bullet in my head

odor of rotten fish and petrol, wooden floor, fabricated Self-portrait of van gogh was hanging on the wall, lifelessly; it's funny how the modern arts is worshipping the master pieces of someone who committed suicide, yet he was highly regarded as a lunatic during his time 200 years back, things do change, hur?

rusty dentist's chair, where i was bound to, damn it i couldnt move, no matter how hard i struggled...he came in, without a word, pulled my hair and for once i thought my head's gonna detach from my neck, i cant see his face; if i did, things would have been easier

he was speaking something apparently that i couldnt understand, beyond my linguistic capability; his body language was rather clear: frustrated and furious; he gave me two hooks on my face, broke my nose, the blood mess'd up everything; another jab landed on my chest, forcing the air out of my lung, coughing was the aftermath...i tried to cross my arms to attempt defiant defence, but they were just far apart, bounded to the arms of the rusty dentist's chair, helplessly; adrenaline rush in the body probably was the only explaination that i could tell myself why i couldnt feel that much of the pain..

he drew out his combat knife, chopped off my index finger; futility of struggle was proven again, by more blood and a dismembered index finger; i was covered in sweat, i couldnt figure out what made my skin sticky, blood or sweat..he then bended over and whispered at my ear, in the tone resembles the president giving his inaugural speech; i didnt give a damn of what he said, my attention was at the index finger that used to be mine, and wondered loudly who the hell was he...

by the time i recovered from the shock, i saw the .45 caliber in his hand, pointing at me and he finally said something that i could respond to, "last words?"; "beg for my mercy", so i said and he pulled the trigger...

2 months ago, this was the content of my perversive dream, thereafter i used the term for my nick, as somehow i do think something is in my head...or perhaps, i shall quit reading spy novels, and drown myself in hug-and-kiss romance, not exactly a good idea anyway...

just a sidenote, HMV stands for His Master's Voice, it's ridiculously true, just for your infomation..