Seven Demons by Aidan Truhen (best motivational books for students TXT) 📕

but in Rex’s understanding of the world it is all about the Cause.)

“Billy was burned-out on war sir. He could not hear about it. He was a hero but he was also, you know. He was Billy and he was not ready to the fight anymore. So I figure he gave you up sir to whatever extent he could.”

“That is okay Rex. That is why we have information compartmentalization.”

“Yes sir but all the same the enemy nearly got you and so I feel like I got this debt.”

“Not to me Rex.”

“No sir to the Cause.”

We sit and look into the shadows. Every so often a little light comes on to indicate that the door has noticed something and would like to kill it. It is a green light to indicate that it knows that is not allowed, but it flickers a little, which I figure is the door saying that it fucking will one day. One day it will figure out how to switch itself on and then it will kill us all.

“So you see sir I talk to Billy and maybe I say all the things I didn’t say when he was alive because he was too damn loud. And I tell him I’ll pay his dues.”

“And what does he say?”

“He’s dead sir so you know he does not say anything at all. I guess that is death.”

We stand there and after a little while he cries. I do not say anything. Nor does he. Then he politely goes inside and leaves me in case I want to discuss anything with the pigs.

SIX

BANJO TELEMARK DOES A FEW INTERVIEWS with art papers. Mostly he has time on his hands. Banjo lets it be known he will walk the streets of Bern and travel the train network. He will touch the truth of the country he is visiting. Ambiguitionism—Banjo says—requires knowledge of an underlying truth that critically speaking does not exist but which in the everyday is all the real that there is. You can only know a nation by its roads and rails Banjo says. By eating in its roadside cafés and listening to the voices of post mistresses and bus drivers.

Banjo talks a lot of shit but that much is true.

While Banjo goes on his little spiritual journey between the cheese maturation huts—that is an actual thing—between the cheese maturation huts and the light industry all along the valley floors, I watch Hans Eiger.

I watch Hans Eiger for three days. It is very boring.

I watch him and think I should have shot him by now.

Pop.

Zing.

Splat.

But then what?

Then he’s just the guy who killed a Demon and got shot in the head. And that is fine.

But it’s pedestrian and he will still have won and that is not allowed.

Hans Eiger must be inundated. He must be drowned on his mountaintop in a sea of Demons.

People have to wince when they say his name.

They have to say: “Hans Eiger O SHIT that Hans Eiger O SHIT that guy is—WOW HAS ANYONE EVER BEEN MORE DEAD?”

They have to feel his death as a tenderness in their crime vaginas and crime testes and whatever else these people have.

Like what you feel when you see a guy hit himself in the eye with a hammer and you hear something go crack and just for a moment you feel that crack in your face and your nethers get that feeling of ice water like an electric shock of sympathy.

If someone has a name that is just a little bit similar—like to say like I don’t know like Franz Peyser—that should be enough. Franz Peyser should be out of a job in organized crime in Europe in the whole fucking world and no one should ever know exactly why but they just know in their fucking souls you can’t be near that guy or your eye will explode.

Like that.

So I don’t shoot him not that I would personally shoot him I’d find someone who knows how to use a long gun and

Pop.

Zing.

Splat.

But I do not do that instead I watch and I remember that I am very bad at waiting.

Hans Eiger goes to one menswear shop actually a tailor and he buys bespoke menswear. He takes meetings in hotel conference spaces. He has calls in the business suite. He knows people and people know him. He is a face.

Whatever man he is a dandy of some sort no doubt.

Evil Hansel’s mother lives in a duplex on the river she is legit and she is married to a guy from Gibraltar and she sees her father but it’s not like they’re close.

Eiger drives a German automobile with a customized engine. When he is at Die Festung he stores it in a secure garage by the cable car. In town he parks it at the Commodore Hotel.

He eats at a particular table at a particular restaurant where they know him. They know how he takes his coffee.

He has an apartment in Doha on the sixty-first floor of a steel-and-glass tower called Karlsbad House.

He does his high-street banking at a Swiss private bank that is designed to look like a small family firm and has branches in 101 countries. Every week of his life is defined by a schedule that is insofar as he can make it exactly like the last one.

I know how to do this.

I know.

—

“Hi I am Banjo Telemark hi I—yes the artist THAT’S RIGHT gosh I am so flattered that you—oh in the Neue Zürcher Zeitung right yes that photo OMIGOSH that photo is so embarrassing—what is it you say here HERR GOTT NO’MAL—aha hahaha ahah—yes anyway my GOSH what they did to my chin in that photo no really I am shy oh then just one selfie just one but just for your personal site—hi yes this is my manager Dr. Brunhild Hexenjammer—listen I—well thank you I would like to order suits for all of my team yes also the women but in the men’s style—yes—yes—well I appreciate both the—no