Wednesday, June 18, 2008

The night Hiroshi Nakamura was buried, something strange happened. Six feet under.

Beneath the new, white shirt, somewhere between the failed heart and decaying pancreas, a glow appeared. As dim as a firefly's. It began to expand, spherically. Six feet above, the gushing wind performed an unplugged number with the rustling leaves as accompaniment. The Cure’s Lullaby came to mind.

It grew stronger now. Parts of this luminous energy penetrated through the tiniest of gaps of the coffin and the earth.

Back at the café, the unconscious stranger with the white shirt and lady-like long, limp hair was lying on the floor. Poor Sheena. Marie Claire certainly did not prepare her for a situation like this. The crowd had fled. Failed in hunting down the culprits (obviously!), Shigeru, the accidental Red Cross Society member, returned and attended to the stranger. No pulse. He ran for the first-aid kit in the kitchen. Perhaps Hero has left a deep impact on him but has it not occurred to him that the most sensible thing to do was to call 999?

Jings was gently shaking Sheena. An attempt to help her regain consciousness.

It was all quiet now, except for the oxidizing sounds of metal pieces of the burning car.

The pool of blood expanded. The floating sequins shimmered against the burning fire. Sangria with crushed ice...Delicious.

A familiar glow appeared, from within the stranger.

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