round wooden tables. There was no other being but that of the bartender, Celeste, Miyamoto, and the kid. I start over to the table, finding these two gentlemen to be a better investment of my time this time than that of the poison seller. The two men were drinking and talking as well as joking, but in a rather harsh tone with the jokes.

  I pull a chair from one of the two other tables and place my chair closest to the door.

  “Gentlemen.”

  “Holy hell, you stink to high hell.” The man on the right said.

  “It’s high heaven, and he stinks like Ahab does.” The man on the left said.

  “I’m in need of a vessel that would take me to the land of Zugzwang.”

  “No bastard is crazy enough to go somewhere like that.” Right, said.

  “Ahab would; too bad he’s not here.” Left rebutted.

  “Well, where is this Ahab?”

  “Being tortured.” They both said.

  “And neither of you two care enough to stop him from being tortured.”

  “We used to, but after the fifth time you let him do it himself.” Left replies.

  “Every single goddamn port we go to he gets drunk and gambles, knowing that cards are always rigged, and the only thing he ever says is, “It's the only game in town”.” Rights finishes Left’s story.

  “And this happens every time.”

  “Lynch was being tall about the Captain. He’s only been tortured about a dozen times; he’s been able to get out of it every time after we stop helping, but he’s been gone longer than usual.”

  “And that’s why me and Ishmael are waiting in this bar for that damn Captain.”

  “So this guy, this Captain Ahab, is inside that brothel getting his skull bashed?”

  “No, he would be in some building with a basement. People don’t want things like that in your place of business. Like having these two guys here.” The Bartender throws out.

  “Aren’t these two guys the only business you have?”

  “They may be, but I don’t have to be happy about it. When these goons came into town, it was the final death throe. The port still runs, and the port workers still work, but when they're done those boys go straight to the whore house. The crews also go straight there whenever they port, like some spell was placed on that place.”

  “So I just have to find a building with a basement, and save a crazy old man from being tortured just to get the possibility of heading to Zugzwang.”

  “Yeah, that sounds about right.” Ishmael spoke.

  Everything in my life is like pulling teeth.

  “If that what must be done, then that is what I must do. Miyamoto, I shall head off to find this Captain. Take care of these guys. Cheers.”

  “Cheers to you as well, V.”

  With that I walk out back into the salt-filled air of Brandungsrückstrom.