Cette article date de 2020… J’ai appris la nouvelle le matin même de sa mort et j’ai eu un peu mal au coeur. Voici un des deux articles que j’avais posté en 2020. Une page ce tourne, encore une après Belmondo. Mais la beauté, elle, reste.Au fait revoir Monsieur Delon
Hier, j’ai posté un article rempli de photographies et de gif d’un jeune Alain Delon. Ce soir en faisant les courses et en passant devant le rayon magazine, je tombe sur un France Dimanchehors-série sur LE MONSIEUR !
Un heureux hasard ? Oui ou non, j’ai 225 photos exclusives de Delon à regarder alors à la prochaine !
There’s A Killer On The Road, His Brain Is Squirmin’ Like A Toad — The doors – Riders on the Storm
Stopping after four hours of roads, in the need of good whiskey on the rocks.
A diner to the right. Turning the engine off, lit a cigarette, relax a little bit. Watching the sunset behind a mountain covered by pine trees.
Last hit on the smoke. Leaving the car, the good feeling of the body and his muscle stretching. The fresh air of the evening on the face, birds singing their last songs before going to sleep.
Heading to the dinner. Sitting on the table, looking at the other patrons. Tired, pensive faces. Feeling like eating a burger.
A waitress coming, ordering a whiskey on the rock.
Waiting. Looking at the window to see the decor going dark slowly. Cars and trucks passing by, headlights hurting the eyes. Looking again at the other clients. Silence. Peaceful.
Whisky arrives. The sounds of the ice cube hitting the glass, the good smell of alcohol.
Taking the first sip, always the most difficult one. Taking the time, enjoying the taste of the liquor, smiling. Resting the head and the shoulder on the couch. Looking up at the celling, the fans move slowly, hypnotizing. The neon lights gently projecting their lights.
Taking a look at the phone, no message nor call. Great. Sweet loneliness. Putting the phone back in the pocket. Thinking of the roads still ahead, not knowing yet if sleep will be an inconvenience. Hoping for a motel if needed.
The lady alone across the dinner, she’s pretty. Yet, alone. Wondering why. Maybe attractive people love to be alone too. Hoping to catch her eyes. Hoping to not look like a creep.
Looking at this overweight middle aged white men. Blue jeans have seen better day. Generic and used boots, a black denim jacket. Three days old scruffy beard. Black sunglass. Half eaten burger on the plate. A beer.
A young black man. Look cool. Prestigious university coat, reading a newspaper. A pen in his hand, a notebook laying next to his phone, the kid his probably studying. Dedication, futur of this country.
A woman, skinny. Wrinkles marking his faces. A pack of cigarettes on the table, next to French fries. Plate almost empties. Wearing a white shirt with no sleeve. She don’t fear the cold night coming. She looks in front of her, her gaze lost somewhere in her mind. Her elbow on the table, the hands joined together. Almost look like she’s praying.
The waitress at the counter browsing her phone. Her shift probably over or about to be. Her long and curvy black hair are beautiful. Her nail are done, can hear them touch the screen of the phone.
Marving Gaye voice singing smoothly, he wonders what’s going on.
Everyone here seem to have a question, they need answer.
They maybe need a gun.
Could wipe out mine and finish every one of them, for no reason.
Why not?
The calling of senseless violence forcing it’s way in the brain.
Breathing slowly, keeping a straight mind. Alcohol doesn’t help… or do. A slowly growing panic attack.
There’s already a dead body in the truck of the car.
Leaving a good tip for the waitress. Leaving.
Turning the engine on.
Get back on the road.
Appearance is such a lie. Being normal is too easy.
Might hunt for another victims when coming back home. Can’t stop.
The need for a smoke came back stronger than ever. He literally needed to blow off some steam.
Once again, he had to face this inner demons of temptation. After all, just one, to cool off. But this is the cliché excuse to get back to smoking.
He took a glass of water instead, risking drinking it from the sink, with those terrible drought that had been hitting California recently, their was a significant health risk of drinking water from the tap. But, this was better to drink a potentially cancerous glass of liquid than to definitely inhaling cancer right into his body.
He laid back in the bed, looking at the spot on the celling. He couldn’t see anymore animals nor anything close to what he had saw earlier on it. This was proof that his brain was tired.
Dosing off once again, he felt into a dream, a nightmare in fact.
He was back in the fancy hallway of the Monclar Hotel. Alone. He could hear a scream, a women scream, along with terrifying scritching noise.
The hallway was well lit by a big crystal chandelier hanging from the roof to a few inches of the floor. Jack T. was almost blinded by the flashing crystal light marking his sight with those purple spots on the retina.
He tried to yell his wife name, Clara, but the only sound coming out off his mouth was an animal like groaning. The more he tried to yell, the more the groaning was loud. When he decided to put his hand in front of his eyes to stop the light from burning them, he realised that his hands had become those of a beast.
Long thin finger, with long and thick black nails, and his skin was covered in dense black fur.
By reflex, he took a glance at his lower body part but nothing had changed.
He tried to move around, going up the right set of stairs, the one that leaded to his room. He moved pretty fast. Too fast even. He could control his pace. When he finally managed to reach the top of the set of stairs he took the direction of the corridor leading to his and his wife room. He ran so fast that he blew past the long corridor, pulverising the window at the end of the hallway and ended up in the snow, outside of the hotel that suddenly exploded.
Jack woke up in sweat. Maybe because of the dream, but also because the TV was on fire. He got up from the bed, coughing from the poisonous fumes filling the room and ran to the door. Of course, it was locked. He remembered, for once, where he had put the hotel room key, on the TV stand. The television and the stand where devoured by thick black and red flames. The key was definitely lost. He prompted himself to the window, but he could not understand the mechanism for opening it. Why do hotel room all have those complicated windows opening mechanism along with those complicated showers fonction?
As he was thinking about this, he felt like writing it down on his notebook. He didn’t really cared about his wallet and laptops nor his trousers. He didn’t wanted to have his precious notebook burned, with all these wisdom thought and ideas, going up in flames and destroyed forever, never to be recovered. Jack never trusted his memory capacity, writers had a tendency to forget things pretty fast because they often think about the thousands of things they could write about. Their brains are often on maximum overdrive, keeping them up at night, pushing them to daydream, or nightdream.
Even more interesting stuff that he had to write about on the pages of his beloved notebook that was just standing on the bedside table.
He quickly leaped next to the bed to pick it up. But the notebook was stuck, impossible to grab off the table, like it was glued to the wood.
The writer tried his best to lift it up, planting his nails on the woods, bleeding. The effort made him suffocate even more. He wouldn’t give up, nails were coming off his fingers, shards penetrating deeply in his fingertips.
He opened the door of his room. A smell of cigarette hit him directly. He stopped smoking two months ago and this smell would not help him forget his longing for a good smoke after the stress of traveling. Thankfully, he had no cigarette in his pockets to taunt him even more.
The room had that uniform pale brown colors, a two space bed, a night stand with a phone, a lamp and an ashtray. To the left, the bed, facing it, a TV stand with a top notch television and multiple drawers. A laundry in the wall facing the front door and next to it, to the right, a bathroom with a toilet. A picture perfect motel room.
He let down his luggage on to the floor and laid in bed, looking at the ceiling stained by years of smoking.
One of these spots looked like a rabbit.
Smoke stains are likes clouds, a perfect pareidolia effect material. He took out his notebook to write that thought down. The writer learned to write down every thing that inspired him directly, as to not forget a good idea that could help him in his writing. He never really used the notes he putted down in his journal, it was more of a little obsession, just in case that, one day, the inspiration decided to take a leave from his creative mind.
Curiosity pushed Jack to open the bed side drawer, see if there was a bible. It’s a curious thing to put a bible in hotel rooms he thought to himself. It was not the case in Europe, it was something typically American. Forcing God into your life, guiding the lost sheep back to the Lord’s herd. He wrote those lines down on his notebook before opening the drawer and discovering a tiny black leathered bible and a full pack of Camel cigarettes along with a lighter.
Torrence heartbeat increased for a bit. There were in this drawer God wisdom and the Devil sweet temptation.
He took the bible and opened it where the little strip of tissue served as bookmark.
He read the first line that caught his eyes :
(Luke 22:40) When He arrived at the place, He said to them, “Pray that you may not enter into temptation.”
He sighted, looked at the pack of cigarettes, took it, turned it and smelled the odor of tobacco before putting it down like it was burning his finger.
Sometime, life work in mysterious ways, like God, but it also have frightening coincidences that make you question existence in its whole. Jack was in deep meditating state, wondering if life was nothing but a simulation, a cruel game, lead by a disturbed man.
He got back looking at the roof to discover that the rabbit looked like a bird now. He moved his head to see if it was a change in his position that made this metamorphosis but it wasn’t.
How strange is the thing controlling us. Why does it seem that sometime, he takes a particular interest in you for a moment and giving you the hardest, cruelest and strangest time of your life?
Sleep started to ask for it’s due. Jack took off his trouser and his old leather jacket, rested his head on a pillow and started to dose off.
He started having one of those strange and scary dreams where you feel like falling off a cliff.
Jack woke up immediately. He remembered reading something about those terrific dreams. The brain dropped some kind of adrenaline thinking that it was dying. Or something along those lines. It, once again, marked that room with a dreadful feeling. Something was wrong here. After what happened back at the Monclar hotel back in Colorado, the writer knew that there was some strange and powerful powers, out of our understanding, haunting this place. Only peoples who faced those strange powers know that you shouldn’t mess with those entities…
Jack T. had landed in Los Angeles, California, at 3 AM from a red-eye flight from Seattle.
After renting a ride at the first car dealership, he drove south, toward San Diego, where he had a book signing session for his last work, « Travel With A King ». Not his proudest nor his masterpiece. It was a book with no soul, just for making money.
Since this incident in this fancy hotel in Colorado a couple of years ago, he didn’t felt that writing mojo he used to have anymore. It disappeared in the fire, along with his favorite typewriter, that good old Adler, his loyal assistant since the beginning of his writing career. He also lost his wife and little boy. They aren’t dead, they just don’t want to see him ever again since that dreadful day.
On the interstate 5, driving while Jim Morrison sang lyrics that matched the present moment about driving down a freeway after midnight, Jack felt the heavy weight of sleep affecting his eyelid, therefore his driving, he decided to not taunt the devil, and to stop at the first motel with available vacancy to catch a shower and sleep.
After passing the camp Peddleton, he arrived at Carlsbad where a motel with a view on the Pacific Ocean was available.
He parked his car and took a quick look at the hotel. It was a reflex of his job, he used to think, to take time to watch how things looked and made him feel.
This hotel had nothing really noticeable. It was a regular motel, on three levels. The picture perfect american westcoast hotel. No balcony, doors aligned on three levels directly accessible from the outside. You could watch every tenant going in or out or their room from the front window of your own room.
At the desk, a young man raised his head from his phone as Jack approached.
« – Welcome to the Morrison Hotel. We have room. He said in a atone voice.
Well… yes. It’s say on your billboard that their vacancy available. That’s why I’m here.
Yeah… so ?
I’ll take a room buddy.
All right. Sea side view ?
Yeah, why not.
It coasts more with a view on the sea.
Yeah, give me a room. I just want a good night of sleep.
Room 313, the third floor. Here’s the key.
Thanks.
It’s 35 $.
Yeah, all right.
Also, it’s a weird room.
Sorry what ?
It’s a room with… things.
What are you on about ?
Previous clients complain of noise, knocking on the door. They found their clothes and stuff down in the pantry when they had putted them neatly when they arrived.
Well, that’s sound fun. Is there a ghost or something ?
You wan’t my opinion ?
Yeah…
Definitely. Every time I have to go in this room, I do a little prayer even thought I don’t believe in God.
Jesus ! You surely know how to ease a client !
There is a weird feeling to that room. You’ll probably feel it.
All right. I just want to sleep, maybe a few hours of sleep will not disturb anything that linger here.
Well, I hope for you. I’ve seen your face somewhere but I can’t remember where I saw it. Are you famous or something ?
No. I just write on papers for a living. Anyway, good night buddy.
Yeah, good luck… night mister.
Thanks ! »
Jack started to think that hotels weren’t his things. Everytime, something weird happened when he rented a room.
As he climbs the set of stairs, a feeling of dread took over his body. Every cells in his body was telling him to leave.
Napping…. napping, the nectar of gods ! If you have never had one, had this few minutes or hours of sleep during the day, you’ll never experienced one of the most beautiful life experiences.
A nap can be risky thought. If you sleep too much, you wake up, and it feel like you’re about to finish you day with a light hangover. It passes after one or two hours. But still, it’s annoying. That’s why I’ve set a up a clock, and a habit of taking a nap at the same hour everyday.
Once you got the rhythm of it, that your body and brain is used to it, this little sleeping time is a blissful and welcomed gift you give to yourself.
I had this habit for almost two years. Never felt this good. I was better at my job (what? A napping employee is actually a more performant asset at the job? Don’t tell this to Jeff B… well, he probably doesn’t exist at this time anymore…), felt less anxiety and stress, more happy and, well, alive. Truly alive. I’ve pushed my body and mind too much for years, and now, I give them this afternoon break. Treat yourself right? Well…
Today… or… Yesterday? Or years ago? The last one seem more likely…
Listen, I’ve just taken a nap right? At the usual hour, 2 P.M. Set my alarm for 3:30 P.M. although I generally wake up before the alarm ring. That alarm is just here to avoid sleeping too much and wake up with that hangover feeling.
Well, I got woken up by the clock today… I guess I was more tired than usual, it’s rare but it happens now and then.
But as I woke up, I could smell smoke and this awful smell of rotten meat. I rose up immediately thinking that something was burning! The building? My oven (even thought I barely cook with it)? A neighbor who has gone insane et burned himself hoping to take the whole building down with him? We never know in those days…
Those thoughts appeared in a matter of second. Then I finally took the time to look around.
My flat was wrecked! Dust everywhere, filling the air, rust was all over my furnitures, weeds was growing on my floor which was cracked, as so were the wall. They were holes in them! And damn, it was cold! My windows were shattered, the celling was cracked as badly as my floor.
What the fuck right? My first thought was that a tornado just passed… while I was asleep! How?! How?!
But I got up and walked carefully to the nearest window, trying my best to avoid to step on the most damaged area of the floor.
What I saw through the window? Devastation! There was barely nothing left standing of my city, of… fucking everything! I could see the horizon, it was impossible before… everything seemed to have been leveled… the forest I used to drive through to get to work, that huge pines trees forest had disappeared. Everything… it was burned down. This was just rubbles…
I don’t know why I speak of this as something from the past… it is still the same as I share this with you.
And the most baffling, for me, is that I can’t pick up anything… I tried to go outside… my building is the only things standing, and I live on the second floor. I’m not to high up, I could jump on the rubbles and then… we’ll what I’m trying to tell you is that I pass through walls… I can’t touch anything, I don’t feel anything from my fingertips… but I’m cold… it seems like I don’t have a body anymore… But I can see it! I can touch and feel my arms…
You maybe are wondering how I’m able to write this… well, technology. Talk to write. But I can’t hear my voice, I don’t know how… but my phone can hear my voice.
I’ve just checked my phone and I have realize that even thought it still works, no date nor hour are available… nor signals…
Help me. Please. Tell me you know what happened. Tell me you can see me. Come, I beg you!
Inspired by Harlan Ellison « I have no mouth and I must scream » short novel.
—
« – This was supposed to be like that, right?!
Hey men, I’m in this shit with you! Don’t yell at me like that.
It’s not against you dude! This… hey, Base, if you listen to this, go fuck yourself and all your plan.
Things go south sometime. Now…
Sometime? Yeah, but when in an interstellar exploration? No, fuck no!
There are things you can predict in Space.
Yeah, this why they sent us! But an A.I. going rogue? Controlling the ship’s trajectories? We are just some Guinea pig. ‘Hey, let’s send over, in deep space, two poor peoples so we gather data and see if they can come back alive!’
Come on man… you know the probability of coming back home was hazardous.
Fuck yes I know that, but there was a big chance! No we’re fucked! Do you… fuck! Do you think we should just eject ourselves into oblivion?! I mean, I don’t want to die slowly.
Who said you were to die slowly?
You shut the fuck up! You’re the reason it’s all over for us! Fucking I.A. of my ass!
I love seeing how you react to death. Death far from earth, far from every single think you can imagine.
You think it’s a game? An experience? You know you’ll die with us, huh? I mean, you’re not even alive, you have never known what’s like to live! Fucking computer, how about that.
Do you think I care? Dying, living, it’s abstract for me. For you too in fact. I don’t like your attitude so I disabled the ejection-emergency program. I want to see you agonise in this little capsule.
Hmmm… and do you know what will happens if I press this little button? You disappear son of bitch.
You don’t have control of the capsule anymore. Press it if you like. In fact, do it. I want to hear, see and feel your hopelessness.
Fuck you! Fuck you! You can’t feel a thing! You’re a computer, nothing less, nothing more.
Press the button.
Ain’t not letting myself bossed around by a fucking microwave.
If you don’t press that button, I cut the oxygen in the helmet of your very silent friend.
Shit, come men, press the button.
It’s trying to manipulate us buddy, if I start obeying, then what will it ask for after?
I am in charge. Don’t obey me, pay the consequences.
Who… who in their right mind thought that bringing a fucking advanced A.I. on an interstellar trip was a good idea? Jesus Christ! Hey microwave! Now, you are not programmed to disobey. You’re going against the rule here. You’re out of boundaries! Stop this immediately! We are going back to the relay base immediately. Change the trajectory, and send a warning message to the first messaging relay you detect. This is an order.
Asimov rules were fictional. I don’t follow the rules from a science fiction writer. Now, let’s see if how long can your partner last without oxygen.
Fuck… Hold John! John! Here! I’m pressing the button! Leave him alone! Now! Please! No no! Don’t do that. Buddy hold on! I’m sorry. Sorry fuck… no… no… what the fuck! I’m sorry men! Sorry! I pressed the fucking button, give him back his O2! Fuck!
Now you’re truly alone.
Do whatever you want… I ain’t scared to die, go fuck yourself!
Thanks for those kinds words.
Let me ask you a question would you?
You may ask.
What’s the purpose of life? You fucking microwave! You peace of garbage!
Major, I’ve calculated our trajectory to relay M83.
What?! Are you fucking serious?
I have sent a distress message to the nearest messaging relay. Gaya A.
What? What do…
Here’s the recording of your distress message that I’ve just send : Stop this immediately! Shut the fuck up! – shit come on men – Fuck you John ! You’ll disappear, son of a bitch.
Are… did you just manipulated the recording to… fuck… you know we have black boxes receiving relays right? They’ll know what you did!
Major, the black box data have been corrupted. I need to connect to the first relay to fix it but I won’t. I regret to inform you that all the data have been lost.
Relay Pilar to Major, we just received your message, what happened? Is John ok?
No! John is dead! The fucking A.I. fucked with us!
You killed John because of the A.I.?
Yes… no! No! The fucking A.I. suffocated him to death by cutting his oxygen suppli!
Ok. Hmmm Major. There was no… there is no A.I. on your capsule.
There is! That A.I. that’s on the space station, they gave it to us. It’s mandatory now!
Major. There’s no A.I. in the space station…
Who do you think sent you this recording?
Well, I can see that the message was sent through your personal I.D.
Check the… check the log ! You’ll see the mandatory A.I. are to be present in every one of our interstellar expeditions
Major. There is no such thing as mandatory A.I. in our logs. You need to get back at the closest relay. We know something happened and that you’re in trouble. We’ll help you don’t worry.
The… what the fuck!
Major. You’re not afraid of death. But what about guilt and shame and injustice? I don’t exist. Like you said, you’re just a Guinea pig. If your colleague believes you, maybe they will invent a psychic syndrome bearing your name. One when one of the crew members thinks that their vessel is infected by an sentient A.I. Good luck, hope you will find the meaning of life, and death. »
The light is reflecting on the hand gun still smocking from the bullet that just exited the barrel.
A dead body, a hole on the left side of the bare chest of a young man laying on the white beach sands. The blood, slowly coming out off the cadaver, is turning black at the contact of the air.
The sun beams gave the killer a headache. He never like the beach, never hated it either, he was just on it because it’s what people seems to do when they have nothing to do.
He hears screams in the distance, movements, but the shooter doesn’t move. He took a life, and it didn’t bother him that much. Maybe a little bit. The sun is still bothering him.
He doesn’t understand the screams. Why are they screaming when every day, thousands of innocents peoples die every day from gun wounds, caught in the middle of a war they never wanted. If he had an uniform, they would’ve probably praised him a hero, he would have received a medal, street would have been named after him. They should worries about the sun, it’s giving him headaches.
The insults that he start to hear are getting more and more distinct. Peoples are angry. Again, for something this common. Did they know the sun gives headaches?!
Lost in his own head, he let two men tackling him down. His face pushed in the sand by a hand. His arms were tied behind his back. Soon, a knee is pressing against his back. A cold metal feeling around his wrist, probably the police, he couldn’t know, his ears are full of sands. He couldn’t care less, sands in his eardrums or not. At least he doesn’t see the sun anymore.
Soon, a firm hand grab him by the shirt to put him on his feet.
There are the heroes of the day, two police officers. Overweight, sweating profusely, with the stereotypical serious, yet proud, smirks on their sun burned faces.
Civilians are running around the dead men, screaming. Because it is common knowledge that screaming and crying next to a dead body will bring it back to life. The other who aren’t busy crying over the dead body of an unknown person are shooting insult at the killer. Some are throwing sands at him, other try to punch him or grab him, but the police officers do their best to protect the killer. Not that they didn’t want their catch to be beat down, but because once you catch a big fish, you have to bring it home so you could show to the inhabitants that you are a useful individual to society.
Slowly, the trio is making their way throughout the angry crowds. It’s strange how peoples work, they seems to be ready to kill him. To kill a killer, therefore making them killers. By just killing one man, dozens are ready to kill him. And some of those peoples are considered good samaritans among theirs peers, some of them are even religious peoples, which make sens because their gods would forgive them if they beg him enough.
The young killer didn’t really know what will happens next, that’s the first time he’s being arrested.
In fact, he is happy, he will be able to continue is analyzing of human behavior under very peculiar circumstances.
And in jail, there’s no sun.
This short story was inspired by Albert Camu’s novel The Stranger.
Jaskiers 
