Do you remember how the Dalai Lama once said that you could be a rich and powerful man, with a big house and a huge bedroom playing relaxing music, but still be full of jealousy, anger, and attachment and unable to relax? I was that man.
Becoming Alphonso Beard destroyed my peace of mind. All I ever wanted was to be free — a wandering rebellious spirit looking for the love of his life—unchained from the constant judgment of small minds of Rsa, independent and unconquered, a symbolic and cultured figure, or let’s say, a simple genius of some kind. Any kind.
Did I want too much?
Instead, especially after becoming Alphonso, all I felt was emptiness and danger. That danger followed me everywhere: first, through hundreds of perfect bodies and smiles, and later, from every dark gateway or unfamiliar face, phrase, and word that I did not understand or could not understand.
“There are worse crimes than pretending to be someone else, Bullet,” you’d say. I know. But when it was all delivered on a golden plate, I just wanted a simple bed and a picture of Margaret Thatcher in my hand. Constant quarrels with my three wives—let’s call them fear, stress, and anxiety—removed me further and further from my so-desired peace and relaxation.
My daily sex life improved, but my spindle, usually happy, humming, and spinning with bright colors, developed issues after being surrounded by the crazy women day and night. It was probably not suited to the large and noisy activities of the Warrior Farm. Then, there was the feeling of being constantly observed, making it impossible to chill without provoking another chain of sexual games with anxious or deadly endings.
Constanza Lovesick gently pushed me into a damp room with narrow rusty beds and torn bedspreads, which naturally interrupted my gloomy thoughts. A sixth sense—if I ever had any—tried to warn me after she locked the door.
“I understand you are a busy man… Ah, my marriage was the most wonderful thing that ever happened to me, Mr. Beard, so I know how you feel today... All those dreams!” she sighed and continued. “But we have to ask you for more money for our little magical clinic.”
“There’s no rush, Miss Lovesick. Let me have my dreams,” I said, noticing a big gummy bat in her hand, beautiful in its simplicity, capturing so much light from the window in just a few straight lines.
“In our job, dreaming can be a dangerous thing. We sell health, help, mmm… pills. Look around and see for yourself: we need more resources for the advanced research we are currently conducting. Fifteen thousand souls are crying for your help, Mr. Beard.”
I was scared to tell her that I hadn’t met any patients so far, so I leaned against the door behind me and watched her undress. Constanza Lovesick was ten years older than Mrs. Vegas, with a bit of a belly and hips, which couldn’t be ignored in the small room. When she made her first move, I got a fleeting vision of how it would end.
“I hope you don’t expect anything too fancy from me, Constanza. Perhaps a quick game of spinning wheel?” I whispered, trying to grope her breasts.
She lit up and said, in a much softer tone, “You are a smart man, Alphonso; you know many things about your kingdom and your women.”
It was not hard to find the right angle to fulfill all her wishes, melding our two bodies as one. I discovered her space to be fully accommodating, and her yarn-like cave stood guard against any threats from my suddenly awakened desire.
After a couple of minutes, I lowered my face onto her belly, and she tightened her thighs, placing my nose firmly in her grip.
“I’ve got to get out of here. Wedding, wedding, wife… Where are my clothes?” I was tied to the bed, naked, shaking from the cold.
“In our clinic, when the doctor says you stay, you stay,” the round and sweaty face above me replied.
“I have to talk to Mrs. Vegas; it's urgent!” I shouted.
“You are so rude, Alphonso. Do you want to wake up the whole clinic?” Constanza Lovesick wore a professional smile; she began adjusting the ropes on my bed.
“Yes! All fifteen of them!” I tried to escape, but I failed. “Where are they? Halllooo!! Peeooppple!”
“They are in the jitter room, waiting for their dinner. Our new dietician and cook, Martha SoBeIt, advised feeding them an extra portion of fresh meat.” Constanza explained.
“I want my clothes back; it is freezing!” I made the last attempt to flee.
“What for?” a squeaky male voice asked. I looked up only to see Bip SoBeIt’s smiling face, standing near the window. He continued, “We simply can’t allow you to go outside in this condition, Mr. Beard. I’d never forgive myself if we lost you in our clinic’s wild jungle. What if you go out there and get involved in an accident with some mad female patient? We have to keep you safe.” He paused. “And... yes, this isn’t a royal palace. I get it, but it is better than a grave in the local cemetery. Look at the positive side of your situation: you are alive and healthy, and you’ve got a nice future in our clinic.”
“What? What kind of future? I’m the king!” I cried; I was astonished by his power and calmness.
“A fictional king. I’ll explain it to you shortly… I just need your signature here and there,” Bip SoBeIt said, while throwing a stack of papers in front of my face.
“Does Martha know?” I asked.
“Know what?”
“That you are keeping me here against my will,” I screamed. “Maaaarthaaa! Darling!!”
“Ah, don’t bother. She is in the backyard; we have a wild party there every Saturday. I think it is terribly romantic, don’t you think? A party in the middle of the war and LKED epidemic,” Bip SoBeIt laughed.
His half-sister echoed him. The horror of that moment enveloped me, and I did the last thing I could ever imagine doing — I started to sing.
A sarcastic, science-flavored rant about mitochondria, health geeks, AI, and ever-changing wellness advice — ending with the only cure that works: move your body.
Mrs. Vegas’s eyes gravitated toward the towel; her soft longing was affecting me... I swallowed my suspicion, pretended I had lost my memory, and accepted the bride in my arms.
Welcome to the serialized story of Mr. Harmless Bullet! For the audio version - scroll down. Genre: satire, absurdist comedy, adult humor (16+)
Written with the Tristan Tzara method - read about it here
Complete story, chapter by chapter:
CHAPTER 33. PASSING THROUGH DIFFICULTIES
Do you remember how the Dalai Lama once said that you could be a rich and powerful man, with a big house and a huge bedroom playing relaxing music, but still be full of jealousy, anger, and attachment and unable to relax? I was that man.
Becoming Alphonso Beard destroyed my peace of mind. All I ever wanted was to be free — a wandering rebellious spirit looking for the love of his life—unchained from the constant judgment of small minds of Rsa, independent and unconquered, a symbolic and cultured figure, or let’s say, a simple genius of some kind. Any kind.
Did I want too much?
Instead, especially after becoming Alphonso, all I felt was emptiness and danger. That danger followed me everywhere: first, through hundreds of perfect bodies and smiles, and later, from every dark gateway or unfamiliar face, phrase, and word that I did not understand or could not understand.
“There are worse crimes than pretending to be someone else, Bullet,” you’d say. I know. But when it was all delivered on a golden plate, I just wanted a simple bed and a picture of Margaret Thatcher in my hand. Constant quarrels with my three wives—let’s call them fear, stress, and anxiety—removed me further and further from my so-desired peace and relaxation.
My daily sex life improved, but my spindle, usually happy, humming, and spinning with bright colors, developed issues after being surrounded by the crazy women day and night. It was probably not suited to the large and noisy activities of the Warrior Farm. Then, there was the feeling of being constantly observed, making it impossible to chill without provoking another chain of sexual games with anxious or deadly endings.
Constanza Lovesick gently pushed me into a damp room with narrow rusty beds and torn bedspreads, which naturally interrupted my gloomy thoughts. A sixth sense—if I ever had any—tried to warn me after she locked the door.
“I understand you are a busy man… Ah, my marriage was the most wonderful thing that ever happened to me, Mr. Beard, so I know how you feel today... All those dreams!” she sighed and continued. “But we have to ask you for more money for our little magical clinic.”
“There’s no rush, Miss Lovesick. Let me have my dreams,” I said, noticing a big gummy bat in her hand, beautiful in its simplicity, capturing so much light from the window in just a few straight lines.
“In our job, dreaming can be a dangerous thing. We sell health, help, mmm… pills. Look around and see for yourself: we need more resources for the advanced research we are currently conducting. Fifteen thousand souls are crying for your help, Mr. Beard.”
I was scared to tell her that I hadn’t met any patients so far, so I leaned against the door behind me and watched her undress. Constanza Lovesick was ten years older than Mrs. Vegas, with a bit of a belly and hips, which couldn’t be ignored in the small room. When she made her first move, I got a fleeting vision of how it would end.
“I hope you don’t expect anything too fancy from me, Constanza. Perhaps a quick game of spinning wheel?” I whispered, trying to grope her breasts.
She lit up and said, in a much softer tone, “You are a smart man, Alphonso; you know many things about your kingdom and your women.”
It was not hard to find the right angle to fulfill all her wishes, melding our two bodies as one. I discovered her space to be fully accommodating, and her yarn-like cave stood guard against any threats from my suddenly awakened desire.
After a couple of minutes, I lowered my face onto her belly, and she tightened her thighs, placing my nose firmly in her grip.
“I’ve got to get out of here. Wedding, wedding, wife… Where are my clothes?” I was tied to the bed, naked, shaking from the cold.
“In our clinic, when the doctor says you stay, you stay,” the round and sweaty face above me replied.
“I have to talk to Mrs. Vegas; it's urgent!” I shouted.
“You are so rude, Alphonso. Do you want to wake up the whole clinic?” Constanza Lovesick wore a professional smile; she began adjusting the ropes on my bed.
“Yes! All fifteen of them!” I tried to escape, but I failed. “Where are they? Halllooo!! Peeooppple!”
“They are in the jitter room, waiting for their dinner. Our new dietician and cook, Martha SoBeIt, advised feeding them an extra portion of fresh meat.” Constanza explained.
“I want my clothes back; it is freezing!” I made the last attempt to flee.
“What for?” a squeaky male voice asked. I looked up only to see Bip SoBeIt’s smiling face, standing near the window. He continued, “We simply can’t allow you to go outside in this condition, Mr. Beard. I’d never forgive myself if we lost you in our clinic’s wild jungle. What if you go out there and get involved in an accident with some mad female patient? We have to keep you safe.” He paused. “And... yes, this isn’t a royal palace. I get it, but it is better than a grave in the local cemetery. Look at the positive side of your situation: you are alive and healthy, and you’ve got a nice future in our clinic.”
“What? What kind of future? I’m the king!” I cried; I was astonished by his power and calmness.
“A fictional king. I’ll explain it to you shortly… I just need your signature here and there,” Bip SoBeIt said, while throwing a stack of papers in front of my face.
“Does Martha know?” I asked.
“Know what?”
“That you are keeping me here against my will,” I screamed. “Maaaarthaaa! Darling!!”
“Ah, don’t bother. She is in the backyard; we have a wild party there every Saturday. I think it is terribly romantic, don’t you think? A party in the middle of the war and LKED epidemic,” Bip SoBeIt laughed.
His half-sister echoed him. The horror of that moment enveloped me, and I did the last thing I could ever imagine doing — I started to sing.
Let the plot get weirder...
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