The three samurai pigeons were stoned beyond any conceivable understanding and appreciation. They were caught up, not in the moment, but in one of fate’s accidents. They had unwillingly inherited a promise, a hope, a duty, and that last specific one, was what troubled most their ferociously beating nickel sized hearts. In all truthness, if there is really such a thing or a word for that matter, their hearts were not beating that fast now, resembling more the monotonous scratching of a record that has come to an end.
As usual, they had set out to celebrate the accomplishment of their latest mission, the rescue of the cheeky monkey, codenamed ‘Cheap as Chimps’, an inside joke for the little reward they had received for the job from the mobsters. Naturally their celebration was not something of the ordinary, and on the same time maintained a nature unfamiliar to ninja oriented personas. Considering their mystique that engulfed them, and the whole uncertainty clouding their profession and their existence, they always followed an unspoken ritual, obtaining their booze and drugs in such extreme secrecy that would make any ex KGB spy blush in shame, renting remote hotel rooms always in different and remote places, locking themselves in, closing the blinds, dimming down the lights, and then proceeding in an unworthy of words and mention debasement of their characters until their supplies simply ran out –usually a bit too soon, matched possibly only by Belushi’s similar endeavors when he was still alive and kicking. And snorting of course.
Nonetheless, debauchery seems to be selling well. Remembering that it is just 3 pigeons we are talking about, they had managed to acquire 10 six packs, 3 London gins, 5 of Tennessee’s worst whiskies, 10 Jamaican rums, 2 catholic nuns for good taste, 3 jars of moonshine, and a fine but mysteriously empty bottle of expensive champagne. As far drugs were concerned, they had enough to kill a whole battalion of bulls and derange a dozen or so squares, ranging from your innocent 12 ounces of imported weed to numerous colorful little glass containers, with African poisons and Indian ailments. They were so rude they used acid for toilet paper hoping to insult any common sense and embarrass any drug dealer. As you would expect from any manic compulsive and addiction abusers of their kind, they started with the beers, soon resulting in a piss contest, a literal one, giving a new existential meaning to the champagne bottle. Despite the laughs, and the awkward looks from the nuns, the ninja minded pigeons felt the looming presence of a downer, and skipped the joints altogether and went straight for the uppers gulping without any fear or remorse. Fuelled by the hope of a better binge, they reverted to their normal practice and started rolling their spliffs using cockroaches for roaches, while struggling to conjure possible cocktails from the rest of the booze, neglecting the potency of the moonshine. The nuns were not too impressed, and luckily for the pigeons, they excused themselves claiming they had a mass to attend. Who the fuck attends mass at two o’ clock in the morning? More likely a mass orgy, but the pigeons were not too concerned. By four, they had realized their chemical defeat, lost any libido they might have once carried, and surrendered their little, yet well exercised bodies, to the numbing desert fields of mescaline.
As it so happens, it not that easy to find out what is bothering you in the numbing desert fields of mescaline. The numbing effect is the rather decisive factor in such an attempt, while the desert field is not that helpful either, despite all their jedi training. The pigeons lost themselves completely for about 2 hours, taking in the effect viciously, but completely ignoring the cause, feeling their lack of feeling of anything else. Once they finally got around it though, they were more sure than ever that they had to dig in to reach out for the roots of their sadness. It did not seem anything less than daunting, but it was something they knew they had to do and certainly prepare themselves for. They foolishly inspected the rented room to look out for any substance to devour, without the need for any excuses or practicalities, but they soon they soon realized that they had spent such a brilliant stash in a fuck-up of a downer. It was so pathetic, they were actually considering the possibility of 3 espressos and biscuits on the side. Thankfully they soon opted out from that possibility.
Instead, honouring their tradition, they proceeded to sober themselves up just by looking at the sunrise. And it was then when it really struck them, despite not admitting it for a while. Once the morning news came up - no tv sets, they were clairvoyant enough – they looked to each other and they knew, they just knew. It was the goddamn stupid bear.
Their heads sharp now, they felt it in all its importance and definition. They were indeed caught up in the wretched moment; the bear was clearly not their responsibility, but still they took it up, they still honored their code and the monkey’s plea for help for his friend at the very brink of destruction and failure They did their part, they took their chances, they flew and fought, and they had managed to carry out the task to their best of their capacity. But despite their typical successful accomplishment of the mission requirements -even if some of them were adhoc- the purpose itself was not fulfilled. The fat ridden bear had made what was probably the worst attempt at running and had botched it spectacularly, like fireworks gone wrong. And thus the stupid fat bear was still behind the rusty old bars of the zoo for the entertainment of perverse minds and little children with hands all covered in ice cream, trying to survive their parents divorce.
Were they to blame? They pondered this, as their stomachs and bowels were starting to protest the overall mind-over-body approach the pigeons had once again adopted. They started questioning themselves in the fashion of the good believer who at first has to torment himself through torrents and blazes before re-assuring his belief in whatever ridiculous notion he holds. Truths and lies galvanized in questions and doubts. Should they have taken into account the bear’s weak muscles and his complete lack of co-ordination? Had they though, what could they have done? Was there any possible way that they could have arranged the balance of the cosmos in such a sort notice, and in such an amazing way, that the bear would have succeeded in tasting freedom and all it’s burdens? Their minds, clear of substances, and a few brain cell less admittedly, were aching and struggling while browsing through all the possibilities in the hope of coming across the one, the only one, that could have worked, and did work in one of the infinite universes the world manifests itself in. Through all their powers, the ninja pigeons did not reach that one possibility. Of all the innumerable scenarios, none offered the crucible they were longing for. Mixed feelings overwhelmed them at that realization, relief on the one side as they were not to blame, disappointment on the other, since they lacked the abilities and techniques to have succeeded.
As hard as that experience may sound, they were still at loss., they were still at the start of what could turn out to be an adventure of epic proportions. Clearly and reasonably, it was now time for atonement. From cold blooded (and feathery) executioners of poorly thought and even more poorly paid plans, they had to turn themselves into calculating overlords of the realities that surrounded them, into knights and protectors of what is worthy, ambassadors of the noble, angels of good. They had to devise a plan to rescue the bear, a plan so meticulous and weary of the infinite mishaps that could shame them beyond the will to live, that in all possible ways would be their masterpiece, their signature work, their legacy for future ninja substance abusing pigeons. Their chests swollen with pride and hope and a few speckles of dirt, they flew off to recon the zoo, to lay down the foundations of their masterplan, just as the maid was coming into the horrible scorched three dimensional thing that was their room. Sadly enough, that turned out to be the last image imprinted on her once beautiful eyes, while her heart was experiencing a massive coronary. She was allergic to pigeons.
Έχεις φωτιά; Κάτσε να βγάλω σπίρτα. Δε φταίω εγώ που αλλάζω, απλά συμβαίνει, πως το ανεξήγητο μέσα μου να ακρωτηριάσω; Μήπως σε ένα καμβά χρησιμοποιημένο ζωγραφίσεις προσχήματα θολά, δικαιολογίες; Αλήθεια νομίζεις πως μοναχός σου δεν κρατάς τη παράσταση της σαλεμένης σκέψης, πως η υποκρισία για ‘σένα που τη γελοιότητα αναγνωρίζεις, πως τέλος πάντων όλα αυτά ένα κοστούμι βολικό συμπλέκουν για να τη βγάζεις καθαρή με τύψεις και ενοχές τεχνητές. Δως μου πάλι φωτιά, έσβησε. Πάρε, αλλά να ξέρεις πως όταν άλλες αλήθειες δεν θα βρίσκεις, θα μετανιώσεις πραγματικά για τα ψέματα, τα πρίσματα, τις διαδρομές κι όλες τις άλλες βλακείες που σκαρφίζεσαι. Καλά, καλά, πες μου τώρα πότε θα τελειώσει αυτή η βροχή. Νόμιζα πως μας άρεσε. Και εγώ, μα μου λες να πηγαίνω ευθεία. Κάνε όπως θες, και η βροχή δική σου είναι. Λέω να κάνω σβούρες, σαν από τύχη άφεση πάντα να 'χω, στο τσεπάκι του παντελονιού μου ένα συγχωροχάρτι γραμμένο από τα δικά μου χέρια και με την ευλογία ενός χρόνου παντοντινού, πιθανού. Κάνεις λες και έχει σημασία, ότι και να σκεφτείς, ότι και να κάνεις, χωρίς την αλήθεια πάντα θα μετανοιώνεις. Τι μετρά παραπάνω, να λες ψέματα σε 'σενα ή στους άλλους; Παράτα με.
Ο ορίζοντας είναι επίπεδος, ευθύς, απροσανατόλιστος και τυπικά αδιάφορος χωρίς κάποιο ορατό ανάγλυφο, βαρετός όπως πάντα, κάτοπτρο του νου που τον φαντάζεται κι άρα όλα είναι εύκολα. Δεν υπάρχει καμιά ανηφόρα, κάπου να γυρίσεις το κεφάλι προς τα ψηλά, δεν υπάρχει καμιά σκιά. Ένας όμορφος χειμώνας πλησιάζει με άτονα χρώματα, όπως συνήθως, με στολή πέτσινη και χιλιοφορεμένη, με σημάδια και μια βρώμα να την ακολουθεί. Άλλο ένα τσιγάρο, ένα για το δρόμο, ένα για πριν και ένα για μετά. Δεν υπάρχουν κρυψώνες, μερικές φορές φυσά λίγο πιο δυνατά, ή έτσι νομίζεις, και το δερμάτινο τσακίζεται από τα χέρια μου όσο το κλείνω πιο σφικτά και τις στάχτες μουτζουρώνω. Αυλάκια σχηματίζονται πάνω του, χάνει το χρώμα του, ζωντανεύει, και σε λίγο μπαλώματα θα γυρεύει. Κι άλλα δρομάκια, στο πάντα επίπεδο παραμύθι σε μια νύχτα χωρίς φανάρια, σε ένα χειμώνα πρόδηλο όπως τάχα εγώ μονάχα τα ορίζω και προμηνύω. Γυμνός από οτιδήποτε ελπίζω τον θυμό, ή κάτι άλλο, στις τυχαίες μου διαδρομές να συναντήσω, ξεχνώντας για μια ακόμη φορά ότι σε άλλες διασταυρώσεις προσπέρασα. 
