“Can’t remember the last time I visited this city,” Frank’s body sunk into the armchair. “Four years ago, I think.”

     “That long?” Hardy wondered.

     “Yeah, yeah,” Frank nodded his head. “If not more.”

     They were sitting in a booth, isolated from the other guests in the bar.

     “What's the capacity here?” Frank wondered, looking towards the corridor that lead to the main hall of the establishment.

     “Maybe eight hundred,” estimated Hardy.

     “Eight hundred times twenty bucks entry fee…” Frank winked to Hardy and pulled a pack of cigarettes out of his leather jacket.

     “Plus, if everyone orders roughly three drinks, times four bucks each…” Hardy added and pulled a pack of cigarettes from his pocket as well.

     “Good money.”

     “Very good.”

     They lit their cigarettes. The waiter brought two beers, which they ordered while they were standing at the bar a few minutes earlier.

     “You know what, fuck money!” said Frank and put his bottle down after taking a single sip. Hardy gave him a skewed look. “I’m serious,” Frank continued and took a puff on his cigarette. “I’m telling you, I’m sick of it all.”

     “You’re sick of money?”

     “Of everything. Money, work, everything. I’m sick of it. I wish I could go into the wilderness, build me a cabin, buy a cow, some sheep, and chickens, plant a garden, some fruit trees and take it from there.”

     Hardy chuckled. “So, you want to be a farmer, or shepherd? Something like that?”

     “Why not? We can laugh all we want. Those guys are living the life. No stress and shit like that. Simple and beautiful. Out in the fresh air all day long, eating good food… what you give is what you get. You work for yourself and not for someone else… don’t know… I would like that.”

     Hardy shook his head laughing. “I don’t know, man…” he said and took a sip of his beer.

     “What?” Frank interrupted him. “There’s nothing to know. That’s how life should be like. You only work as much as you need. Not more, not less. Everyone wants to own more than they need for one lifetime. ‘Better safe than sorry,’ they say. Well, I’m sorry either way, I can tell you that much.”

     The corridor leading to the booth they were sitting in suddenly filled up with gruesome screams and uproars. A female voice greeted the guests. Loud music started to punch through the speakers as if at any moment now a stampede of angry bulls would jump out of them. The female voice, accompanied by too much echo and delay effects, shrieked off-key notes.

     “There it is,” Hardy said and sipped his beer. Frank nodded. “There will be more guests later on, I assume.”

     “I think so too,” Frank agreed and turned back to the conversation they were having.

     Hardy started to peel off the label on his beer bottle. “So,” he said while doing this,     “you’re going to be a farmer.”

     “Lord willing,” Frank smiled.

     “I wish you all the best with that.”

     “And you will become one too once you see how stress-free the whole thing is,” said Frank.

     Hardy put his beer bottle down and leaned back in his armchair. Frank fixated his eyes on a point above Hardy’s head.

     “There was a man once,” said Frank with a storyteller’s voice, “who was lying on a river bank fishing. It was a beautiful day. The first beautiful day of spring. Simply perfect. He was lying there for hours and caught almost a bucketful of fish. Then a business man came along. He saw the fisherman and his bucket of fish. ‘Is that all from just today?’ the businessman asked. ‘Yes,’ the fisherman replied. ‘Just from lying there?’ the businessman inquired. The fisherman nodded his head. ‘You know… you could catch a lot more fish if you weren’t just lying there,’ said the businessman. But the fisherman simply asked ‘What for?’. The businessman was stunned by his answer. ‘What do you mean what for? You catch more fish than you can eat, sell the remaining fish for profit and buy yourself an additional fishing rod so you can catch even more fish.’ ‘What for?’ asked the fisherman uninterestedly. The businessman started to lose his patience. ‘You then sell the remaining fish you caught with two rods and buy yourself a fishing net.’ ‘What for?’ asked the fisherman once again. ‘Then you catch more fish and sell more fish. A few months doing this and you’ll earn enough money to buy a boat, so you can catch even more fish’ said the businessman and started waving with his hands and pointing to the middle of the river. ‘What for?’ asked the fisherman again. The businessman got angry and started yelling from the top of his lungs: ‘Then you buy ten boats and hire ten men to work for you, and you can retire and lie all day doing nothing but fishing.’ The businessman was out of breath, and the fisherman looked at him and said: ‘And what, in God’s name, do you think I’m doing right now?’

     Hardy burst out laughing as if he was satisfied on an, to that point unknown, level of his soul.

     “And that’s what you’re going to do?” Hardy asked.

     “Why not? Get up in the morning; clean the stable, feed the cows and the sheep; look after the chickens; steal some eggs from them; pick some tomatoes and onions from the garden; sit down on my home-made wooden bench and eat breakfast. Easy. Without stress. Look after the garden after breakfast. Look after the farm animals before going to bed. Simple and easy.”

     “You’ve figured it all out,” Hardy said, watching Frank who was taken by his own story.

     “Isn’t that the real essence of life?

Hardy shrugged. Frank puffed on his cigarette one more time before putting it out in the ashtray. The music from the corridor reached its peak.

     “Shall we?” Frank asked.

     “Let’s do this,” Hardy replied and pulled a piece of black cloth out of his jacket.

Frank did the same thing. They put their masks on their faces so that only their eyes, noses and mouths could be seen. Frank pulled a black pistol from behind his back, and Hardy reached into his backpack and pulled out a revolver.

I read a book once,

neither highbrow nor pulp fiction,

however,

it got me thinking

about the times I used to wonder

what makes a man a man,

and a man a coward.

Now I know,

I guess, I know, but rather wouldn’t.

I’d rather stumble through my thoughts

blinded by the glare

of crushing despair.

No, you’re not fair.

Your death may seem

like an act of God or nature

or whatever name was given to that force

by your teacher,

but deep inside,

where usually just the bile boils

and acrimony coins

new words to describe my hate,

I found a sprout of faith,

which I crushed so it couldn’t grow

and cast a shade.

No,

your death was not an act of God.

Don’t flatter yourself,

he doesn’t care.

You’re nothing special,

you’re not unique,

you’re not rare…

Your death wasn’t

a plan of the divine.

It simply wasn’t fair.