Hansen's MagNET

The Chinese lantern was swaying in the wind. She wasn’t sure how she got there, but the lantern kept swinging. Back and forth. An ox was tied to a pole in the middle of the garden. Hundred of golden fishes were swimming underneath the wooden bridge, and the moon was full.

The garden was surrounded by tiny Japanese houses with walls made of thin paper. Around the houses were three feet wide paths of grey confetti stones. Similar paths connected one house with the next.

She looked down at her naked body. Her skin was pale, her body was damping, a couple of water droplets in her pubic hair was flaunting theatrically. Why am I naked, she wondered. Blood was dripping from the tip of her fingers, forming two equally sized pools of type O in the grass below her, and she was getting tired.

The sound of whisper came from one of the rooms, then a light was turned on. She could tell that it was a candle by the way the shadows was pulsing. There were two silhouettes – a man and a woman. The woman was sitting on the floor, naked it seemed. The man was standing close to the candle some meters from the woman. He was wearing trousers, and was apparently getting dressed. What if he comes out, she thought. I better hide.

She looked around for a place to hide. The ox was getting a little disturbed, and stamped in the ground. A bronze bell attached to the rope holding the ox made a high pitched sound. The tone was metallic, round, and stayed in the air. The man and the woman in the room that was lit froze.

The air was tickling her, a bell sounded in the distance, a lighting zig-zaged through the indigo sky. She began to tremble, turned her gaze up. The entire sky was dark, except in the zenith above her. Here a hole the size of a pumpkin was expanding rapidly. Within seconds it was the size of a battlefield, and it opened with the sonic equivalent of a divine swans egg cracking.

Thousands of feathers fell from the sky, covering the garden, the bridge, and the roofs.
The sound of the ox bell was still hanging in the air, and the ox was still disturbed. The ground beneath the Chinese lantern was filled with violets. The light come on in another house, then in another, and another…

There were whispering, fragile female voices, and sounds of steel.

She stretched her arms in front of her with palms up, trying to catch some feathers. She was so tired, and she collapsed to her hands and knees.

A door slided open, she looked in the direction of the sound. A samurai stood in the door opening, with one hand on his sword. He had a mask on. The mask had a grin, green eyes, and devils horns. The man looked around, then he looked at her.

She reached out, barely supporting herself on the other hand. The man kept looking at her.

- Help me, she said faintly.

The man looked at her.

The wind got more aggressive, leaves were howling in the air. The golden fishes dived into the murk. The man kept looking at her.

- Help me, she repeated.

The ox was trying to release itself from the pole. With every move, the bronze bell was set in motion, and a prophetic melody rang through the air.

After a moment of stillness the ox made a hysterical movement that pulled the pole from the soil, and broke the rope. The bell made its final chime, and the wind became mum.

The leaves kept hawling in the air, the feathers kept falling, the man kept looking at the naked girl, and the Chinese lantern kept swaying from side to side. But every whisper, every sound of steel, every female voice, every howling leave was silenced.

- Help me. Please help me, she repeated.

And the man moved towards her.

The blood was dripping from her outstretched wrist, coloring the feathers on the ground in front of her.
A narrow ray of light glowed in front of her. The samurai turned his head with a jerk. The knuckles on the hand that was resting on his sword turned ivory, and he pulled out the blade a little.

The light came from the other side of the garden. A door was opened slightly, and in the room a candle was burning. This was the candle that cast the light on the ground in front of the naked girl.

The samurai was attentive, but relaxed.

Rashly, the door was torn wide open, and a man stepped out. He was in a samurai uniform with a mask – a mask with a grin, red eyes, and with horns like an ox. He was holding a sword in his hand. A woman with a kimono loosely wrapped around her was laying on her knees clinching onto the samurais boot.

The ox was stamping into the ground, and the samurai with the red eyes pushed the half naked woman away with the flat side of his sword. Gently and firmly. Then he walked with determination in the direction of the man with the green eyed mask.

No! the female screamed, and this was the last sound that night.

The samurai with the green eyes and devil mask drew his sword and walked calmly to the other man.
The swords meet, the men danced around each other. The red eyed man raised his sword, swiped it through the air, missed the green eyed man with barely no more than a finger width. Then he fell to his knees, as the man with the devil horns turned around, and stabbed his sword in the other mans chest.
With a swift movement he wiped the blood of his sword, while walking in the direction of the naked girl.

She looked at him.

- I killed a man, he said, then kneeled down in front of her.

He placed his sword gracefully on the grass, and took a hold around the naked girls neck. Now looking her in the eyes.

- You don’t belong here, he said.

He mildly layded her down in the grass.

- Don’t be afraid, he said.

- You don’t belong here.

- Go to sleep. Eternity awaits.

And she closed her eyes.

The music in the room was dilly like Miss America, and it was snowing outside. The flakes on the window pane looked like crystallized amphetamine. Peter was sitting with his feet in the wastebin. It was almost three o’clock, and he was still in his pajamas. It was his favorite pyjamas, the only one he had.

The throbbing sound of a peckerwood gave Peter associations to the time when he worked at the cookie factory back in the days. With a movement both agile and abrupt he got a hold on the remote and turned off the pecker. Without knowing strictly why, he dropped the remote in the bin and picked up a bag of french potato chips. A cacophony as good as a Senecan tragedy with a dying muse pleased the air. His best friend, who was sleeping almost inside the fireplace opened a doltish eye. He was a good dog, his name being Hobbledehoy.

The man and his best friend marveled at each other, waiting for the other one to take some kind of initiative. After a couple of minutes they both reached the conclusion that it was a stalemate. Hobbledehoy went back to sleep, and Peter gently pushed a handful of blubbery non-nutrition in his facial vestibule.

Peter wiped his fingers in his pyjama. It was still made of one hundred percent cotton, but it was no longer October blue. He got it for his forty eight birthday. He also got a gang of books that day, more precisely a trilogy, written by an author the giver liked a lot. Furthermore he got a toaster, a hammer, and a Labrador.

The peckerwoods twang sounded again. In a month from now Peter would turn fifty five, and now he looked out the window. In the upper left corner there was a piece of tin foil taped to the glass. He had done it himself last winter to cover the hole. The storm that winter had been particularly hostile, forcing a branch of the pear tree into the window. Besides patching up the hole, he had also shovelled away the glass splinters, so that Hobbledehoy wouldn’t accidentally step in them.

Peter deposited the bag of momentary French plastic pleasure on the table next to him, trying not to wake Hobbledohoy again. He folded his hands underneath his right thigh and lifted the leg up and out of the bin. Then he did the same with the other leg. With the help of his trusted cane he got up and strolled over to the window.

- Where are you Mr. Pecker, where are you? he muttered. Hobbledohoy sat down beside him.

- Do you think it’s time for a walk?

Hobbledehoy swept his tail from side to side, while pushing his nose inside the palm of Peter’s left hand. A handful of minutes later they were on their way to the land of Mr. Peckerwood. Peter wearing a pair of black wooden shoes, a Salvation Army bonnet, and a parka. Hobbledohoy wearing nothing but happiness and a wagging tail.

The wind was lazy and empty. The snow was only a finger deep. Peter’s house was about a hundred yards behind them, as they entered the forest of pines, the land of Mr. Peckerwood.

- Where are you? Peter muttered.

The weather is so mild today, maybe winter is about to wander. Maybe spring is coming soon, The snow is only finger deep, and no ice is dripping from the pines anymore. Soon we can go fishing in the lake again.

A cry cut through the forest and his thoughts. He stopped.

The sound hit him again.

- Hobble!

He turned around.

- Hobble!?

His hands began to shake involuntary. A row of frantic sounds echoed between the pines.

- Where are you?

Salty saline sprang from the mans eyes. He couldn’t locate the sound. Driven by an unknown impulse he began to haste northeast as fast as he could. Every time his right foot moved forward a grimace of sting wriggled his face.

A faint cry. The man stopped, trying to dampen his heavy breathing.

- Where are you boy?

A sharp whine to his left made him turn his head.

- Oh, no.

The snow around the dog was vermilion. He didn’t move. Peter bit his lower lip and staggered down the slope. On his way down he almost lost his balance, tried to grab a nearby pine, missed it, fell and rolled down. A wooden shoe went through the air. Then Peter’s fall was intercepted by an old pine, and he cried out in pain.

He turned on his stomach and got on all fours with a detrimental movement. Hobbledehoy was laying less than thirty feet from him, shivering.

It took him forever, and felt even longer, to crawl over to Hobbledehoy.

- A fox trap, damn hunters, he hissed.

Hobbledehoy followed the mans movements with his eyes.

- Take it easy, boy. Everything will be alright.

A rusty lace was around one of the dogs front legs, so tight that it had cut the tendons. Two blades bolted to a stick were deep inside Hobbledehoys abdomen.

- Hang on my friend, Peter whispered while he untied the snare. After doing so, he tried to loosen the blades from the rotten stick, without luck. He was afraid that Hobbledehoy would loose too much blood if he pulled out the blades. He looked around, hoping to find a solution somewhere. Nothing. Then he unbuttoned his parka, snapped of his one hundred percent cotton shirt, wrapped it around the dog, preparing to pull out the blades.

- You’re gonna make it, don’t give up.

With everything in place, he placed one hand on Hobbledehoy’s pelvis, and the other on the rotten stick. A flood of tears ran down his cheeks now.

- I’m sorry, but I don’t know what else to do, he sobbed.

He bend forward and kissed the dog on the forehead. Then he leaned back, turned his gaze upwards.

- Oh, God.

With a quick motion he pushed the rotten stick away, so hard that it cracked with a loud clang. Blood ran down the dogs abdomen, while Peter tied his shirt around him. The dog didn’t make a sound.

Peter lifted the dog onto his parka, and closed it around him. Clinching one of the sleeves of the parka, he now began crawling on all fours, dragging Hobbledehoy like a sledge behind him.

- It’s gonna be okay, he said to himself. – It’s gonna be okay.

Mr. Peckerwood found a cozy place high above. Every pine, every deer, every fox – even Mr. Peckerwood, bended their heads as Lady Darkness entered the forest.

The mans left foot was twisted, the lower part of his rib cage deformed after the collision with the old pine. His knuckles on both hands and his left foot were October blue. His tear channels were empty, his blood stream filled with adrenalin.

I walk down the street in my checkered pajamas. The cars are covered
in a layer of frost. The same frost that is cracking and popping
beneath my slippers. Except for one window on the forth floor of the
new apartment building on the other side of the street all windows are
the color of tar.

But up there in that one room the walls are pulsing steadily to, what
I imagine, to be a too-late-for-prime-time-TV-show, and I feel an urge
to press the buzzer. And I act on this impulse and cross the street.
Forth floor, to the left. There is only one name written. I cannot say
for sure, but I guess it is a female. Russian. It is tempting.

I place my finger gently on the button without pressing it. Then look
at my watch. Three twenty one. To late, I guess. Still tempting. Maybe
she is not even awake, maybe she melted into the land of fantasy and
figments in front of the TV. I guess I am the only wanderer at this
time of late night, early morning. But then again, she might be awake,
she might share my yearning for the silence and for when the city and
the shadows linger.

In the apartment a woman in her thirties is laying on a chalky leather
sofa, feet up, with a fluffy blanket around her, she has long ago
escaped the tom-tom of the benumbing broadcasting for the masses, and
is watching Lucía y el sexo, a movie I also love, she will be puzzled
if someone rings her bell at this time of night, but she will invite
me in, she is as beautiful as my former wife — or at least, so I
imagine. I look at my watch. Three thirty six. My fingers are hurting,
my toes even more. I breath in, hold it, miss her, swallow, breath
out, then begin to walk home.

She was fourteen until 2.34 p.m. Her mother always gave her a kiss on her forehead and a present at the exact minute. Today was no different.

“Congratulations Princess!” her mother smiled after the kiss on the forehead. “Fifteen! I can’t believe it!” She always said that she couldn’t believe it. “My little girl will soon be a real woman.”

“Mom,” the girl replied with a hint of irritation in her voice.

Her mother just smiled. “Yeah, yeah. I know. Happy birthday love,” she said and handed the girl a box wrapped in the pinkest of pink. “I hope you like it.”

“Thanks mom!” the girl said, took the package and walked over to the nearest chair where she began to unwrap the box.

Ten seconds later the girl yelled: “An iPhone!”

Her mother smiled.

“Thanks mom!”

“Your welcome Princess.”

“But, this is expensive. Can you really…” the girl began.

“It’s only your birthday once per year!” her mother interrupted.

The girl got up and jumped in her mothers arms.

“Thanks mom!”

Her mother smiled, kissed her on her long blond hair and said: “Your welcome Princess.”

They hugged for a long minute, then her mother released her and said: “Now I have to prepare the cake before your guests arrive. They should be here any minute.”

“Should I help you?”

“No, no. I’ll handle it. Why don’t you play with your new phone?”

“You bet I will,” the girl smiled, spun, grabbed the box, sat down and pulled the iPhone out of the box.

. . .

Half an hour later it rang on the door.

“I’ll get it!” Laura yelled and ran to the door.

It was Audry, her best friend.

“Happy birthday gorgeous!” Audry smiled.

The two girls embraced and kissed on the cheeks like they had seen in French movies.

“Here you go!” Audry said while placing a little box wrapped in black paper in Laura’s hands.

“What is it?”

Audry said nothing, but gave Laura a wink with her left eye.

“Who is it, Princess?” it came from the kitchen.

“It’s Audry, mom!” Laura yelled back.

“Hi Ms. Palmer!” Audrey yelled.

“Hi dear!”

“Look!” Laura said an fished the iPhone from the back pocket of her cut Miss Sixty jeans.

“Wow! An iPhone!” Audrey yelled and slapped her hands on her cheeks. “You got the looks and now you also got an iPhone!” she smiled.

And she was right, Laura did have the looks. She was 5’9″, had long legs, naturally curled blond hair and a smile Colgate’s marketing director would pay six figures for without blinking.

They giggled. Laura handed Audrey the iPhone and was about to open the present Audrey had given her.

“Let’s go to your room and open it,” Audrey said.

Laura giggled. “Okay. What is it,” she whispered.

“You’ll she, gorgeous,” Audrey smiled.

Then they went to Laura’s room and turned on the music.

“I hope you’ll like it,” Audrey said while locking the door.

“You make me curious,” Laura whispered while removing the black paper. Inside was an envelope the size of a DVD-cover, but twice as thick.

Laura opened it and peeked inside. Then she smiled and her cheeks changed color a bit.

She looked at Audrey whose eyes were wide, her mouth slightly open.

Laura tipped the envelope. A bra and a tiny g-string slid out.

“Now that you are also fifteen I thought you needed something sexy,” Audrey giggled. “Do you like the color? I thought red would be perfect on your brown body.”

“Where did you buy this?” Laura said.

“In a sex shop in London when I was there with my dad.”

“You were with your dad in a sex shop?”

“No, no. God no. I was just browsing around while he was in a meeting and suddenly I saw this sex shop. I was curious and went in. Then I thought about you and your birthday. So I bought this set for you. I bought another one for myself also.”

She turned around, unbuttoned her jeans, pulled them down and pushed her hips out.

“Audrey!” Laura hissed, the color of her face turned dark red. Then she spun and pulled the curtains. “What if someone sees you?”

“Don’t you like them?” Audrey said and stroked her aerobic ass.

“They are so naughty!” Laura giggled.

Audrey giggled too. “Imagine us dancing on a table at one of Dylan’s parties. The boys will not be able to get their eyes of our butts!”

They laughed. Audrey was moving her ass to the music.

“Why don’t you try it on?”

“Now?”

“Why not? I would like to see how it fits you.”

“But my aunt and uncle might be here any second.”

“Come on, girl,” Audrey said and blinked her left eye.

“Stop that!” Laura smiled.

“Come on.”

Laura giggled. “Okay, okay.” Then she quickly kicked her shoes off, unbuttoned her Miss Sixties, wiggled out of them, hooked her panties with the tip of her fingers and pulled them down.

Audrey had pulled up her jeans again and was enjoying the view.

Now she took a couple of steps forward, grabbed the envelope, bra and string out of Laura’s hands.

“Let me help you. I’ll hold that while you get your t-shirt and bra off.”

“Okay,” Laura said and pulled her t-shirt over her head, then opened her bra.

Audrey tried not to stare at Laura’s big breasts.

“I hope this will fit,” she said while swinging the bra from side to side. “Your breasts are not exactly getting smaller. Turn around gorgeous.”

Laura, now naked, turned her back to Audrey and lifted her arms. Audrey stuck the g-sting in her pocket, then swung the bra around Laura’s waist, moved it up to the middle of her back and closed it. Then she moved her hands around Laura, grabbed the top of the bra with her thump and index fingers, pulled it upwards, cupping Laura’s breasts in her hands, spending more time than needed adjusting the bra and placing it just right.

. . .

Laura had a funny feeling running through her body. In one way it was nice with Audrey’s hands around her breasts, one the other it was wrong, wasn’t it?

“So,” Audrey said, “turn around.”

Laura turned and looked at Audrey, who’s lips were wet. Laura could feel her cheeks getting hotter. Quickly she turned her head and found herself in the big mirror. Audrey had a discreet look at Laura’s pussy. She had seen it before in the dressing room, but now was different. No one else was around and Laura stood there for her. Just for her.

“Beautiful!” Audrey said, “you like it?”

“It’s wonderful,” Laura said looking at the bra in the mirror.

Then they eyes caught each other in the mirror and they both smiled a little.

Audrey bended down on one knee next to Laura and said: “Lift one leg” and Laura did. Audrey slid the g-sting around Laura’s foot, up to the ankle. Laura lifted the other foot and Audrey slid the g-string up to the ankle, then, with both hands, up along Laura’s long brown legs. She was sitting right in front of Laura, gentle positioning the strings on Laura’s hips, leaning close to Laura’s hip. Then she carefully stuck a finger inside the upper part of the small triangle of fabric covering Laura’s delicate parts and ran the back of her finger slowly over Laura’s pussy until it came to a halt at the bottom. Laura quivered.

“I’m just adjusting it so it sits perfectly.”

Laura exhaled short and sharply and held her breath. “Okay,” she whispered.

Audrey looked up. Laura eyes were closed and her nipples were pointy. Audrey’s heart was beating fast. Her other hand was on Laura’s knee. Now she moved it up and around to the back. Laura pulled back a bit. Audrey stopped and was just about to pull her finger out and get up as Laura trust her hips forward and grabbed Audrey’s head.

“Don’t stop,” she whispered.

Audrey turned her hand inside Laura’s string and pressed the tip of her middle finger against Laura’s pussy.

“Uh,” Laura uttered and cupped her breast.

Audrey’s one hand was circling on Laura’s pussy now, the other was on it’s way to Laura well-shaped ass.

“You like it, gorgeous?” Audrey stuttered and licked her lips.

“Stick your finger inside me,” Laura whispered.

He had had enough. He couldn’t handle it anymore. No matter what it was. So when he woke up that morning he had no longer any doubt. Enough was enough. And although he had nothing, although he didn’t own anything – he had had enough.

He was without a job. Of course he was without a job. Not that it had been like that always. He used to be working nine to five and he did so for many years. Well, he did so for thirteen years. And that was many years to work nine to five, he thought.

He had been without a job for four years. Four damn fast years. Every year where he didn’t get up in the morning to go to work had passed in no time. Unlike his working years. They had passed like turtles with crutches. This was, he thought, one of life’s unfair but unbreakable rules. Free time tends to race like a drag race car. Ten seconds or so with full speed ahead, acceleration that almost rips your head of, followed by an abrupt halt. But unlike the drag car he was in the unfortunate position of being without a parachute to slow him down. Most often he was slowed down by a frontal collision with a brick wall. If not literally, then figuratively speaking. And figuratively speaking wasn’t any better.

These periods of stillness were always rather short and they always came without any kind of warning. And, according to the law of the centrifuge, as he called it, soon his free time was up to speed again. The days went by so fast that he his right wrist got swollen and his mouth dried out like a pot of water in Sahara. Yes, his right wrist got swollen and his mouth dried out. The poor bastard only had a paper calendar and tearing off the sheets in time with the coming and going of his free days made his right wrist hurt. And the paper calender absorbed so much of the spit he had to apply to his index finger to turn the pages that his mouth was like a fucking pot in the middle of the fucking Sahara. If this sounds like an exaggeration it is because it is.

But hey, days passed by too fucking fast. No doubt about it. That was what he thought and he all too often had the picture of the pot, boiling, in the desert. Now and then he saw himself sitting on his knees trying to drink the water before it evaporated into the unblemished blue sky. He never got more than a drop or two and every time a camel strolled by and spit him in the face.

Anyway. As I said. Now he had had enough. And that morning everything was good. When he woke he couldn’t help smiling to himself. Yes, he was without a job and no, he wouldn’t find a job today. Not tomorrow either. He had a better idea. So he got out of bed, went to the bathroom and splashed a couple of handfuls of cold water in his face. Then he looked himself in the mirror and though about shaving. Then he when outside.

The birds were singing. What a lovely morning, he though, looking around, listening to the birds and the light and comforting wind in the trees. He lived alone and he lived in a forest. Right in the middle of a forest. In a small, old, but decent house. This is such a wonderful place, he thought. Then his cat came running towards him and he bended down and strokes her. She was not really his cat. As far as he knew she belonged to the family living at the farm at the north east edge of the forest. But she came to visit him almost daily and she understood him better than anyone.

After some minutes, maybe hours, he didn’t know and he didn’t care, the cat got to its feet and strolled casually into to high grass around the corner of the house. Take care, Miss Kitty, he yelled after her. She didn’t even look back, but he knew she understood and he knew she would. It’s the nature of the beast to take care of him or herself, isn’t it? he thought and smiled to himself.

What a wonderful day, he said out loud. What a wonderful day, he though. Then he went into the shed and got out the long ladder, leaned it against the apple tree and crawled up. When he was all the way up he picked the biggest apple he could find and took a big bite. This is so good, he said with sap running down his cheek. Then he made sure the rope was securely tied. First at the end around the thick branch and then at the end around his neck. Then he kicked the ladder away. Goodbye Miss Kitty, he though as his neck snapped.

First he replaced his girlfriend with a porn mag. Then, the next day he got the complete Sarah Young DVD collection. And with that he had a whole lot of fun with himself. But within long he got bored. Sarah didn’t serve his morning omelet, she didn’t do the dishes. And worst of all she never complained. Did I do the right thing, he asked himself – could it be that Sarah Young is not the right women for me?

So, a week later he went to the porn shop again, and behind the counter was the same guy who had sold him the Sarah Young DVD collection. Hi, the man said, last week I bought… The Sarah Young set, the guy interrupted with narrow eyes. Yes, the man said surprised. You remember me. Of course, the guy nodded, no one else has bought Sarah Young in this decade. Seriously? the man said, now feeling a certain kind of bonding with his fellow males. So it is not just me, he thought. Sarah is simply not the right kind of girl for a modern man, that’s it. Nothing’s wrong with me.

She also left me cold, he said with what he assumed to be an appropriate smile. The guy didn’t commend. Instead he began to take DVDs out of a box on the desk.

Can I have a look at those, the man said, pointing to the cellophane wrapped DVDs the guy was now price tagging. Sure, the guy said, pushing a stack across the desk. Thanks, the man said. No problem.

Are these popular? the man asked. Some more than others, the guy smiled. More popular than Sarah Young I assume, the man laughed. No doubt, the guy said not looking up. However, he did throw a quick glance at the man, but he didn’t notice.

After carefully studying the covers in his hand, the man pointed to the next stack of freshly price tagged DVDs. May I, he asked gently, not wanting to disturb, but also too curious to say nothing. Sure, the guy said, pushing the stack across to him.

Again, the man studied the covers one by one. First holding them with an outstretched arm, turning them from side to side to avoid the reflections from the halogen lights in the ceiling. Then leaning his head sharply to his right, holding the DVDs a pinkie from his nose.

Big breasts are not so popular anymore? the man said surprised of his own frankness. The guy looked up, pulling his head back until his nose was aligned with his belly. I wouldn’t say that, he said, but all these DVDs are from Europe, with mainly French, German and Polish girls. If you want big breasts you should have a look over there in our American section. He pointed towards some shelves behind and to the left of the man. Home Sweet Home, it said on a huge sign hanging above the American DVDs.

The man turned to look. Right next to the popcorn, he said. Exactly, the guy said, right next to the popcorn. Very convenient, the man smiled, turning back to face the guy who gave a single slight nod. I guess so, he said.

I am not after big breasts, the man thought, not necessarily. What I miss the most about my girlfriend, my ex-girlfriend, he corrected himself, is my morning omelet and the daily drama she supplied in abundance. She complained about nearly everything I did. Sarah Young never complains, no matter what I, then men, do to her. It’s boring, he thought, and he said it out loud. What? the guy asked, pressing his thick plastic framed glassed back in place. What is boring? That they are from home? he, the guy, continued. What? the man replied, wondering what the heck the guy was talking about. He also wondered why the guy had sweat running down his nose. It isn’t exactly hot in here, he thought. Don’t you like American girls? the guy asked. Well, the man began, thinking about his girlfriend, ex-girlfriend. He was the one who had kicked her out, but not because he didn’t like her. That would be an exaggeration. It would be more correct to say that he hated her. But he hated that guy, what was his name? Her colleague. He couldn’t remember his name, but he hated him even more than he hated her.

He had been staring empty into the air while thinking and the guys patience came to an end. Don’t you like American girls or what, he almost yelled, then squeezed his eyes together a couple of times. Don’t I like American girls? the man asked himself. I still like Polly, I just could’t accept what she did. And even if I didn’t like her it would be quite an exaggeration to say that I do not like American girls in general. What a silly question, he thought. Then he said, without giving it too much thought, I just like a bit more drama if you know what I mean. Then he paused. Sarah Young never complains, no matter what I, he thought, no matter what they, he said, do to her.

So, you like when they complain? the guy asked, thinking what a sick bastard. Yes! the man said exited, which made the guy take a step back. Well, then you should have a look in our Asian section over there. We have Chinese girls, Japanese girls, Thai girls and Filipinos. What you are after is the Japanese girls, the other ones take it without a tear.

. . .

Japanese girls? the man said, mostly to himself. Are they popular with modern men? Freak! the guy thought. Oh yeah, he said, and quickly dived into the box on the counter. The man strolled over to the Asian section

Japanese girls, he thought while running his finger along the covers. Here they are! And surely they were. He pulled out one DVD after the other, studying it in the same way as he had studied the European ones, first from a distance, then from a shorter distance.

After going through most of them he said to himself: Am I really that concerned with the physical properties of women? I never knew I was. The character is, or should be, more important! It is primitive, it is wrong, to judge a woman on her physique, in particular her pubes hair. I never knew that I was so low, he said disappointed to himself. But I don’t want to replace Polly with someone I find physically off-putting, it would be like building a house on a plateau of wet sand. I am an architect for Christ’s sake, I should know better. And here I have to be honest with myself. I don’t like to generalise, but these Japanese girls leaves me no choice.

He placed the DVDs back from were he took them and ran his eyes over them one more time. Sorry girls, he said, it’s nothing personal. Then he bowed his head as he had seen people do in Shogun, stood like that respectfully for some seconds, before strolling back to the guy behind the counter.

Excuse me, the man said. The guy turned. Yes? Did you find anything you liked? he asked. No, the man said embarrassed. How do I say this without sounding like a jerk, he thought, then said: does all Japanese girls have so much hair? The guy laughed. On the pussy, you mean? Yes, on their pussies, the man said relieved. The guy couldn’t stop laughing now, and the man couldn’t help joining in. I guess they do, the guy stuttered, wiping his forehead with his sleeve. He was in a white shirt with thin, blue, vertical stripes. Uh, the man yelled in a high pitched tone. We are bonding, he thought, me and this fellow modern man.

After a minute or so of synchronised laughing they both calmed down a bit, and the guy said: is it really the hairy pussies that bother you, or, he looked around, then lowered his voice, or don’t they complain quite enough those Japanese girls? He was now leaning forward, with his elbows resting on the desk, his head resting in his hands, and his sweet, heavy odour playing in the air around the man.

I knew it, the man thought, trying to step discretely out of the smelly air, not wanting to break the bonding with a fellow modern man he now felt even stronger. I knew it, he will judge me, rightly so, if I tell him that I disconsider the otherwise beautiful, and most likely intelligent and cultivated, Japanese girls just because they have hairy pussies. He will instantly mark me a primitive creature of lust, rather than a modern man. No, no, he laughed, I really don’t care. They can have hair all the way up to their belly buttons if they want. He paused for dramatic effect, fighting to keep his fake laugh intact and as truthful as possible, but I want someone who complain for real!

Shh, the guy hissed, again looking around, this time nervously. Those kind of discs are somewhat more expensive, he whispered, leaning within the intimacy sphere of the man. Hell, he stinks, the man thought, but I guess nothing comes for free. How much, he said softly, not wanting to break the spell, not wanting the waste too much air either. Fifteen hundred, the guy whispered, and trust me, she complains for real. No acting, and not a single hair on her pussy.

Fifteen hundred, the man thought. That sounds a little crazy to say the least. But no hair, it might be worth a try. This way this guy will see me as a sophisticated man that makes his choices regarding women based on character and not just physical characteristics. I take it, he said confidentially. One minute the guy, said, thinking: damn, I should have asked for more, this freak didn’t blink. He must be loaded. Then he spun around and went down some stairs.

As soon as the guy was halfway down the man jumped back and headed for the Home Sweet Home area where he released his breath, then inhaled fully, leaning back with his hands on his hips. He is a nice fellow, he thought, but boy he stints.

There was a cough, the man looked up and realised that the guy was back. Here you go, the guy whispered, handing the man a plastic bag with logo and everything. The man was about to open it, but the guy stopped him. Wait till you get home, he said with a blink of his eye. Trust me, this is what you are after. Okay? Okay, the man replied, opening the upper button of his jacket and got out his wallet. Cash, the guy said. Sure, the man said and handed the guy fifteen one hundred dollar bills. Next time I’ll ask for a whole lot more, the guy thought. This is between you and me, he said, holding on to the bag. You don’t want to tell anybody from where you got this stuff, okay? The man nodded, it’s between you and me. Good, the guy smiled, letting go of the bag. Enjoy. Thanks, the man smiled. Then he left.

When he came home he rushed in, went straight to the bathroom to prepare himself for the treatment to come, then went into his living room with the plastic bag in one hand and a cognac in the other. He threw the bag on the couch, placed the cognac on the sofa table, pulled the curtains, switched on his extra large flat screen TV, dropped in the couch, took a sip of his cognac and finally reached into the bag feeling his way, grabbed the cover, and slowly, somewhat ritually, dragged it out. He did all this with closed eyes. Now he opened them and what a disappointment. The cover was plain black, wasn’t even wrapped in cellophane. He flipped in around. Nothing. Then he opened it. Inside was a blank DVD. What the hell, he thought. But then he remembered what the guy had said, don’t tell anybody about this stuff. Of course! This is not a run of the mile, over-the-counter kind of thing. This is for the selected few, for the true modern man who wants more than the average Ben and Jerry. Even more than the ones who wants a cherry and cream on top. Of course this stuff has to be unlabeled and without a glittery cover. This is not just some Hollywood production for the masses, the is for the elite. That was what he thought and he felt damn good about it.

Carefully he took out the DVD and loaded it in the machine next to the couch. While it got up to speed he thought about Polly and that moron colleague of hers. Maybe you got Polly, he mumbled, but look what I’ve got. The real thing, I tell you that. And then the screen became black, while a deep rumbling filled the room, and the words “No Hay Banda” appeared in white letters. Shortly after a black and white scene faded in.

. . .

In the middle stood a king sized bed and on the bed laid a princess sized woman. She was, not surprisingly, in the nude, had long blond hair on her head, none on her pussy. He liked that. Her breasts were, he guessed, somewhere between twenty-one years and thirty – if there was silicone in the construction. It is hard to tell, he thought, while getting up and walking closer to the screen. The camera zoomed in. The scene was shoot from an angle of someone sitting about one and a half meter from the bed on one knee, in the traditional do-you-want-to-marry-me-position. However, the shoot was completely still and the man concluded that the camera was fixed on a tripod.

After some seconds of zooming, only the upper part of the woman’s body and her face could be seen and the man pressed PAUSE on the remote. He was now leaning forward an arm’s length from the TV. Impressive construction, he said to himself. No sign than any tools have been used. Most certainly they are real. She must be closer to twenty than thirty. But the contours around her eyes suggests otherwise. I would say that she is twenty-seven and born with lucky genes when it comes to the deposition of fat. He placed the root of his palm on his chin and began tapping his cheek with his ex-girlfriends two favorite fingers. Or maybe she is really nothing more than twenty-one or twenty-two, as her breasts indicates. In that case she have most definitely been using unfriendly makeup. Hm. I actually find this more likely. Breasts like that doesn’t sit on late-twenty year old women without surgery, and I can’t see any sign of that. He once again scanned the upper torso, then leaned back and said out loud: twenty-one. She is twenty-one, maybe twenty-two. So far perfect! Nothing like Sarah Young. Then he pressed PLAY.

Hi, the girl said, smiling, then biting her lower lip, then licking the upper one. I’m Emmylou. She was clearly moving somewhat like a snake on the white sheets and luckily the camera man – or woman – zoomed out again. I think it’s a man behind the camera, the man thought. But he couldn’t be sure, and he didn’t want to make premature conclusions. Emmylou is a wonderful name, he thought, and Emmylou was now gently running her fingers over her breats, squeezing them softly, smiling innocently, then letting one hand, the left one the man noticed, glide down her belly to her cunt. She giggled, then said, do you like what you see? Yes, the man whispered, and he wasn’t lying. Would you like me handcuffed to these, the girl said, curving her back, pushing her head into the pillow, forming a perfect arc from her shoulder blades down to her ass, turning her gaze up and grabbing the spiralled chrome bars behind her head. Oh yeah, the man said. Her torso is like a bridge in Venice, I remember passing under one just like it in a gondola, the man thought. Beautiful, just beautiful.

Do you want to fuck me while I’m chained to these? Yes! the man yelled louder than he had expected. An embarrassed glimpse ran over his face. Then you have to do something for me, the girl continued alluringly. Name it, the man smiled watching the girl slide a finger inside her vagina, biting and licking her lips, before saying: take out your cock and play it while you watch me. Then she smiled her biggest smile so far and the man unzipped his pants and did as he was told.

The girl reached out the frame with the hand that wasn’t in her cunt, dedicated finger fucking herself. When her hand returned she was holding a set of black handcuffs. She placed one of them on the sheet next to her hip, then closed the other around one of the chrome bars, picked up the one next to her hip and closed in around another bar. Still, her left middle finger was sliding rhythmically in and out her pussy. A little milky secrete was running out her vagina. Brilliant coordination, the man thought, which made his testicles pull up a bit more and the pulsing in his anus increase.

Cuff me, the girl said softly, sticking her finger in deep, then pulling it out slowly, moving it up to her face, then licking her own juice, turning her eyes upwards, raising her arms above her head like a swan stretching, taking a hold on the spiralled bars with the cuffs. Do it, and fuck me good, she smiled as the shadow of a bald man fell over her. A bald man, the man thought disappointed. Hm, this will be difficult. I need a man I can somehow identify myself with. If not it will not work, he mumbled. Shit, he continued feeling his prick changing from bicycle handle hardness to hemp robe.

A man appeared in the picture. He was well trimmed, with round shoulders and long legs. A swimmer, the man thought, feeling a little more bicyclist again. The man squeezed the girls right breast, then, using both hands, closed first one, then the other cuff around her wrists. Fuck me, the girl whispered innocently. How can someone ask to be fucked innocently, the man asked himself, and then the man in the picture stuck two long fingers forcefully inside her. She gave a pleasurable cry, looked a little overwhelmed, and then the mans head came into the frame for the first time as he leaned down and tongue kissed the girl. Yes! the man hissed, he has hair on his head! I forgot that all men, modern men, looks bald in silhouette. Only ponytail hippies and computer science professors reveal their true character in the shadows. Modern men – we – modern men, are more sophisticated. Our silhouette doesn’t reveal us, as our manners doesn’t tell who we really are.

. . .

The swimmer got his hips in between the womans legs and his prick in between her extra pair of lips. And she twisted and turned like a belly dancer who needed a larger tip to support her nine hungry boys. At the same time she was moaning and screaming way more tempting than Sarah and Polly together. And, the man thought, the sound quality is superb. And he really liked that, being someone who now and then dabbled with remixing house on his mac. It’s just for fun, he said when people asked him about it. Just for fun. I am too lacy to play golf, he always joked, and people always laughed although it wasn’t funny, which always made him drag it all the way out, saying: I am an architect, of course I love house.

He was fully erect now, the pulsing in his ass was above a hundred and ten beats per minute and then he realised that he would come within long, but had forgotten to place a towel on the table as he usually did ever since he meet Sarah. Shit, he said out loud. Fuck it, I’ll sperm on the table, this girl is too good to leave like this.

He began to walk slowly backwards with his pants at his knees, his penis in one hand, the remote in the other, preparing himself for the spout. I need to get in between the couch and the table, he thought. This was easier said than done, and even easier to think, but he managed, although in a somewhat clumsy manner. Meanwhile, the man on the screen seemed to be close to the same point on the orgasmic curve as the man in the room as he had significantly increased both the stroke dept and piston frequency. First the girl was more than happy about this, screaming and moaning mora than a legion of Shaolin monks in a badly synchronised Kung Fu movie from the late seventies, but in a sexy and extremely inviting tone. Then, as the man began pounding her harder her moaning and yes’ing underwent a gradual transformation to av, av, yes, av, av, it hurts. But the man kept pounding, harder and harder, then suddenly grabbing the girls throat, pinning her down until she got all red in the face, got tears in hers eyes, and tried, without luck, to scream. Or so it seemed.

What the fuck are you doing, the architect yelled to the man in the picture. Can’t you see she is nearly choking! At this point he wasn’t sure what to do. He felt so close to orgasm that he didn’t wanted to stop. Actually he had been cheating a bit not to finish already, playing himself a bit slower than the swimmer was fucking the girl, in the hope that he could time his spout to happen as she climaxed. And still he was close. It was just a matter of jerking at the maximum pace for ten-fifteen seconds and he would be there. But now he wasn’t sure if he wanted to. Not while his girl was suffering, if not indeed suffocating. And by now the girl was not only twisting and turning like the same belly dancer as before, she was also rattling as the belly dancer the moment the belly dancer was told that her nine boys had been killed by a misguided guided missile.

Stop it! the man yelled, letting go of his prick and making a fist in the air. And believe it or not, the swimmer instantly released his grip. The girl gasped for air like a gold fish on the floor underneat a grand piano, then screamed hysterically: what are you doing! Get away from me! with tears running down her cheeks. But the swimmer just laughed, welcome to No Hay Banda! The girls eyes flickered to the side, and thats when her already hysteric screaming broke into something from another world and her eyes opened wide. No, no, no! she screamed, why are you doing this.

A hint of a shadow appeared in the direction the girl was looking and the swimmer reached out for something. Why are you doing this! the girl screamed, but she didn’t get an answer, but a skin deep cut with a knife from her right hip to her left armpit. Why! the girl cried. The man stood paralysed, with a shrinked piece of hemp rope hanging between his legs, wet eyes and a remote in his left hand. And the cutting continued, beginning with a cut from below the womans chin, across her lips and over her right eye to her forehead. Blood was pumping from her eye and lip. Why, she cried almost inaudible.

This is sick! the architect yelled, pointing the remote at the DVD-player while pressing STOP like a woodpecker pecking a Red Bull can filled with cocaine.

What the fuck was that? he said out loud, pulling up his pants and zipping them. What the fuck was that? he said again. Was it real, he thought. It seemed real, all too fucking real. Why had the guy in the shop given him something like this? What a psycho! Surely I asked for someone without as much fur on the pussy as all the Japanese girls, and admittedly this girls pussy were not furry in any way. It had less hair than a moon stone. Fucking psycho. Was it real? he asked himself again. Wait a second! What exactly was it that the guy had said? If you want a woman who complains for real this is what you’re after! Or something like that. For Christ sake! Fucking psycho, he thought and wiped his eyes with the back of his hand.

. . .

He couldn’t sleep that night, at least not until four o’clock in the morning. Until then he was laying awake, twisting and turning like a girl who thinks she is the queen of the night, but are in fact nothing more than a pawn in a psycho’s sick show. No Hay Banda, why No Hay Banda, the man thought. Then he said it out loud, No Hay Banda. Poor girl. What was he supposed to do now? Go to the police? Go to the guy in the porn shop? Poor girl. Somewhere a man and a woman had lost a daughter, a fucking sexy one, because of some sick psycho. Poor fucking girl. For Christ sake! the man mumbled, now almost falling asleep. Then he remembered the shadow of a man that had appeared in the picture just before the girl was cut. It must have been the person who handed the swimmer the knife, he thought. Could it be the guy in the porn shop? He felt tempted to go and have a look. If it is him I might be able to recognise him by his shadow, he is kind of oddly shaped, very big, and very square. But he was too tired to get out of bed and he didn’t really want to watch the girl again, not now, not now that he knew why she suddenly looked so fucking scared. I better go to the police, he thought, but then what? Had the guy in fact treatened him in the porn shop? You don’t want to tell anybody from where you got this stuff, okay? he had said. Was this in fact a treat? What would happen if he went to the police? This guy might be the psycho who handed the swimmer the knife or he might be the one behind the camera. For Christ sake! They killed a girl, I am sure they killed her. Why would they not kill me?

His thoughts continued like that until he felt asleep. When he woke the next morning he went straight into the living room, took out the DVD, placed it on a cutting board, smached it with a meat hammer, and decided to forget about it, never to visit the porn shop again, never to tell anybody, and that everything would be okay. I always paid in cash in that shop, he has no information on me, he will never find me, and I will never set a foot in his shop again. Everything will be okay. That was what he thought, and luckily for him he was right except for the part about forgetting everything. Often he woke in the middle of the night with a vivid scene playing out in his head. There was a woman, now and then Polly, now and then the girl from No Hay Banda, now and then someone else, maybe a teenage one night stand. It differed. But something remained the same every fucking time. There was always lots of blood and fear in the woman’s eyes. And when he woke his heart was like an overclocked caffeine heart or something.

After more or less pulverising the DVD and throwing the pieces in the bin, he said to himself, no more porn movies for me! And then he took a quick shower, got dressed and went to work. On the way home again in the evening he went by a kiosk to buy a bag of his favorite drops. As he was about to pay a Japenese girl on the cover of a porn mag caught his attention. She is beautiful like hell, he thought. And when he saw that her pussy was a chemo pussy, he instantly grabbed a copy and paid the fourteen euro and twenty-five cents the blushing teen girl was asking for. Then he went out, got in his car and shortly after stopped at a red light where he found the time to browse through the magazine. Man, she is beautiful, he said to himself while scanning the pages with the cover girl. The light changed to yellow, then green, and the man dropped the magazine on the passenger seat. A free sample-DVD was glued to the front page and the man felt excited. I can’t wait to see what’s on it, if that Japanese girl is on the DVD, he thought. Wow! he said. No more porn movies for me, he laughed. Right!

. . .

When he got home he took a quick shower, as he always did after work, before loading the sample-DVD in the machine. Man, I hope she is here, he thought, looking at the cover of the magazine. And she was. And this time he remembered the towel on the table, and he did her good, and she did him good too. And then it was time for squash with Graham and off he went.

Three hours, two beers and a winning game later he was home again and in high spirits, so he placed a towel on the table and pressed PLAY again. The DVD got up to speed and kicked in where he left it with the beautiful Japanese girl with the chemo pussy fading to black. He was about to rewind to see her again, but then a curvy latino girl got down on her knees in front of him on a fluffy white carpet and, not wasting a second, got down to business. Nice, he thought and unzipped his pants.

After a week he had fucked all the girls on the DVD, so he went to the kiosk and bought another magazine with a free sample-DVD, smiling all the way home, browsing through the pages at every red light, and thought, this is what I want! Variation! Nothing’s wrong with Sarah, nothing’s wrong with hairy Japanese girls, nothing’s wrong with Japanese moon stones either. Nothin’s wrong with bad ass latinos, nothing’s wrong with slim and slinky Scandinavians. In fact nothing’s wrong with any girl in the world, not even the fat ones, as long as the dosage is right and every day isn’t the same.

. . .

And that’s how he became a potential lonely man and the end of his family linage. But only potentially, since one day he saw an ad in a magazine that changed his life forever. It said: Do you want to earn $50? Become a semen donor. Short and to the point. He liked that. He had no need for the money, but he saw no reason why he shouldn’t help other people. After all he was producing quite a bit of sperm. It is a waste, he thought. And he hated waste. Over a year I will most likely produce something like tree-four liters of sperm. I have a moral obligation. This way I can give something back to humanity. I will go there tomorrow, and I will begin to measure my production and keep a log. In a month I should be able to make a more qualified estimate than my current guess. But I don’t think it’s completely off target. Three-four liters per years sounds resonable. It’s about one fifth of a deciliter per load, he said out loud holding up a coffee cup. This cup can hold about two and a half deciliter, so up to here, he said, placing a finger on the side of the cup, is about one deciliter. Hm. I better measure it properly. Then he went into the living room, placed a towel on the tabel, a plastic bowel on the towel, his favorite sample dvd in the machine, and got to work. Fifteen minutes later he had scraped his sperm from the bowel into a measuring cup, cleaned everything and written the figure 16 milliliter in a spreadsheet he had titled “My daily qouta”. Not impressive, he thought, but not worst either.

The next day he went to the fertility clinic and found the waiting room for donors. It was filled with guys a short generation younger than himself. Most likely students, he thought. Three hundred and fourty-five a nurse called and that was his number, so he got up. She was about his age and smiled to him. He smiled back and said, without knowing why, this is my first time. Very well, she said, then I’ll better show you the procedure. Follow me. Show me the procedure, he thought, I don’t think that is necessary. He couldn’t help laughing. She turned and smiled. She wasn’t very tall, she was in fact small, and slim, and what an amazing smile, he though. It reminded him of some actress whose name he couldn’t remember, except that the actress’ teeth had a tan. I guess this nurse never had a coffee in her life, he thought. And he was right, as he would later find out.

. . .

Here you go, the nurse said, handing him a little plastic cup with one hand, opening a door with the other. In here. You should find anything you need, magazines and DVDs, whatever gets you there, she smiled. And what a smile, he thought. Will you give me a hand? he heard himself say. I think you’ll do fine on your own, the nurse smiled, with not even a hint of surprise on her face. What is your name, he asked, still not fully in control of the words that fell from his lips. Daisy, she smiled. And what a smile, he thought, feeling a tingling in his stomach he hadn’t felt since he first meet Polly seven years ago. None of the sample girls made him feel like this. Not at all. Daisy, he said. She just smiled. Would you like to have dinner with me when I am done? he said, realizing too late that it was a rather ridiculous juxtaposition of words, kind of like saying, I’m a onanist, how do you like that? But she just smiled, then said, I would love to. Really? he said. But she just smiled.

. . .

Three months later they were still walking hand-in-hand through the parks and along the rivers, he still had that silly tingling in his stomach, and that’s why he ended up with a sperm bank nurse. I guess you can’t have it all, he thought, kissing her in the middle of her face in the middle of the park. And she just smiled.

He came home after another long day at the law firm. On the floor in the hall was a pile of letters, the daily newspaper and Wired, his favorite magazine. With an agile movement he threw his suitcase on the chair in the corner of the hall, picked up the mail and strolled over to his white leather sofa where he collapsed.

After a brief leaf through the magazine, a quick scan of the front page of the Times, he browsed the letters. One of them stood out. The envelope was the same size as an ordinary envelope, but there was nothing written on it and no stamp.

The man wasn’t exactly happy when he came home, but he had been alright. Now, sitting and turning this one envelope between his index and ring fingers, he began to feel slightly uncomfortable. Can this be it, he asked himself.

He leaned back and looked out the window. Just sitting there staring for a long time, until the phone rang. As a matter of habit he got up and walked over to pick it up. But then he felt the envelope in his hand and stopped. The phone kept ringing. But he just stood there, now holding the envelope in his outstretched arm towards the sun. But it was a thick, paper-bag brown envelope and he could’t see even a contour of what was inside. And he felt more uncomfortable, way more.

Can this be it, he asked himself again, this time aloud. And then he wondered who had called. They had hung up as soon as the answering machine kicked in. No “hello Tom, are you there?” Not a word, just a click. Who could it be. Most of his friends would have given it a try, his colleagues would do the same. No one would hang up like that. Maybe it had been a phone salesman or someone from Gallup who wanted to know what he thought about the presidential campaign so far.

He exhaled sharply, walked to the bar, dropping the envelope on the sofa table in passing. Then he found a glass and a bottle of whiskey, poured it with the elegance of a waiter in a three star Michelin restaurant and gently sipped it. But his hand was shaking.

Can this be it, he thought. So be it.

He sat the glass down, unbuttoned his jacket and let it slide down, grabbing the collar with the tip of his fingers. Then he walked to the hall, jacket in one hand, whiskey in the other, where he hanged the jacket where it belonged, in between the gray flannel jacket and the knee length checkered coat. Then he strolled back to the living room, where sat his whiskey on the table and himself in the leather sofa.

Again, he leaned back and stared out the window for a long time. But this time the phone didn’t ring and he sat like that for almost half an hour. Too numb to think, too sober to fall asleep. During this half hour he bid his lip repeatedly, followed a bird with his eyes occasionally, shivered constantly, and moved not even once.

The horn of a large truck brought him out of his trance-like state, widened his eyes and made him look down on the table. It was a glass table with aluminum legs. The perfect contrast to the white leather, he thought. And on the table was a white narrow, rectangular tray, and the paper-bag brown envelope was still there. No matter how much he wished it vanish. The rest of the mail was laying in the sofa next to him. The headline on the Times was, as it was often the case, something about oil.

He bended forward, took a hold of his glass and raised it in the air letting the sun rays play in the swaying liquor inside. Then he made a salute to no one in particular, sat the rim to his lips and emptied his drink. He made a throat sound, carefully placed the glass on the glass, with just a hint of a clank. And his eyes were wettish by now.

Can this be it? he thought, looking at the envelope through the corner of his eyes as if pretending to look at something else. Then he moved his gaze to the empty glass, placed two fingers on its lower half and finger kicked it across the table. It stopped just before reaching the edge and as it came to a halt he swiftly grabbed the envelope and cut it open with the paper knife that had been laying in the white tray, next to a silver pen and a strip of photos of someone. This someone having a beautiful smile and a cleavage that caught his attention for a moment. A brief moment. And now the paper-bag brown envelope was open in his right hand. Also he was holding the paper knife, thinking about what he could do with it, but only for a moment. A brief moment. After all, the envelope was open and his thoughts continually went back to what might be inside, if this could really be it, and how much did a smile, female forms, or anything else really matter when it all came it it. That was what he thought.

He put the knife down, trying to place it with his usual grace and tenderness in the tray, but it banged and boomed from side to side. And the noise was not making him more comfortable. On the contrary. So he looked at the headline again. Venezuela might stop selling oil to us, it said. Why not, he thought. And then he thought; and so what? I better read what the letter says. And with quivering hands he pulled it out, dropped the envelope, and unfolded the pale white paper. It sounded like muffled Chinese firecrackers.

It was a handwritten note. You have only one option, it said. And the man began to cry. It was not what he was hoping, but it wasn’t exactly a surprise either. In fact he had expected it. Sooner or later. But it had been almost a year now and for a long time he was sure the letter would be waiting for him every time he came home after work. But gradually, since nothing arrived, he was beginning to think that they had forgotten about it, decided not to bother, or that they couldn’t find him. But of course not. These people never forgot, they would never let it drift, and they could always find whoever they were looking for. It was just a matter of time, and the time was now.

Since Christmas he had almost been able not to think about it, but now it all came back and it came back hard. So the man let the paper slip from in between his fingers and instead placed his face in his hands, crying vigorously, shivering like a naked man in a snow storm. And he sat like that for a long time, still too sober to fall asleep, unfortunately no longer too numb not to think. One thought appeared after the other in no logical order, the only reoccurring motif being the sentence “you have only one option” followed by a new or at least slightly mutated version of a previous vision of how to take care of it, of how to do this. He knew what that one option was, but there were many ways to actually do it. Some slightly more appealing than others, if something like this could in any way be appealing.

And then suddenly his thoughts were interrupted by a far more attractive idea. Not to do it. This actually made him laugh, loud and staccato, but not for long. Certainly the idea was lovely, momentarily tempting, and insane and out of the question. So he abruptly stopped laughing, crying is more appropriate, he thought, and this made him laugh again, and then the telephone rang. Again. And he got up and walked over to pick it up. But then he had second thoughts. And he hesitated. Now rocking back and forth rubbing his hands against each other.

Maybe it is them, he thought, but it wasn’t, and overlapping his own recorded voice he heard her, the women with the long brown hair, the ponytail, the beautiful smile, and the faultless female forms: “Hi Tom. It’s me. Are you there hon? Please pick up, I miss you. What about going to the cinema tonight?”

He stopped, clenching his hands, now rocking like a metronome with a needle made of rubber. He didn’t laugh anymore, nor did he cry. He would like to, one or the other, but instead he just stood there, clenching everything, his hands, his eyes, his teeth, biting his own lip. For a long time involuntarily holding his breath, then abruptly releasing it, releasing his grip on himself, lifting both hands to his ears, then relaxing all muscles and collapsing to his knees.

The woman had been waiting patiently on the other end, breathing softly into the phone from somewhere across the river. If she was at work that was where she was. “Hello”, she said one last time, “call me.” Click. But the man wasn’t listening. Sitting on his knees, now slightly hyperventilating, he felt like cotton candy had been stuck in his ears, or as if a shotgun had been fired close to his head, except that there was no high-pitched ringing. But no doubt his brain was occupied with something else but processing the waves hitting his auditory canal. Also, his vision was blurred by now and he felt a tingling in his fingers and nothing else.

I will not do this, he though. Then he opened the top two buttons of his shirt, pulled the shirt up and placed it in front of his mouth, while telling himself to breathe slowly. The air he inhaled was warm and deodorant flavored. I will not do it, I will not, he hissed through the cloth. And his breathing slowed a bit. So did his heartbeat. And he pricked the tip of his pinkie with the nail of his thumb forcibly. The pain was dull, but comforting. So he did the same to his ring finger, it was hurting quite a bit more, and he counted to ten while pressing his nail as hard as he could into the flesh. When he released the pressure there was a deep red mark right under the nail. Ten seconds for the next fingers also, he though. When done, he did the same with the other hand. By then his breathing and pulse had slowed to almost normal and he got to his feet, oddly calm.

Now standing by the kitchen sink he lit the pale white paper with a match, holding it in one corner, letting the flames lick up the sides. In a matter of no time the letter had burned and crumpled into a fragile black matter, some of it falling slowly into the sink, some of it raising in the air, tumbling around in the currents for a while before settling in the sink or on the kitchen table. No one would ever know that he had received this letter, no one would never know that he had only one option. That was what he now thought. And the phone rang again.

Quickly he grabbed the whiskey bottle and swung it. It smashed at the corner of the shelf where the phone was standing, shattered loudly, sending cascades of liquor up the wall, over the phone and books and onto the floor. I have only one option, he thought, banging his right fist into the cupboard over the kitchen table. Then he tore open the fridge so hard that it tipped, almost falling over. Then took a strong hold on the handle with both hands and slammed it against the wall. Then he ran through the living room and hall, out the door and up the stairway.

On the way up he bumped into an older man in a beige trench coat. “Sorry”, the old man said, although he had nothing to be sorry about. Tom said nothing, although he had a lot to be sorry about. But his typical attorney politeness was no longer within his possession. Fuck that old man, he thought, even though cursing had never been something he aspired to. Fuck the old man, he will never understand, he doesn’t know that I have just one option. One fucking option, he stuttered, now enjoying cursing. Your fucking old man, he yelled. Stinking old man, he continued, and the man hurried into the elevator just before it closed. He wasn’t stinking, he was clean in any way thinkable.

Reaching the top floor the man hurried through the door to the roof, pushing it open with his shoulder. The strong wind hit him, making his pants and shirt wobble so he looked like someone standing on the bottom of a pool seen from above. And he staggered five or six steps forward, then came to a halt, spun around, now with tears running down his cheeks again. He spun again, his head starting the motion, his body reluctantly following. He did this more than once, every time with larger and larger tears in his eyes. And then he screamed. Again and again, until his throat was sore. Spinning and screaming, that was the essence of this man, right there and then. And crying. It this instant the former successful junior partner had been reduced to spinning, screaming and crying.

Six years earlier he had graduated from Stanford with summa cum laude, been headhunted to a highly esteemed law firm, and he had won, and won, and won, one case after the other. After just three years and a half he was offered to become a junior partner and naturally he accepted. Success was a habit of his, failure unknown to him. And then he got a seemingly ordinary case.

One day someone called. He referred to himself as nothing but “a representative of Mr. Mottom”, refusing to give his real name, which was a little awkward, but not a big deal. Eccentricity was not the norm, but far from uncommon either, when dealing with hot clients. The representative of Mr. Mottom wanted a meeting with Tom within the hour, which Tom declined. “I can meet with you Wednesday next week,” was his reply. But the representative insisted, telling Tom that defending Mr. Mottom in this most unfortunate situation would certainly bring his career more than a notch, that was his exact word, up the ladder. But Tom’s day was already filled with meetings with important clients, and he told the representative that he would find a slot for him Friday. “We need a meeting today, or we will have to find another lawyer to hand the contract and the twenty five million in cash I have in front of me,” the representative said. “Twenty five million,” Tom said, carefully controlling the tonality of his voice. “Yes,” the man said, “and on top of that we will pay your normal fee. The twenty five million is just to show our gratitude.” He paused. “A quarter past three in Cabo da Roca, on the corner of…”

“I know where it is,” Tom interrupted softly, “I’ll be there.”

“Good,” was the reply. But that was more than a year ago and now, standing on the roof, it wasn’t good anymore. In fact, more or less everything had gone wrong. Well, actually not everything, he thought. But enough to piss off Mr. Mottom, and that was more than enough. Or was it the so-called representative of Mr. Mottom that he had pissed off? He couldn’t tell and it really didn’t matter. What mattered was the he now had only one option, and no one would ever know why this was so, they would never know why he had done it. Everything else in his life was pure bliss. He was popular with the women, had found a favorite among them and was liked by everyone. His parents were proud of him and his opponents in the courtroom feared him. Success was still a habit of his. Only in the case of Mr. Mottom had he learned the concept of failure. Failure. I am a failure, he thought, ran towards the edge and kept running into the air.

Religion is not the cause of all evil – as some of the people in the new atheist movement want us to believe. Again and again they spread false accusations about how religion is the reason for this or that atrocity. And unfortunately a lot of people fall for these false claims.

Often the new atheists, lead by Richard Dawkins, use vivid stories to lure people into believing in their modern fairytale, a fairytale build on the traditional concept of good and evil, with clear distinctions between them, and no grey zones. It’s the epic narrative about us and them, as told a million times before.

This time the good ones are the so-called bright non-believers, and the evil ones are the naive and unenlightened believers in God. The atheists showcase a string of examples of atrocities and acts of terror and brutalities carried out by religions people, followed by statements along these lines: religion is the cause of all evil.

Only half the story

This line of argument is effective, but inconsistent with reality. It’s fueled by what is called a narrative bias, showing a string of examples that back their story, while neglecting the cascade of stories that would contradict their story. And these, contradicting, stories are out there as well, although the new atheists do a hell of a job of keeping them at bay.

So, if I am saying that the new atheists are twisting the truth, am I saying that it’s actually the atheists who are behind the acts of terror and brutality? No, I am not. I am saying that the bloody crimes around us have little to do with religion – even when the acts are carried out in the name of God.

When a suicide bomber kills himself – and the unlucky people around him – in the name of God, we cannot blame God or religion – although it’s tempting. Claiming that religion is what brought the suicide bomber to kill, would be like claiming that the knife in the hand of a disturbed man killing his wife, is the cause for his action. Naturally this is not so. The knife is not the reason, it’s simply the tool, used to carry out the act. The reason is the crazy idea of killing, in the man’s head.

Using religion as a knife

Most people take a hold of a knife every day, for cutting a slice of bread, or to plaster the bread with a thick layer of peanut butter – not to kill their wife, or anybody else for that matter. As I said: the knife is not the cause, it’s just a tool. A tool that can be used for taking another human beings life, or making a nice sandwich for him or her.

The same is true for religion. In the wrong hands, religion can be used as a reason to kill – and, in the right hands, can be used to help people cope with the sorrow following the killing of their loved ones. And yes, some dreadful acts are carried out in the name of God, but – like with the knife – more often God is helping people, and bringing them joy, and much more so, than the peanut butter sandwich in the morning.

This year’s girl was from Hungary, and three years older than her now adult little sister. Standing on a stage in New York, bathed in flash after flash.

Her father wasn’t tripping, not even supportive, when she decided to join the competition in Budapest half a year earlier. It was her ex-boyfriend who first told her about it, and convinced her to give it a try.

She made it clear to everyone who asked, that it was her boyfriend who wanted her to do it, and that she thought it was a little stupid, that she was expecting nothing. The truth was that she considered herself to be beauty par excellence, and she was praying to the Lord again – something she hadn’t done since a program on TV converted her to atheism when she was in puberty.

The fact that she won the national competition made her belief stronger, so she bought a Bible and a Crucifix with the money she won. Her father still believed that it would be better for her to continue her law studies.

A week after she won the national competition she had accumulated seven-hundred-and-fifty-three fan letters, mostly from men who wanted to marry her. In the beginning she read them all, sitting in bed with her boyfriend next to her, and television on. The more persistent the would-be honeymooners were, the more Maggie and her boyfriend laughed, and the letters were dropped one after one in the trash bin.

She always hated her father for not letting her boyfriend sleep at her place. Now it turned out to be an advantage, since she could go through the letters again when he left. Most of the letters she did throw out, but the good looking guys she kept, unless they wrote something along the lines “I have nothing to give you – but my whole heart”.

Thanks to her boyfriend her beauty finally began to pay off. She also kept a handful of men that didn’t really had the looks, but seemed worthy nevertheless. One of them was standing in front of a Rolls-Royce in his photo. She didn’t know much about cars, but she did know what a Rolls-Royce meant.

Maggie and her boyfriend had been together since she was sixteen, and before she won the competition they used to talk about marriage more than often. He still did, and she smiled every time.

Letter number one-thousand-and-seventy-five turned out to be the one that would kick her up the social ladder. She met the man, like she had met the man with the Rolls-Royce, and a bucketful of other members of the male sex who had more than love to give.

The great thing about this man was that he didn’t want to marry her, so there would be no hassle with legalities later on. He was a true gentleman, wanting nothing but sexual sufficiency, and being someone who retired a long time ago, she had plenty more than he wanted. Also, he had all the status he needed, and had no desire to be seen in public with a leggy blonde.

It was somewhat troublesome to make her boyfriend believe that she wasn’t allowed to bring more than one to the show in New York. Luckily, her sister knew about Maggie’s deal with the retired man, and benefited from it as well, so her unparallelled ability to twist the truth came in handy.

The day before Maggie and her sister went to New York, the girls grandparents came over for dinner, and to wish the girls’ the best of luck. Maggie’s boyfriend drove the girls to the airport, and off they went.

New York had all the glitter and glamour she had dreamed about, and they arrived one week before the competition. Three days later she had her first big dipper ride, her first line of coke, a new boyfriend, and a Starbucks cheesecake.

Now standing on the stage with the trophy in her arms, bathed in flash after flash, with an XL smile on her face, and with a high-toned drug trafficking boyfriend and a chemically content little sister nearby – what else could she ever want?

Reading a review of Leonard Mlodinow’s book “The Drunkard’s Walk – How Randomness Rules Our Lives” on the The New York Times, I came across the so-called Boy Girl Paradox (which is not really a paradox), got caught in a spurt of Facebook comments about it, and ended up solving the controversial mathematical problem empirically. Here’s how.

It didn’t start with a kiss, contrary to what Hot Chocolate would have us believe. Instead it started with me posting the following question on Facebook:

“If a woman has two children and one is a girl, the chance that the other child is also female has to be 50-50, right?”

Twenty-nine comments later I decided to write a post about it here, since I had learning – from the smart guy I know who posted most of the comments – that this question is known as “The Boy or Girl Paradox”, and that there is quite some controversy revolving around it.

Your intuition might fool you

Intuitively most people will say that the answer is 50 percent, while some say 33 percent. But who is right? My smart friend was – overconfident as always – insisting on 50 percent, or rather a little more, since there are more boys than girls in this world. Happily, I told him he was wrong - thinking I knew the answer – while pointing out that one reason why we make wrong decisions is our intuitive (but wrong) understanding of probabilities. I also told him that his feeling of certainty (unfortunately) didn’t change the underlying mathematics.

Still, this smart guy refused to accept my claim that the answer wasn’t 50 percent, even when I made it clear that it was a mathematical – not a biological – problem, I was posing. And luckily his strong, opposing, position, made me doubt the validity of the answer I had read to be the correct one. So, what else to do than try to find the solution to the problem with a pure empirical experiment with what was at hand: a deck of cards, mostly used for playing poker with my neighbor, while observing his delectable dame.

The experiment

I took a standard deck of cards (Bee cards, but any deck will do), with 26 red cards and 26 black cards – and shuffled them like a magician on magic mushrooms. Then I turned the top two cards, and wrote down their color, the color representing the gender: red being girl, black being boy – well-knowing that not all newborn boys are Negroes. I shuffled again, and took two new cards. I repeated this one hundred times, every time noting if I had handpicked two ballistic boys, two syrupy girls, or one of each. I knew 100 runs was a small sample, but I was impatient – and in a hurry to set this smart guy straight – so I counted the number of times I had given birth to two girls. It turned out to be in 43 percent of the cases (not counting the cases with two boys), and I was puzzled.

43 percent was not quite the 50 percent the smart guy claimed, but neither was it the 33 percent, as was the correct answer, according to Leonard Mlodinow. It was somewhere in between, unfortunately closer to what my cocky friendo had said. So, there was only one thing to do: collect more empirical data, in other words – carry on.

200 runs later, shuffling the deck between each and every turn, I now had more significant data. With 300 runs in all, the percentage of cases with two girls with red (and glossy) lipstick was approaching 33 percent – 34.3 to be exact. And the Boy or Girl Paradox had been empirically solved, or at least verified.

The explanation

The explanation is – although counterintuitive to begin with – quite obvious when you hear it. First, consider the possible combinations of boys and girls. It can be boy-boy, boy-girl, girl-girl or girl-boy. Now, discard one of these options: the one with boy-boy (since we know, from the question, that one of the children is a girl). We now have three possible combinations, and only in one of them (girl-girl) the other child is also a girl. So, the answer is – of course – one out of three, or approximately 33 percent.