Ares Desmonov

I am the product of a millennium of pity and audacity
I am the one who gives my best and gets slammed down and fucked up
I am the fringes of the hair of burning bodies,
I am every dead tree from here to fucking hell.
I breathe ashes and my heart pumps pumice
I am the bomb under the train
I am the straw that severs the camel’s back
I am the frigid breeze that sucks the last breath out of a beaten man.

The world doesn’t owe me anything. Likewise, I don’t owe it shit. I am the shadow of an aristocratic society, and I am the roach that doesn’t die.

I am a smoker, I am an atheist, I am a lying idiot. I laugh when bridges collapse, buildings burn and society crumbles beneath its own weight.

I am not a very large man, no not by any means, one man’s brute strength compares not to the mental brawn of one hundred.

…One hundred and thirty seven.

Yes, that seems accurate, I am a number freak. There are fourteen stairs leading down from St. York Bridge. The wooden door leading into the cell (I call it a cell, for it feels not like a normal home. I will not give the world the satisfaction of calling it a home) is constructed of five boards and three steel bars that cross at different points. There is exactly eight thousand, four hundred and seventy two stones that lead to an arch way that is made up of four large beams. Now, as for the number that makes up the inner chamber, I cannot say. I have been counting for the past eight days and I have counted twenty-two thousand fourteen bricks. Or maybe it was fifteen. Fuck.

The cell is very dreary, so, homely. Scratch that, it is not homely, it suits my needs just as well as a man’s needs should be suited. Every day we toil here. I believe I have already mentioned the “we” so it bears no repeating or elaboration. What do we do down here one would ask? Well, at the risk of sounding like a copy cat, we make bombs. I saw that movie Fight Club, I think that’s what finally made me decide to fuck up society for whatever hidden motives my undiscovered split personality had.

We have numbers, but we lack the same organization that the move had. I would kill to have a consulting alter-ego. In fact, I have been trying to develop one for the past three months and fifteen days. It doesn’t work.

We tried blowing up our “targets”. Since we lack objectives, most of these attacks were personal grudges and fifty percent of the time it didn’t even make the paper. We had one big job that went off smoothly, except for the fact that we blew up the wrong place. Now one would say this should be obvious as to which building we should blow up. It should have been, if not for whatever half ass architect decided to interlink the two buildings with no sort of notification. Not even a single sign. Out of fifty six signs in that building, not a single one said anything about the fact that we went from our target (a member’s former employer) to a circuit of wires and pipes that supply the majority of the city’s power. Needless to say, we made news that time. That is, whatever printing presses that were still operational at the time printed what little they knew and made up. We were said to be four to five African Americans armed with M16’s and bullet proof vests. They said it was a narrow escape and they interviewed Deputy Harrowitz to tell of his heroic battle against us, and how we barely escaped.
…
There were two of us, both white. We came in the building with ragged t-shirts and no weapons at all, save the bomb. There was not a soul on duty and we were in and out without a hitch. Apparently there was an epic battle that I partook in that I was unaware of.

I am a man whose name sparks no particular interest. I am a man who expects nothing and gets nothing. I am utterly contempt at being a failure. My life sounds comedic so far. Don’t be fooled. My eyes have witnessed death in it’s full glory, my hands have passed through life like ashes through lungs, I have sat in wait, like tar in your soul. Waiting. Waiting. Till I am where I am today. I am Ares Desmonov.