#phantasy

Dies ist der Beginn der Geschichte "Die 3 Helden, Wie alles begann"

Der Igel verunglückte bei einer Motorradfahrt. Der Bär kam ihm zu Hilfe und brachte ihn ins Krankenhaus. Dort wird er geröntgt und festgestellt, dass das Bein gebrochen war.

Morgen zeige ich euch, wie es weitergeht.

"Whimsical Mushroom" From TAOZI & LIZHI Copyright: 2023 Hangzhou Litchi Technology Co., Ltd.

Ivan Petrovich lived on the first floor of the apartment complex. These were the cheapest and most unsafe apartments.

The bus snorted like an old colt as it pulled into the terminal. The man emerged chewing gum, his hands in his pockets (you never know when someone might grab you). He took a few steps, inhaling the crisp autumn air. Although there was a smell of grease emanating from the street food stalls, Ivan considered it a relief after returning from the chemical plant, trying to catch his breath amidst so many packing animals.

He leaned against the wall and checked the terminal’s watch. His friend will be arriving by train soon. He walked along the platforms, crossed the sleepers, and waited on the opposite platform.

A boy was passing by selling cigarettes. He wanted to call out to him, but his own hand stopped him; he was trying to quit. He spat out his gum, took two more from the pack in his pocket, and chewed them like a dog with mange.

He leaned against a lamppost and looked at the city. The city looked back at him. Warm orange light filled the air as people came and went, like ants searching for breadcrumbs. Soon the festivities would begin, and the pandemonium would double. No more cars were on the road; the traffic jam could be deadly. More people emerged from buses and hurried home to watch the season's reality show. Ivan didn’t pay attention to the idiot box. Small concessions he had to make to coexist. For him, the city represented a different kind of security; he no longer saw the dry browns or dark grays of the countryside. Now he could live his life and pursue his childhood projects.

The scent of ozone was the portent that announced the arrival of the magnetic levitation train. Silently, the train pulled into the station. Few people ventured out at that hour, so it wasn't hard to run into Markov.

- “How are you doing, brute?” asked the newcomer.

- “How are you doing, one-eyed?” replied the one chewing gum.

- “Good, it’s great that we’re watching the game at Osvaldo’s tomorrow. I hope he grills something.”

- “I hadn’t heard.”

Markov straightened up and looked at him.

- “It’s okay. That old fart owes me money. He’s probably hiding.”

- “I’ll talk to him tomorrow…”

- “Don’t worry about it. Seriously. I’ll sort it out later, I’m not going to ruin your day.” Ivan interrupted; he was too proud to accept help from anyone, especially his friend from technical school.

Markov didn’t want to argue; it was pointless with Ivan.

They headed for “Omelette,” or so everyone said. French was difficult, and if you drank a lot at that place, the word would be simplified, and it doesn’t make much sense to use a fancy term for an even simpler place. The young man tended the bar and greeted them. They sat down and ordered the first of what would be many drinks. The bartender brought out two bottles of wine cut in half and poured the house special: fermented potato with whiskey. The friends took the makeshift glasses and toasted to their health.

- "How 's Susana?" Ivan asked.

- "Good. The test results came back, thankfully she's fine," his friend sipped.

- "Great. When's she coming back to the orchestra?"

- "I don't know, I didn't ask her. We were just happy it was a simple fever."

The black diesel-powered earthquake sped through the station at breakneck speed. The young man grabbed a couple of bottles that were outside the drawers. The old friends clutched their drinks with both hands, mesmerized by the parade of lightning that illuminated the dive bar.

-  “How long has it been since you went out dancing?” Ivan asked.

- “No idea. What about you?”

- “I don’t have time.” He ordered another drink.

- “You never have time,” he finished his and placed his glass next to the other.

- “I don’t like going far away.”

- “Well, don’t. Do something nearby.”

- “There’s nobody here.”

- “There has to be someone.”

- “I don’t want to talk about it.”

- “It happens to all of us. No need to get worked up about it.”

- “I told you I don’t want to talk about it.”

Markov stopped, looked at his glass, and finished it.

Ivan took his, he felt like he was losing his touch. He didn’t want to admit it.

The ritual continued its slow progress; the straggling clientele came in, got their fuel, and left without a word. Specters covered in soot or engine grease, some pristine with fingers yellowed from so much nicotine, all the same in their difference. The march of progress waited for no one; everyone trotted along with it as best they could. The hours passed happily for a couple of friends who hadn't seen each other in a month and a half. Closing time was approaching.

- "I was thinking of moving," Markov said, tossing a couple of worn bills onto the counter.

The boy snatched them up like a magician; one moment they were there, the next they were gone. He continued wiping the bar.

- "Where to? Not too far, near work," he added, swiveling in his chair and glancing at the door.

- “I’d think about it. They say the oil company’s housing isn’t sanitary, that nobody lasts more than two years.”

- “I’m not going to live in that pigsty, nor in a palace. There’s a cooperative nearby that bought an old lot; it used to be a caustic soda factory. They’re remodeling it to make a housing complex. Security? They bought the new high-density, high-molecular-density “nium” not even God himself could penetrate them. Now they’ve announced they’re laying the pipes. I know what you’re thinking. I want to save money. I know the company is going to bring schools to that area. Susan is asking me to take the next step with her.” He stared at the empty space of the bar, beyond the door, beyond the city.

- “I’m scared,” he admitted, defeated by the weight of his lean muscles mixed with guilt.

Ivan downed his glass in one gulp. He put his hand on the lookout’s shoulder and patted his back. In the back of his mind floated a song by some guy called "Vicentico" that he'd heard once on that endless trip.

- "I'm going to close up," the boy said, taking five greasy bills from Ivan.

As fleetingly as it had arrived, the music faded into the back of the storeroom.

Both pairs of feet were already in the crisp autumn air; the last buses were speeding off to their destinations.Ivan rubbed his hands together and headed for the apartment.

- "Can I stay in your place tonight?" Markov asked.

- "What happened? Did she kick you out again?" Ivan was in the vortex of alcohol.

- "That crazy woman dreamt I was cheating on her and kicked me out this morning," he admitted from the other side of the vortex.

They were both two blocks from the apartment.

- “But you always come back,” replied his good friend, searching for his keys in his pocket, an acquired habit: keeping the large, red front door key close at hand. It was his lucky charm, and he could swear it exuded a familiar warmth when he held it in his palm.

- “But I always come back…” he added melancholically. “What a great body she had, and how she played the piano…”

The first siren wailed down the street, leaning against an armored truck. Paramedics heading to the hospital wards.

- “Everything passes, the pain passes,” Ivan said, checking his jacket.

Some say that to sober up you need a bucket of cold water. Others swear by strong, black coffee. But in this particular case, the absence of the key brought him back to the present, regaining his focus, and filling him with panic.

Ivan Petrovich had moved to the capital, “more civilized and safe,” said the old chemistry teacher, that optimistic and ignorant old man. The day Ivan arrived with his moving boxes, an ambulance met him at the entrance of the apartment complex. Paramedics carried a large garbage bag on a stretcher out of the building's green hallways. The place hadn't had a caretaker for a week; the previous one, drunk, had left the door open.

- "Stop! I can't find the key!" Ivan took off his jacket and shook it out like someone dusting blankets in the sun. Bills, chewing gum, and coins fell onto the sidewalk, scarred with rust.

- "I think I left it at the bar."

His friend stopped and looked over his shoulder; they had already crossed the point of no return. He took out his wristwatch (a gift from Susana) and tried to read it in his alcohol-induced blindness, but the falling shadows made it impossible to focus on the mechanical dial. Out of nowhere, Ivan held his trembling arm as if taking a pulse and read the time: one minute until the second alarm.

They took off running, forgetting their jackets and the bills.

- “Sergio’s still answering the door, he’ll let us in,” he groaned, his torso exposed to the cold and the approaching night.

The commotion in the street fell silent, and the silence morphed into frenetic echoes.

Mute silhouettes from the heights above watched the couple’s misguided gallop from their apartments. The wounded sun was setting, the shadows rising proudly. Everything acquired a luminous halo. A broken mirror leaning against a dumpster, the wet windshield of a car: a constellation, the white surfaces now orange under the streetlights.

Ivan crossed the street, passing close to the sun, and picked up the pace even more. Markov, on the other hand, stumbled like Icarus, all his weight on his left leg; he yelled, he had sprained his ankle. Ivan was six meters from his home. He stopped like a dove in the rain. He turned to watch his friend limp slowly in his direction, looked ahead, there was the automatic light in the lobby.

- “There’s time,” he lied to himself.

He ran to Markov’s aid, arm over shoulder, good foot planted firmly, and they began skipping together, their movements arrhythmic.

The second armored truck was fleeing the sound of its alarm.

The pair arrived panting at the vault door. Ivan pressed the buzzer with the microphone.

- “It’s Ivan. From 1E, I need the key.”

Static answered

- “Come on, Bondiola, open up!”

More static.

“You stinking bastard, I hope you choke on shit!” He’d already dropped the microphone. Frustrated, the man kicked the door hard. His fingers ached, but he felt it. He lifted his leg, balanced, but failed; if it hadn’t been for Markov, he’d almost fallen on his head. He took off his shoe, plunged his icy hand inside the stinking leather, and pulled it out. He dropped the shoe, inserted the key, turned it hard, and both, sober from panic, pushed. Ivan, one foot cold and the other higher, went inside. Markov, one foot numb and the other crying, jumped in. Fat Bondiola was waiting for them. Ivan wasn’t sure if he’d heard the last part of the monologue, but the greeting from the manager told him otherwise. The three of them pushed the door to close it, Bondiola locked the door and one by one they checked that the opening was really closed. Slowly and silently, they climbed the stairs (it was forbidden to use the elevator at that hour). Ivan reached 1E first, pushed open the door, and they entered with a triumphant weariness. He settled Markov into the chair near the LP and closed the door. - "Want some wine for the pain?" Ivan whispered. Markov responded with his index and middle fingers, the universal sign for "double." A bottle emerged from the refrigerator. There were no clean glasses, so Ivan poured a couple of cups and filled them to the brim. They toasted to the air and downed the wine.

As the hot liquid flowed through their insides, someone screamed in fear in the distance. The men closed their eyes, concentrating on tasting the imported product, imagining themselves in the Argentine vineyards depicted on the bottle's illustration, at the crack of midday.

The steel sheeting covering the windows began to crack, trash cans were overturned or slammed against the houses. Ivan didn't want to listen, but he couldn't avoid it. A car alarm blared, the sidewalk mirror fell and shattered with a rhythmic crack, streetlights were being knocked down. All in the direction of the dead man. Ivan imagined his shoe being kicked and his coins rolling freely down the street without their owner.

Markov gestured for his ears to be covered with his palms. The host nodded, and they sat with their backs to the wobbly ironing board. They put on their headphones and turned on the high-quality surround sound music player. Ivan selected "Für Elise," and they both closed their eyes.