Chapter 8: 8. Rhythmic Bustle

The sky's a deep blue today. Blue in the way only a sky is. There's no other comparison I can make. No other similarity I can mention between it and some other colours. I don't mean the sky is particularly striking in this regard. Or that it's some work of natural miracle. The fact is, I haven't the faintest clue what artsy word can be used to describe it. But, in this case, that topic is rather irrelevant to delve into.

The fact remains that despite it just being a sky, I happen to have quite a vested interest in it and have spent the past six minutes just standing, hands in pockets, inhaling and exhaling air regarding it with some degree of careful scrutiny. I am debating whether to descend the stairs when it occurs to me.

It, in this case, being the striking peace of it all. And how such a tranquil silence is reasonably fit for another minute or so of quiet thinking.

Things are good, huh?

Apparently, prior to the war, the sky was a grey chasm. Some mish-mash of dark looming clouds, blackened smoke, and unyielding lack of sun. Quite the image to have in your head, really.

I used to think nothing of it, but the view's getting to me.

Truth be told, I think I'm just trying to justify my contentment.

Something about recalling the woes of the troubled past that brings gratification to the current.

Weird nonetheless, though explained by some metric of logic at the bare minimum.

Must be the post-indoor hibernation clarity.

No doubt the over-appreciation and jubilance will die down after a bit, but hey. Glad to enjoy it while it lasts. Proceeding onwards, I descend the concrete jungle, passing ten flights of stairs through a combination of walking and lukewarm attempts at parkour. Ahead, I press through jubilant crowds, people dressed in tightly bound gowns, loose hoodies, a mix of both, and chivalry-inspired garments.

“Hear say good chap!” I catch one say. “Dost thine time extend towards our weekend proclivities?”

“For sure man.” His friend replies rather distinctly. “Always ready to ‘sow my seed’ if you catch my drift.”

Judging from their thick padded jackets and the falchions by their waist, those two are probably talking about the weekly fairs. A Sunday festivity of romanticising knights and the ‘olde’ way. Minus the rampant disease and feudal oppression of course.

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Funny to think that this is quite rampant in Europe. So much so, that it lends me to wonder how out of place my own clothing is. Appreciation for the past doesn't tend to extend to the 2010s: Moreso a lot further back.

I immediately walk forwards, turning a right corner.

There is a single moment when I stop, however. Something has offset me. A particularly distinguishable person is looking at me at this time. I assume out of distaste or suspicion that I am a foreign agent. He is wearing a grey shirt of the button-down variety, a red scarf, and has eyes that seem to be peering at me. I consider for a moment his disgusting face, and I think of a scenario where I can purposefully agitate him to aggress me so that I may, in turn, attack him without any social consequence.

For a while, I peer at him from the corner of my eye, scrutinising him for any sign that will set me off. Anything will spring me to action: an action, a flare, an excuse. The time, however, doesn't come. We both pass on, walking towards a green light that only just lights up.

With a smile on my face, I continue. The day's going good so far. I'm much more in tune with myself. Very much in acceptance of my emotional state without veering on the side of senselessness.

Cox-combs and churls. It's been a while, haha. There are only about ten minutes left from this walkway forwards. And to be honest, I can't wait to delve right into the action. Now, all I need is to walk past this mediaeval arms shop, the rickety red stand selling pancakes, an old cemetery chock full of white headstones and...

Here we are.

A wide, blackened double door with two cylindrical pillars at each end. Three squares, one green, one yellow, and one red, lighting up interchangeably to show the activity of those inside. To top it all off, a name unique to this location spelt out against a backdrop of purple in a luminous line of red.

'The Puterelle'.

Supposedly, in old English, 'Puterelle' means a woman of ill repute. In which case, bravo, the name is spot on for this dingy shithole. And by dingy shithole, I do mean it in a positive way. Awful as it may be, it is my variety of awful, so to speak. Grimey, bordering outside the realm of social ethics, a wayward haven of lunacy and cravens alike. Perfect for a degenerate like myself.

Plus. The food here has no reason to be this good. In fact, there could be a correlation. Somehow, the more rundown and ragged a place is, the higher the quality of cuisine.

Weird to think about, but from my vague recollection of what I’ve eaten, it seems to be true.

Both my stomach and mind now work in tandem. My legs are brought into a spur while my arms extend to open the door. In time, I'm descending down a narrow flight of steps. The incoming echo of the electronic choir growing ever so louder.

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