The Fire. Today it’s 24th, it’s Christmas Eve and I’ve outdone myself. I’ve bought the saddest piece of shit money could buy, even shittier than a live scorpion if you can imagine that. Have you ever heard of the so-called “Clothes folder”? Well, until today I didn’t, and to my surprise this shit was so easily available in my hometown as well and, OMG, it was only a click away from me. The shopping whore within exulted bathed in utter joy. Google it and for 10 euros (or so) you’re officially labeled as a sad person. I can only assume that this kind of crap is invented by men like me and for men like me. I pictured myself in my underwear folding t-shirts, shirts, sweaters, stacking them in huge towers and I laughed but, on the other hand, I couldn’t resist to the temptation of standardising my crumpled ass pile of fabric which, for years, I called “my wardrobe”. I know, I should’ve felt miserable. Neah, I didn’t. I’ve felt a certain accomplishment instead. It was too tempting. Click click click aaaaand it’s official. Yes!!! Now what? Looked around and I felt the void. I rushed after my new jacket – at the time of purchase I pretended it was a Christmas gift from my daughters – grabbed the house keys from the top of my kitchen isle, stormed out of my home and took a short walk into my neighbourhood. Don’t know exactly why. Perhaps to avoid a cruel and apparently imminent asphyxiation in solitude? I hate walking, running, jogging, climbing, squatting, I hate anything even remotely related to using my legs without a purpose so I here I am questioning myself about my sudden impulse. Exactly like with my clothes folder, this walk looked a bit pointless too. I quickly gave myself a logical reason and it made sense: I left my apartment to buy a small box of Belgian chocolate so I can squeeze something underneath my 4 years old super tiny artificial Christmas tree which I carried around with me all over the world. It’s so dusty that it became a hazard for anyone allergic but I don’t give a fuck. I’m not. What the hell am I doing? I don’t even like chocolate… OK, I eat it from time to time for the burst of energy but I don’t love it. It felt to me that it’s the least festive gesture I could do for myself on this far-from-glorious fucking day. The streets are almost empty, it’s sunny but really cold. Stores everywhere are closing – or about to – and I see people hurrying to make it before they lock their doors. I’ve bought my shitty Belgian box of chocolate, turned on the high volume in my headphones and I cocooned myself away from the surroundings. I have never felt so alone. Suddenly my chest started to ache and a tear popped out. It infuriated me beyond any description. Fuck this predicament, that’s it, I can’t bear it anymore. Enough is enough. I grabbed my phone out of my pocket, I quickly wrote “let’s do this. I’m ready” , shoved it back into my jacket and my song never sounded better. Now I’m smiling. It’s on, bitch, see you on the other side!

The Grass. The word for plain grass in Arabic is literally “hashish” but in today’s lingo it stands mostly for “drugs”. The legend goes that it is also the root of the word “assassin” but the reality is, as always, a bit different. Way different. The legend is complete bullshit; is it a surprise? No. It’s not. Not to me, anyways. It is as true as Count Dracula’s story. Indeed, “hashish” and “assassin” may sound similar, to a hearing impaired or to a non-arabic speaker it may be tempting to confuse them or to associate them phonetically but the funny truth is that the word “assassin” derives from “assas” which translates into “principle” in arabic. You see, for three centuries Nizari’s (a Persian/Syrian unorthodox kingdom) were a shiite-muslim sect which kinda ruled like gangstas numerous small pockets of strongholds and territories throughout Middle East, scattered all over from Persia to Syria and the weirdest thing is that they did it all this time without employing a regular army! How cool is that! They hired and trained instead, a highly skilled brigade of deadly super-warriors (Fida’i) which called themselves “assasyiun”… the plural for “adept of a principle” – a muslim deep religious principle which is, by default, (duh!) totally against the consumption of any type of hallucinogenic substance, in general, not only against drugs. How did they manage to bitchslap everybody for three centuries with this rather caricatural army? Well, by seeding havoc throughout a series of surgical swift key-executions of their enemy leaders whenever their sudden and tragic deaths served the Nizari’s interest. Carried out exclusively by knife, by the way. They were men of principles, remember? No poison, no ninja stars, no swords, no bullets, no arrows, nor cinematic kung-fu jumps, only short blades. Close contact, bitches. No one was safe. Do you remember the Faceless Men of Braavos whom trained Arya Stark in the popular GOT? Yep, that’s the Nizari sect of highly trained assassins which served as an inspiration for the secondary story within the main one. Nice tits, Khaleesi!… Where was I? Oh… ahm… yes… bottom line, when Nizari’s wanted your sad ass you weren’t just fucked, you were super proper fucked, gone, erased, deleted. That’s the truth. The Mongols managed to put an end to the Nizari’s kingdom but they failed to do the same with their fame. “Sometimes numbers make the difference, especially in bank statements; the more the merrier” I hear women saying around the place I live. Mongols came in large numbers and they erased geography itself right off the maps… :))) No one can handle that kind of managerial approach, can he? Well, what else can I say, Marco “fuck you” Polo’s inability to fully reproduce the sounds of such a complex language as Arabic, a shitty ass misunderstanding and his lack of knowledge in general gave birth to this false myth. What a surprise, another European fuckup. I always say that a better knowledge of the world you’re living in, including its history, gives you a clearer perspective about your current times in general. Why am I suddenly bringing up these weird stories? Well, the funny thing is that for the first time you’re gonna find the words “hashish” (drugs) and “assas” (principle) in one simple sentence: I need hashish because I hired an assassin. The mark lives deep down within me and I’m after his ass.

The deadly Principle. Well… I’ll talk to you after my trip

to be continued…

Planet Floreasca