TE16 Turkish Delight

Needlefish himself counted nothing. Not the cigarettes he smoked, nor the old people whose feet he deliberately stepped on in crowded streets. There are two kinds of people in the world: those who tap the brakes when they see a yellow light and those that step on the gas instead. The driver of the taxi from the backseat of which Koma sat surveying the city was the latter. He leaned his full weight on the gas petal as soon as he saw the light turn yellow. Koma could tell from his black hair and bushy moustache that they hailed from the came country. There’s a feather’s width of distance between the ignoramus and the anarchist. All the books to be read stand precarious on top of that feather in the middle. By the time historians blow on the dusty archives, however, neither the feather nor the distance will remain. The ignoramus has run the yellow light, as has the anarchist. He could have conversed with his dark driver in their native language, but they were both tired. And angry, of course. The driver had had big dreams, such as to return to his hometown in a Mercedes 500SEC. Dreams sitting on fat tires. Koma’s own dreams concerned themanwhohad, tenminutes ago, left one less cigarette in his pack. Who would be the first to find his dream? Koma knew how much the Mercedes cost. The mustachioed driver didn’t have much of a chance. That left only him. The evil eye bead winking at him from under the rearview mirror said he would be seeing the gray eyed man again…

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