RCS – Business Default

The retired boxer lived on memories of the old days, of the past

 glory. All the battles won, the popularity, the lingering fans,

 all that was now increasingly distant history. A fairy tale from

 old times, you could say.

 He lived in his small dusty apartment, overcrowded

 old junk. He had two ancient, dusty, peeling armchairs

 with a wooden frame. So old that even the museum probably doesn’t have them

 would like to buy. And just such an old worn and faded sofa for

 three people. But what good is that to him now that his glory is

 faded away, no one visited anymore. Now he lives alone and lives day by day

 drowning in memories of big parties. So big that they hired

 inn in the city center. All chat friends. Friendly

 patting from all sides. “You are the devil’s boy,” they told him at the time.

 “We love you.”

 They love it so much that they forgot about it almost as soon as the gong sounded

 at the conclusion of the last round. Well, not so fast again, but still!

 Way too fast. What I would give to be visited by at least one from

 those impenetrable multitudes of friends. To drink beer together.

 Maybe we’d get drunk together, and then my friend would sleep over

 on that damned peeling and faded couch. A sofa that would

 Mr. Ben, that was the name of the elderly boxer, he preferred

 swept out the window. Unfortunately, it was too big for the window. It already is

 tried, but the damn couch got stuck in the window opening and it didn’t

 wanted neither forward nor back. It took a lot of strength, a lot

 attempts in all directions, but above all a lot of swearing, that he is

 finally brought back to the room and to his place.

But all those curses, shouted at the top of their voices, didn’t make any sense.

 None of his neighbors were home. Or they made it short

 ignored a bit. Who would have known. To his surprise, he hadn’t even touched the beer yet

 a few weeks. After all, what good is beer to him if he has to drink it alone at home.

 He would go to the buffet, but even there the guests don’t want to know him anymore. The one from

 old people don’t even go there anymore, and the new guests are alone

 foreigners. Empty, so terribly empty is his life. More

 good thing he has such a small apartment. And he has that only because

 because he didn’t want to sell it then in the moments of greatest glory. Well

 although friends urged him to buy or rent

 what a big luxurious apartment, but when he has money like garbage.

 He didn’t listen to them. He insisted on this apartment. It was easy to get into

 took refuge every time he wanted to hide from the overheated ones

 fans. “Now I don’t have to run from them anymore,” he said

 he thought bitterly, “but when they run away from me.” He received

 a modest pension that a friend somehow swindled out of him,

 when he still wanted to know him, of course. He never explained to him,

 what tricks he used, but he didn’t even ask him himself. That’s when he

 didn’t care. There was something about the psychiatrist. Several times

 he visited and they had those psychiatric talks. Just like that,

 the kind psychiatrists love.

 Everything was shrouded in fog. This psychiatrist must have written the request

 disability committee. And they retired him on disability. But not like

 a tired boxer, but as a person with severe mental problems

 disturbances. Depression. Yes, that could be it. It’s depression today

 in fashion. Anxiety and panic attacks. That’s when he feels like it

 broke out in the middle of a city street, it was definitely not a panic attack.

He remembers how he screamed at the policeman to get him out of this

 terrifying crowds. He felt like he was going to suffocate. Fortunately, it is

 the policeman was understanding. He didn’t attack him with a club. Helped

 he’s out, safe. At least that’s what Ben guessed. Then it’s finally over

 allowed to open a pint of beer. And drank it slowly on the faded sofa.

 He didn’t really have much going for him.

 Everything in his life had been so damn empty since

 the last gong sounded. So powerful! He thought too

 to suicide. To hand over my little and worthless life

 to the great silent mighty universe. I probably should

 to say to God. But he did not believe in God. He didn’t even know how to do that

 was doing. His parents were communists. Grandpa and grandma are gone

 more memories, if he ever had them. Just space. Quiet,

 a mighty, limitless universe that seemed more omnipotent to him

 like some abstract God. What about an old father with a debt?

 a white beard, who officiates in a mighty armchair on fluffy white

 a cloud somewhere in the sky. This is how he imagined God. But you can

 he imagined very well how he was giving himself up to the universe, all that he was

 it is. He had already tried to surrender himself to this mighty silent void. He stood

 on the overpass over the highway. It was a hard subject down there. It’s slow

 climbing the railing to tumble down into the bottomless black abyss.

 Dropped into the arms of the abyss of the Black God, or whoever

 it’s down there. But all those flashy cars with flashy ones

 headlights. They somehow didn’t want to jump to the right places in this

 imaginary scene. In his imagination, she was only downstairs

 theme.

“Almighty universe,” he said in his final prayer. “I deliver

 you. The way I am. With everything I have. Above all, to everyone

 which I don’t have. Because it’s really huge.” Then it is

 fell silent because he was at a loss for words. “I surrender to you and you

 I beg your pardon.” Then he tried to lower himself to be quiet

 sunk down there in the immensity. But the damn hands are like that

 convulsively clinging to the fence and life with it. There was no way he could

 convince them to come down. And then when he finally has them

 managed to convince, or at least he thought so, he was from the depths

 heard a voice. He didn’t know if he really heard the dark voice say it

 quiet slow words or are they just vague feelings that you

 in his desperate desire for life he interpreted as the words:

 “We don’t need you down here in the void. The universe doesn’t

 needs.” Then there was silence. A mighty black silence.

 He suddenly became aware that he was standing on the bridge, leaning back comfortably

 against the stone railing, though he was sacredly convinced that he was hanging on one

 hands, on the other side, above the black water deep below. How and when

 he found himself back on the solid ground of the bridge, he had no idea. It is

 slowly crept home, all ashamed and carefully watching that Mr

 would not see any townsman in this disrespectful state of his and

 feeling. Fortunately, all the streets in his path were still like this

 hopelessly empty as before. He didn’t meet a living soul. He looked at home

 into the fridge, shaking his head resignedly at the sight of the pixies

 beer in it, drank some water and went to sleep. The next day he was gone

 recalled the night’s adventures. He could also dream that he was

 tried to commit suicide.