A new tomorrow

The young and gorgeous king stroke his blonde, bright and sleek hair. He rode his pure-blood white horse and went to the closest river accompanied by his agents and voluptuous assistants. The agents were wearing black suits, sunglasses, some were making deals through their iPhones while others were taking part of a teleconference via Skype with the emir Hamad bin Khalifa, from Qatar. All of them being driven by their Indian drivers, once renown Bollywood actors inside their Mercedez Benz.

The assistants came sliding through the mud like snakes, as if they were swimming with bravery from Cuba to Miami. They were wearing microscopic bikinis that ultravalorized their breasts and butts. And they were swimming fast, in the same speed of the fancy cars and the king in his white horse that seemed to float over the ground.

The sky, that remained cloudy all day long by black clouds that were announcing an imminent summer thunderstorm, were getting without clouds little by little, providing a sunset that was painting the skies with very intense hues of orange and mainly, red. When he arrived, the king stopped in his horse, powerfully. The Mercedes Benz braked silently in synchrony and the assistants raised from the mud and threw their long hairs back, breathless with the lips half-opened. The rain fell while the Sun was setting, washing and revealing the women curves, the water streaming down their faces while they were whispering sensually “yes, yes, yesss”!

Behind the bushes, new assistants emerged in a synchronized jump, as if they were part of the Russian rhythmic gymnastics team. They took books that appeared from nowhere, spinning in a choreography perfectly symmetric. They groaned sensually when throwing the books into the bonfire in a little distance from the king, that remained motionless maintaining a powerful face. It was a luxurious and hypnotist spectacle of dance that kept the king's attention. The agents were twittering from their iPhones: “bitches dancing, I think it's d-i-s-g-u-s-t-i-n-g, kisses”.

The books were burning in the bonfires. Knowledge was on fire, love, pain, dreams, lust. The king wanted to reboot the whole system because there wouldn't be any repair to their kingdom's and his past pollution. He wanted to write a new book, with new inks and new colors.

The last sunray projected its light on the sweated, hunky and furry king's body. The assistants, breathless and messed hairs, slid their tongues on their lips in synchrony to nibble them right after. They were desiring the king's body and all of them, discreetly fondled their genitals while whispered softly as if the sound echoed without origin “yes, yes, yesss”. Going down slowly from the sky, a book came to repose on furry and strong king's hand that took it with vigor. He read:

“For the broken hearts, the instant glue!”

The assistants bowed to the person of the king, worshiping him keeled on the mud. They completed the king's speech speaking in exotic languages in a lascivious whisper.

“Jsme otroky potěšení. Dělat, co chcete s námi. Yes, yes, yesss!”

The king went on:

“For those who had setbacks, there's going to be a new tomorrow!”

Just like the last time, the assistants whispered:

“Jesteś tak mądry. Twoja wiedza sprawiają, że czujemy tak zajebiście. Yes, yes, yesss!”

And then the king finalized his speech in a convict tone of voice:

“And from now on, let's the anger, angst, desperation and indignation to be substituted by abstraction and the only concern will be to enjoy the pleasures of life. Amen”.

The assistants were in ecstasy and looked like imploring in their tired words while worshiping the king:

“Kérem, engedje meg, hogy érezzük az ízét a tested. Használja minket, dominál minket, mivagyunk itt, hogy megfelelnek valamennyi, a szexuális fantáziák. Yes, yes, oh yesss!”

Looking at that highly erotic scene of the king being devoured by the assistants salves of the lust, the philosopher scratched this beard and pondered:

“Nietzsche foresaw that Freud surely would be interested in such an epic and lascivious scene. And he cried, rolled on the floor and hit his fragile body against the wall, totally crazy in Christ. Christ would send them to the hell for them to burn in the eternal flame in order to repent of their sins, but this is not a religious issue. Perhaps the grass of the neighbor is greener because our gardens are made of cement, right? We are totally against life, we don't allow that in our gardens the smaller unities of life to grow. It's sad, Nietzsche, I understand you.

There's uranium inside us. And in the same time it causes cancer in the weaker ones, it makes us good at the same time it makes us bad. Paradoxical, I know. It's a battle we will set against ourselves, unless we do like the king did opening our minds to throw out our brains. The more we try to extirpate or irradiate our inner uranium with all our might, it will be infinite, it will remain inside us until the day our bodies will fall on the ground and will be decomposed by the worms”.

A last tear rolled upon his face. The philosopher inflated and exploded subtly into a cloud of dust that was rightly taken by the wind along the red horizon.