the first stone

last night I dreamt I had found the girl of my dreams. She was cute, had a great sense of humour and was into batman trivia. Wherever we went, I held her close - as if she'd vanish if I were to let go - but then I found out I was dreaming (so I was right after all) so I left her to join the basketball team, and then I somehow got roped into joining an underground rebel operation run by a surly Russian gentleman of hefty build and ruddy complexion, complete with an unruly, beer-stained mess of hair that clung to his chin. Escorted by my contact, we made our rendezvous in a dilapidated old eastern-european apartment building, with debris and dust decorating the stairs, spartan wallpaper peeling back to reveal bare plaster and mortar. In growling english, he tried to explain the plan to me, which involved chips, which he pronounced shits, but his accent was just too thick for me to understand and whenever I asked him to repeat something, he'd just glare at me in an expression of aged annoyance.

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Stop! Stop! The man yelled in Japanese, almost screaming. His words were punctuated by the ferocious blows he received, replaced by breathless wheezing as the air escaped his lungs. The teahouse patrons had slowly risen from their seats to watch the debacle unfold. Waitresses in their aprons had retreated behind the counter and peeked out through the kitchen doorway as they stood horrified with hands to their mouths, frozen in shock. A table lay on its side as spilled soup snaked its way through the irregular grooves of cold tiling and embedded textures upon the floor, staining the grave masonry into darker shades. The police officer echoed the man's pleas in Mandarin, but without any conviction or accompanying action. He had his arms stretched out wide on either side, in a half-hearted pantomime of trying to hold back the hungry crowd that had gathered outside. They gladly played along, contented to watch and spur on their compatriot in clamorous voices of violent indignation. The Japanese man was now writhing on his side, legs tucked into his chest with both arms raised, trying to protect his head while signaling his surrender. His assailant, face contorted in monstrous rage, paid no heed and continued his frenzied attacks, sometimes kicking, sometimes stepping as he aimed at the man's head and belly and anywhere else that was left exposed, raining down blow after blow until the man's cries became a guttering gargle of blood and teeth as bits of brain and hair scattered themselves across the floor. When the beatings subsided, the people had grown quiet. A deathly silence descended upon the crowd who held their breath as if waiting for the man to get up, but he did not. Green winds rustled through invisible leaves. The madness had left the air, and the people, suddenly aware of what they had just witnessed, walked away without a word, one by one and left his crumpled body there.