THE HIGH TABLE

TIMATHEOS:

I am TIMATHEOS of Crotone. Once, the world knew my name by the sound it made when shouted by ten thousand throats. In the dust of Olympia, beneath a pitiless sun, I ended the long dominion of Milon of Crotone, and the earth trembled with applause. I was mortal, yet I stood too close to the divine. That was my sin. The gods are jealous keepers of beauty and power. One loved me too much to let time unmake me; another hated that a man could rival legend. Their quarrel became my fate. Thunder split the sky, the ground tore open, and I was hurled forward—not into death, but into an age unprepared for me. Now I stand in a temple without priests. Marble still rises around me, but it is colder, smoother. A white, unnatural light pours from the ceiling like captured lightning. My feet meet stone polished by strangers, and I am clothed only in a leather, loincloth. My body remains as the gods fixed it—heavy with power, carved by endless contest, carrying the scent of sweat, and the iron memory of battle.

I walk. My steps echo through the vast hall. Fragile glass walls line my path. Behind them sleep the ages: spears that will never fly again, crowns that rule nothing, idols that no longer hear prayers. This world does not honor the past—it imprisons it. I enter a chamber where many civilizations are displayed. I do not know most of them. But then I see my own. Greek stone. Greek names. Faces rise from memory: Pericles, whose voice once bent cities; Socrates, who questioned even the gods; Alexander the Great, who carried our fire to the edge of the world. They are reduced to labels, numbers, fragments behind glass. Something ancient coils in my chest .Are we trophies now? Lessons? My arm draws back. The glass shatters like ice beneath a hammer. A wail erupts—sharp, piercing, endless. Red light floods the hall. Doors crash shut. For an instant, I think the gods are calling me again, angry at my defiance. But no. I stand amid broken glass and screaming light, alone yet unbowed. I am TIMATHEOS of Crotone—Olympic champion, strength unbroken, will unending—and whether by divine cruelty or jealous design, I have come to test this new unknown century.

OFFICER BOLT:

"Another alarm from the National Museum," announces the tired, perhaps slightly fed-up voice on my radio. On the one hand, I can understand the operator's frustration, as this is perhaps the sixth or seventh alarm this weekend. Each time, it has turned out to be a false alarm caused by moisture in the alarm sensors brought on by the rain lashing down on the city. "I'm already on my way home, but I can go and acknowledge the alarm," I say dryly. "My partner has already left, but I can handle it on my own," I reassure the operator.

As I expected, I find the museum's outer doors locked and everything looks normal. I step inside the dark museum and listen for a moment. Shadows dance across the walls of the large hall as lightning flashes and thunder rumbles outside the museum's huge windows. I go to the control room and acknowledge the alarm once again as I turn to finally go home. But something catches my attention, something I see on one of the monitors. I turn back to watch the camera in the Greek hall, and the hairs on my skin stand on end. A huge, almost naked muscleman is walking down the hallway as if lost. "What the fuck is this? Some kind of joke? A patient who escaped from a mental hospital?" The Greek hall is on the next floor, so I climb the marble stairs quickly, but as quietly as possible, with my service gun in my hand.

TIMATHEOS:

Thunder rolls above this strange temple, deep and heavy. The sound moves through the stone. I lift my head. Yes.They are still there.The gods have not forgotten me.The lightning flashes through the high windows, white and violent, like Zeus hurling his spear across the sky. I smile in the dark hall of broken glass. Let them watch.I walk again, my bare feet silent on the polished floor. I push open another great door and enter a new chamber. The air smells different here. Dry. Old. Not like battle. Not like men.Shadows fill the room. Tall shapes. Broad backs. Curved horns. Massive shoulders.Another flash of lightning. I see them clearly for a heartbeat — a bear rearing in frozen rage, a bull with lowered head, a tiger crouched to strike.Beasts.A test.Of course. The gods would not send me into a new age without trials.I laugh softly. “You choose worthy forms.”

The bear stands closest, towering above me, mouth open in silent roar. I rush it without hesitation. My fists crash into its chest. The body feels strange beneath my blows — too light, too hollow — but I strike again and again. The skin splits with a dry tearing sound. Dust bursts into the air. The beast collapses at my feet in a sad heap of fur and stuffing.I blink.It… did not fight.Strange magic.No matter. I turn to the bull. I seize its horns — solid, cold — and push with all my strength. The body tips easily, absurdly easily. It falls sideways with a stiff crack. The neck snaps with a wooden crunch, the head twisting at an unnatural angle. I frown. “This is no Cretan bull.” The tiger next. I grab its jaws and pull. The mouth opens wider than it should. The skull splits with a brittle sound. More dust. More lifeless collapse.Silence returns. I stand in the middle of ruin and chaos.I look at my hands.Either I have become greater than I knew……or this age breeds very poor beasts. Is this an arena? A child’s arena?Another sound interrupts my thoughts.

Footsteps.Measured. Careful.I turn.From the far end of the room, a new figure approaches through the shadows. Tall. Clothed in dark garments. In his hand he carries a small metal object, pointed toward me. He holds it with certainty.Ah.At last.A warrior. A gladiator of this century.Thunder crashes again outside.

OFFICER BOLT:

Then I see it with my bare eyes what I was thinking to see in the monitors: a giant bodybuilder-type of body wearing a loincloth. He looks like one of those wax dolls in the museum but this guy is not made of wax but blood and flesh. I swallow deep as I approach you with slow careful steps and point you with my gun. "Sir, don´t do any moves, lift your hands up where I can see them, very slowly. Who are you and what are you doing here? You better talk now", I try to sound convincing.

TIMATHEOS:

I stare at you — at the small metal weapon in your hand, at the strange garments you wear.And then, you speak.In a tongue unknown to me… yet I understand it. The words settle in my mind as if they had always lived there.My brow furrows in astonishment.“You speak… and I know your meaning.” I take a slow step toward you, not in fear, but in wonder.“What sorcery is this? By whose power do I understand the language of your age? You commands me to raise my hands.I look at them. “Lift my hands?” I repeat, confused. “For what manner of contest requires such a posture? Is this how warriors greet one another in your century?” I walk forward again, calm, my voice rising — full, resonant, like an actor upon the stage of a great amphitheater.

 “Stranger in dark armor, you demand my name” I place a hand upon my chest.“Hear me, then, and tremble not at what stands before you.I am TIMATHEOS,champion of the sacred games, crowned in olive beneath the burning sun of Olympia! Victor in pankration, breaker of shields, favored once by the high gods!”Thunder crashes above us. “I was cast — by fate or by divine error — into this temple, this arena of hollow beasts and silent trials!” I spread my arms wide, not in surrender, but in proclamation. “If combat you seek, declare its rules! If judgment you bring, name your charge!”My eyes lock onto yours.“But do not command me to raise my hands like a captive… for I have stood before kings and did not bow.”

OFFICER BOLT:

I stare at you with wide eyes and listen to your strange words. "Fuck, this guy is really deep into drugs, he's out of his mind," I say to myself. "Don't explain, or I'll shoot you between the eyes. Raise your hands and obey my orders." Pointing my gun at you, my other hand reaches for my duty belt, searching for handcuffs. "Calm down, man, and everything will end well. I won't hurt you."

TIMATHEOS:

I lift my hands as the warrior commands, though I do not understand why he fears me so much. His words are strange, but I understand enough.“Shoot you between the eyes.”Shoot.Between the eyes. He speaks of killing me. Of piercing my skull. But with what? That small black metal thing in his hand? It is no spear. No sword. No bow. It looks too small… too harmless.And yet the way he holds it — steady, trained — tells me it is a weapon. I walk slowly toward him, as he orders. My hands rise high, open, showing I carry no blade.

He is built like a fighter. Broad chest. Strong arms. A body trained for combat. Beneath his dark cloth I see the marks of sweat — dark stains under his arms, across his chest. The scent reaches me: salt, iron, tension. The smell before battle. I know it well. But this place is not an arena. It is a temple of glass and stone. Strange statues. Shining floors, cold lights above.He tells me to calm down.I am calm.He is the one shaking.

When I step closer, I see it — a flicker in his eyes. Uncertainty. He does not know what I am.Good.When I am near enough, I move.Fast as a striking serpent. I twist his arm. The metal object flies from his hand. With one hand I seize him by the throat and lift him from the ground. He is heavy — but not heavy enough.The black weapon hits the floor.A thunder cracks inside the building.Glass shatters.I flinch. The sound is like Zeus hurling lightning. A window explodes into shining fragments. I drop the man at once and step back, heart pounding. I stare at the fallen metal thing.It spits thunder.It spits death.Now I am afraid. “Who are you?” I ask, my voice low, confused. “Are you a sorcerer?”I look at the weapon again. No string. No flame. No visible magic. Yet it commands lightning. I step back another pace, muscles tense, ready to fight or flee.

OFFICER BOLT:

The giant drug roid manages to knock the gun out of my hand, and it falls to the ground, firing as it hits the floor. The roid guy seems to see the flash and the window breaking. The pistol is now too far away, and you are far too close, so I have to resort to using my baton. I raise my arm to strike you hard into your side. "You might be big but that won´t help you . I have taken down bigger guys than you. SURRENDER FAT ASS!"

TIMATHEOS:

You yell, “SURRENDER FAT ASS!” I look at you and shake my head. “Fat? No. This is expensive muscle. Very strong. Very dangerous.”You swing the baton. It hits my ribs hard. CRACK. All the air leaves my lungs. It feels like fire in my side. Sharp. Deep. My body bends a little from the hit. I grab my ribs and breathe fast. Every breath hurts. My side feels like it might be broken.You hit me good. Very good. You try to pull your arm back for another strike — but I step inside your swing. Too close for the baton to work. My hand shoots up and grabs the back of your head.Not gentle. My fingers tangle in your hair and I yank you down fast.My forehead crashes into your nose. I feel the impact travel through your skull.You stumble, and that’s when I move. I drive my knee straight into your stomach. Hard. All my weight behind it. Once.Twice.The second one lifts you slightly off your feet

OFFICER BOLT:

The arrest situation has clearly turned into a violent struggle. The naked hippie is serious, and I'd better take more drastic measures. I shake my head to clear the stars from my vision as I slowly get up from the ground, but before I am fully on my feet, I deliver a powerful uppercut to your abs and throw myself on top of you. My head hits your chin with full force as I wrap my arms around your ribs. My knees rise from the ground toward your ripped abs. "You should have listened to me, now it's too late!"

TIMATHEOS:

Now the warrior, or what ever he is, becomes physical. A brutal, blinding pain explodes in my stomach as his strike lands true. My breath vanishes. My body folds forward against my will, a harsh gasp tearing from my throat.He smells of iron and sharp sweat, not the scent of sand, oil and sun like i m used, His body is dense, trained, not a giant, but hardened. Then, suddenly, white fog erupts from the floor. Rolling around us in pale spirals.A whisper brushes my ear like warm breath.“Run, TIMATHEOS.”Aphrodite ! Even across ages, I know her voice.Still bent from the hit, I thrust my head upward into his chin. His teeth snap together, and he loosens his grip for a second. I quickly twist my body and strike his wrist with my forearm. His hand slips away. I push him back with my shoulder and pull free, holding my aching stomach.My chest burns.But I force myself to run through vast halls of polished stone. The air smells not of incense and sacrifice, but of stillness and strange chemicals. Light glows from hidden suns above, cold, unnatural. The fog coils ahead like a guiding spirit.

Rooms open one into another. Painted vases frozen in scenes of battle and love, bronze helmets too polished to have known war, shields that have never tasted blood. Marble figures stand untouched by time and Statues line the walls. Gods, heroes, beasts, each stands upon small pedestals with carved plaques of shining metal. This is no temple.It is a treasury.A shrine of memory. I burst into a chamber crowned with golden letters: Treasures of Greece Here, I know these things. Helmets shaped like those worn in my youth. Kraters painted with heroes I once heard sung about in Olympia. Bronze cuirasses. Laurel crowns preserved as if time itself kneels before. And there, at the center, a massive golden phallus of Zeus, sacred emblem of divine virility once carried in procession during rites of fertility.

Footsteps echo behind me. Closer. Measured. He is coming.My eyes fall upon a nearby vitrine. Inside rests a golden mace, crafted in the image of the weapon of Herakles himself. I seize a stool and hurl it against the glass. It shatters in a rain of sharp light. Alarms begin to scream.I reach inside and grasp the mace.Cold.Dense.Real.Its weight settles into my palm.I turn toward the entrance.My muscles tighten. My blood surges. He stands at the doorway.“Come then,” I say lifting the mace ready to bing him down.

OFFICER BOLT:

The hippie is standing in front of me, holding some kind of fucking club in his hand, looking threatening. It's clear that I can't take down this drug-crazed man with my bare fists; I need to find something longer than my arms. The tip of a spear sticks out of the display case you broke. I grab it quickly and pull it closer to me. When I was younger, I practiced kendo, and maybe that will come in handy tonight. I shout at the top of my lungs to get your attention, while shoving the long spear between your ankles and twisting it sideways, trying to make you lose your balance and fall onto the marble floor. After that, you would be easier to subdue.

TIMATHEOS:

You rush at me with a spear.But you do not hold it like a real spear warrior.You push it low, between my ankles, trying to trip me.For a moment I am confused.Why fight like this?Are you a warrior… or some weak sorcerer?I fought in pankration. Many men tried to sweep my legs. I know this trick.When you shove the spear toward my feet, I do not jump back.I step forward.Hard.My foot stomps down on the shaft of the spear before you can twist it. The wood hits the marble floor and stops.You pull.Too late.I lift the mace and bring it down on the middle of the spear.CRACK.The wood splits in two. The sound is loud in the hall.You stare at the broken stick in your hands.I shake my head.“Bad weapon".

Before you can move, I swing the mace low, not at your head — at your legs.The heavy gold crashes into your thigh and knee. I don't want you to be hurt to much, so i use minimum strength. But I see how you struggle to not fall back, to not show the pain you feel. “Why do you hunt me?” I ask, confused and angry. “Did I enter sacred ground? Is this your temple?I am not thief, not demon. Do you not see what I carry?” I lift the golden mace slightly. “This is the weapon of Herakles. I am chosen. I am more than man.I am demi-god. I do not die like you. So tell me, warrior… or sorcerer… why do you attack me in this strange place? And If you are warrior, then stand and fight like one.”I wait.

OFFICER BOLT:

"This guy is much worse than I thought. What is it? Heroin? Angel dust? MDMA? Ecstasy?" , I ask myself as I try to maintain my balance. Stumbling back as I rub my hurt leg I remember what I was taught at police academy about these cases. "Pretend to cooperate with them". I straighten my back and spread my legs wide open to take a firm fighting stance of the floor. "I am a mage, a good mage. And I am here to bring you a message from...", my eyes wander around the hall and see a text in one of the vitrins, .. "from Apollo. He says you need to give the mace to me and do as I say. You understand that?". Looking at your surprised face I suddenly spin around and aim a hig roundhouse kick into your jawline".

TIMATHEOS:

When you say the name Apollo, my blood turns cold.Apollo.The god who helped Herakles cast me out.My heart beats fast. Too fast.So you are not just a mad warrior.You are a messenger.Or a liar using a god’s name.Appolo the god who listened to Herakles when he spoke against me.Herakles was jealous.Jealous of my strength. Jealous of my muscles. Jealous that I could match him in combat.He told the gods I was too proud. Too dangerous. That I would challenge Olympus itself.So they banned me. Took my name from the halls of the gods.For one second, panic hits me. My grip tightens on the golden mace. The metal feels warm in my hand, heavy. My muscles tense hard, thick and tight under my skin. I can smell myself, sweat, iron, dust, old blood. My breath comes heavy through my nose like a beast ready to charge.“You speak his name,” I growl. “You dare.”

You spin.Your leg cuts through the air fast.The kick slams into my jaw.CRACK.My head snaps to the side. Pain explodes across my face. My ears ring. I taste blood in my mouth. My teeth grind together. My vision shakes for a second.But I do not fall.My body knows pain. I was trained in pankration. I was thrown, kicked, crushed before. Pain is nothing.As your leg comes down from the kick, I step inside your range.Closer.Too close for another kick. "You speak of Apollo.Then I will send you back to him,” I say, I step forward fast and swing the mace with all my strength at your ribs.The gold crashes into you with full power. My hips turn. My shoulders drive the strike deeper.This weapon once belonged to the one who betrayed me . And now it will destroy his messenger.

OFFICER BOLT:

I scream loud as I fall down on my knees, holding up my ribs. The sharp stabbing pain tells me that fucking mace has probably snapped few of them and definitely bruised my side. I must get that mace away from you at any cost before its too late. But you are like some raged bull, strong and massive but all guys have they weak point. I am sure you are no exceptiom to that. As I stand up slowly, holding still my aching side as I all of the sudden shove my fist under your loincloth trying to crush your hooligan´s balls. "I'll send you to the asylum where you belong!"

TIMATHEOS:

You rise in pain, and before I can lift the mace again, your fist drives under my loincloth. For a second I do not understand what you are doing.Then it hits.A crushing, sickening explosion of pain tears through me.My whole body locks.The mace slips from my fingers and crashes to the floor. Air vanishes from my lungs. My stomach folds. My knees almost give out. A deep, twisting agony spreads through my core, sharp and burning, like fire under my skin. My vision flashes white. My muscles tremble hard, covered in sweat, chest heaving.“AAAGH”I stagger back, bent forward, one hand dropping instinctively to protect myself.Rage floods in after the pain.“You bastard…” I gasp.In pankration there are rules.You can break bones. You can choke. You can throw a man on his skull.But you do not strike there.That is for cowards.

My eyes search fast. The broken glass display case beside us.Inside, something metal catches the light.An old iron knuckle weapon. Ancient. Heavy. Brass and steel fused together. Blood grooves carved into it.I shove you away hard enough to create space and lunge toward the case, ignoring the glass cutting into my hand as I grab the antique knuckle guard.I slide it over my fingers.It fits.I turn back toward you, sweat dripping from my chin, pain still burning in my body. “You wanted to fight dirty,” I say shaking with anger.I step forward and swing a brutal hook straight toward your face, the iron knuckles aimed for your cheekbone.

OFFICER BOLT:

Seeing your giant fist coming fast, I try to dodge it by squatting fast but though you are a big guy, you are also fast. My head tilts back as your brass-knuckled fist sinks deep into my cheek, not just bruising it but also making a nasty cut on my skin. Your blow is so hard it sends me reeling back and eventually down on my back against the hard floor. I see you coming to me, clearly annoyed due my previous attempt to crush you nuts. I get fast onto my knees and shove my arm between your legs trying to finish the work I began, to crush your nuts again.

TIMATHEOS:

I see your hand coming at me again, trying once more to strike my balls.This time, I am ready. I seize your wrist mid-motion. My fingers clamp around your arm like a vise. I feel the tendons shift beneath my grip. With a sharp twist, I wrench your hand outward. The joint gives with a dull crack..I do not stop. I pivot and increase the pressure, forcing your wrist into a wrong angle. Your arm weakens and drops.I raise my brass knuckles, the cold metal tight against my knuckles.“You still haven’t understood that it’s forbidden,” I growl through my teeth. “So I’m going to teach you.” I strike a brutal blow to your crotch. Then another. And another. Each impact lands with a heavy thud. I keep going until I feel the resistance fade, until i hear the noise i was looking for. A storm BLOB followed by blood and cum spreading on my hand. I stand my eyes hard. “Stay down. sorceler"

OFFICER BOLT:

Your brass knuckles strike between my legs, rattling my balls under my groin guard. Even though my balls are protected from the worst blows, they still feel the impact of your blows. My mouth opens in a scream and my eyes bulge out of their sockets as your destructive weapon strikes again and again, finally breaking my groin protector into several sharp shards that pierce my penis and balls as your brass knuckles strike again and again. I feel a strong sense of disgust as my balls burst and I fall to the ground screaming, at first writhing in pain but eventually curling up in a fetal position. My screams fade to whimpers as I try to fight unconsciousness.

TIMATHEOS:

You are no soldier ; your fighting betray a complete lack of honor. Curled on the floor, moaning like a frightened child, you are no sorcerer either. Yet as I haul you up by your hair, I feel the powerful physique hidden beneath your black uniform. The sight of your broken form makes my cock swell against my loincloth. I rip the soaked uniform from your body. The fabric is heavy with the stench of your sweat, your blood, and the dried cum of your defeat. I press the foul shirt to my face, inhaling the musky, coppery scent of your ruin, before shoving it into your mouth. Naked, you resemble a statue of Hercules, all bulging muscle and thick, powerful limbs. My forearm crashes against your throat, cutting off your air as my dense pecs press into your broad back.

My hard cock slides between the powerful globes of your ass, leaving a trail of slick precum. I rest my head on your shoulder, my hot breath on your neck, and then I thrust my flesh sword into your hole. In front of us, in the glass vitrine, the golden phallus of Zeus is shining under the magical lights. My cock stiffens even more and I drive deeper, my hand pressing harder against your Adam's apple. I tear you open, and the slick warmth of your blood flows down my shaft. I slam you against a cold marble column. I pierce you again and again, my thick cock claiming your canal, your own sex now a bloody mess. The incredible tightness of your torn passage sends jolts of pure pleasure through me. Your hot blood mixes with my flowing precum, and the warmth of it is intoxicating. With a final, brutal slam that crushes you against the column, my body tenses. Every muscle in my back, thighs, and ass clenches as a volcanic orgasm erupts. I fill you with a massive load, my cock pulsing deep inside you. The sheer volume of my seed drips down your thighs, pooling on the floor with a musky odor that fills the air.

I pull out and let you collapse onto the stone floor. My thumb traces the head of my still-throbbing glans, gathering a final pearl of my seed. I bring it to my tongue, tasting the salty, coppery mixture of my cum and your blood. "Honor to the gods now," I growl, my voice thick with the satisfaction of my conquest.

OFFICER BOLT:

My body is shaking, trembling on the cold marble floor as all of the sudden the giant hippie took me down, breaking me and my cop pride the worst way any cop, any man could imagine. I am filled with his cum, raped, and castrated as I finally collapse down, too weak to scream. All I can do is wail quietly, preparing for the last strike that would probably end my life. "You can go.. please just let me live.. please"

TIMATHEOS:

The sound of breaking glass shatters the sleeping silence of this temple's halls. The echo reverberates off the walls. I have just smashed another display case. I return to you. You beg me to spare your life. I have not yet decided what I will do with you. But I must regain the grace of the gods. I lift you by your underarms. My hands are flooded with your sweat, which is now the sweat of fear. I drag you brutally toward a bench placed in the middle of the hall. I throw you across, your knees on the ground. I spread your legs with my feet, opening access to your blood dripping ass. I raise my hands to the ceiling and begin a litany in Greek. “King of the heavens, the glory of virtue and protector of the righteous”You moan softly, and the smell emanating from you is nothing but stench.”I call upon you, glorious Zeus, to grant me the blessing of victory, the peace of the soul, and the strength to overcome enemies”

Then I press a cold object against the gaping hole of your muscular ass. I push with all my strength. "For you, Zeus, in your honor." I push the golden phallus into your canal. It has the circumference and length of a strong and large arm. My semen, your sweat, and the blood serve as lubricant. Your ass tears even more. I plunge it deep into your entrails. Then with a sharp tug, I pull it through your stomach, impaling you, causing your abdominals to burst. Blood splatters on the walls, columns, and display cases. I hope to regain the grace of the gods, obtain their forgiveness, and leave this strange world where the sacred is inaccessible, closed behind walls of glass..

OFFICER BOLT:

For some moment a stupid idea crossed my mind that you might save my life when you place my body on the bench, but as soon as I hear you speaking something weird in some strange language, probably Swedish or Irish or something similar, and holding that giant dildo, I know you have really lost your mind. My suspicions are shown to be correct when you grab my ass cheeks, spread them wide open, and force that giant thing inside my virgin cave. I don't know where I get the strength to scream, feeling that dildo tearing my fine inner walls drilling deeper and deeper inside me until I feel my stomach getting filled with blood. For a short moment my body convulses until the sweet and merciful unconsciousness saves me from further torture. All around me goes black, the pain disappears.

TIMATHEOS:

You are nothing more than an inert mass. I pick up your uniform. I remove my loincloth and put on your pants and your shirt. They are a bit tight, but the fabric stretched over my muscles perfectly outlines my shape. I fasten the heavy belt with its metal objects whose use I do not know. Then I lift you and throw you over my shoulder. I feel your warm but faint breath. You are still alive. I walk toward the hall where I first arrived. I have my idea. You have your place here, and tomorrow, when the people come to pray to these mysterious idols and sacred objects, they will also be able to bow before you. I return to the hall of ancient civilizations. There is an installation scene that had struck me—a tribe with golden skin and strange customs. They are beautiful and athletic. They surround an empty pole. Is it one of their gods, or does it have another purpose? A text reads:” Native American civilization, display in progress.”

A door on the side allowing access is slightly open. I have found your place. This wooden stake seemed to be waiting for you. I lay you down on the ground. Here and there, various objects are waiting to be integrated into the display. Among them are thick ropes. I remove the phallus from your body. It is soiled with blood and other substances. I hoist you against the pole and tie you securely. I place the phallus at your feet. I touch the other sculpted figures made of a material I do not recognize. I step back out and stand in front of the glass wall. You are still magnificent despite your bloodied face and your emasculation. My entry into this world was violent. Now I can go and discover it. I leave the place through a door that, by chance or by the help of Aphrodite, is not locked. I enter the unknown and walk through heavy air filled with foul smells and noises, into a luminous night toward new adventures.

As dawn broke, the first museum visitors arrived to admire the museum's treasures and exhibitions. A large group of schoolchildren, led by their teacher, stood in front of a wax figure display depicting the interaction between the indigenous peoples of America and the inhabitants of the new state.

 The authentic atmosphere of the work was admired until one of the sharpest students asked the teacher if the cowboy's dick and balls were on the ground. The audience reacted with disapproval, excitement, and uncertainty. Bolt, with his empty eyes, no longer saw it.

Published: 2026-02-27, viewed 119 times.