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Leden 2018

The real FBI 04 - Hunter

31. ledna 2018 v 19:27 Překlady/Translations

Hunter



Derek Morgan woke up with terrifying headache on the bed of the motel. What? Was it all a dream, and he just had a bit of drinking too much yesterday?! No, wait, if it is so, why is he in the motel and not at home? Was he so drunk when he had a case?! No, it's not likely! He couldn't even recognize this room now, when he was fully awake. Nothing was there, except for the things he had when he entered the haunted house, but it didn't mean that the room was empty.

On the bedside table next to the bed was a first-aid kit with half-drawn things, and clothes and blood-stained bandages wound around. First aid that was used directly on him. He had a wrapped head and a right hand. An open laptop with a lot of paper lay on the table a few feet further. Morgan rose and walked over to it. The laptop was switched on and connected to the Internet, and on its monitor there was an article about a demon called Agramon. On the table next to laptop lay photos of the victims from police file and several of printed papers about the history of the house. Morgan would admire it as a great police job if it was police work and not one's obsession. Just in the chair beside it was a green military bag, and the contents gave it a completely different dimension. It was full of weapons, knives, pistols, shotguns, there were flares, a shovel, a couple of sacks of salt, a bottle of water in which a rosary swam, and even something that resembled a large thorn or a part of a spear.

Great, so the whole thing wasn't just a dream, or he wasn't save by some good soul, who is interested about the case of the missing people in a haunted house, but he was probably kidnapped by unsub, when he would lose consciousness. Unsub doped him by something, frightened him, and now he's here, is not it?! But if he was kidnapped, why would unsub treat him? Why didn't unsub take his service weapon? Morgan still had it at his waist. Why didn't he take his cellphone? Why didn't unsub tie him and why he left him here alone with all this? Maybe unsub didn't expect to that he wake up so soon. Or he suffers from a split personality, one is a murderer and the other is trying to protect people, but one doesn't know about another. That might explain, but such a phenomenon, combined with religious delusions, was so rare that Morgan didn't really know what to think about it.

Our FBI agent continued to rummage through the bag until he encountered several fake passports, citizens and badges of various government officials, including the FBI badge. All the fake documents were the same photos of the same man. It was the young man, who Morgan saw yesterday at the amusement park, the journalist who wanted to go to the haunted house. Morgan frowned. It didn't make any sense! He put one of the proofs on the table and took photos with it on his cell phone, then called Garcia.

"Oh, you have the courage to call me! Hotch sends you somewhere, who knows where, and I didn't hear about you for days. I'm angry with you! You know, how much I was afraid about you!" she denounced his actions immediately without a greeting.

"I'm so sorry, my beautiful baby girl. I promise you, once I get home again, so I will compensate you all," Morgan promised, but he was not sure if he'd ever get home again. That night in the haunted house was hard for him.

"Well, well, the apology accepted, so what you need from the well of all knowledge, my chocolate thunder," Garcia immediately chattered.

"I think I have something," Morgan began.

"You think you have something, it doesn't sound very convincing," Morgan's favorite friend was joking.

"No, no, baby, I..." Morgan wanted Garcia to say everything. Tell her that he doesn't have anybody here, that he spent one of his darkest moments of life yesterday, and that he does not even know where he is, that he is going crazy. But it couldn't, he couldn't!

"Derek, what is wrong? You scare me!" Garcia murmured after Morgan's long pause.

"Nothing, just... I'll send you a picture and I'd like you to find out who it is and his past," Morgan said.

"Don't you even have a name for me?"

"I have a lot of names, but they are probably fake," Morgan nodded, as if Garcia could see him.

"Do you know, that you want to something impossible?" Garcia murmured.

"I know, sweetheart, but I kind of think you're a fairy and you can do miracles," Morgan said.

"Well, now you got me, you got it, but it'll take a while," Grarcia laughed and finished the conversation. Just like the call, because at that moment the door opened from the motel room and the suspect entered. Morgan didn't hesitate and immediately took him to the ground. The boy might have looked harmless, but not after Morgan seen the bag and case papers, it was cool, thoughtful, and planned, he knew Reid, and he knew that even with such a figure he could do many things.

"Hey, hey, take it easy, man. I don't want to hurt you if I wanted to hurt you, I could you left in that haunted house. I didn't want to kidnap you, and if it weren't the only way to save your neck, I wouldn't really bother. Seriously, man, no offense, but do you know how much your muscles weigh?!" the young man snarled slightly. Morgan reluctantly released his grip, because he was mollified funny remark about his weight and uncertain smile. Unsubs, with whom Morgan had met during his entire career, they didn't usually smile, certainly not when they were lying on the ground and they were caught, they were mostly bitter people who wanted revenge, not the young people who make joke in bad situation.

"I've brought something else to help you with your teeth. You've tore a few of them, when you've fallen, that's why you have headache."

"Are you trying to tell me that, I have headache from my teeth?" Morgan grunted.

"Well, not exactly, you got hit a nice punch, but you wouldn't believe how much trouble they can cause just teeth. I had one patient, a little girl still crying and..." the young man began to splatter quickly, but he didn't even have to say any more, Morgan suddenly understood.

"You... it was you. You called us about the death of Lily Bell," Morgan said.

"Yeah, it wasn't my case. But when I mentioned in the phone, where you would find me, when I found her, I didn't want any of the civilians investigate this haunted house," a young man confirmed to Morgan's assumption and rose from the ground.

"Isn't your case? Civilians?" Morgan frowned. Morgan didn't like that, the young man expressed themselves as unsub. They spoke of the war of God, and that they must seek evil, to purify this land.

"Civilians, you and other people who aren't hunters," already in the call, the boy said that "to hunt people isn't his field," what did he mean? Hunt was another word used by unsub or behavioral analysts. Maybe he made a mistake when he released the boy. Damn it was like a swing, for a while he was pretty sure the kid was a murderer, and then he wasn't so much.

"Hunters?!" Morgan repeated and the young man sighed.

"Sit down and I'll look at your teeth," the young man said with all seriousness, changing the subject of speech so effectively, and Morgan suddenly didn't knew, why he had obeyed him with unexpected confidence. Which was strange, given that the young man could probably kill him with the scalpel and tweezers or at least seriously hurt him. None of this happened. The boy leaned over him, stared for a moment in his mouth, then picked up the scalpel, and it hurt a little. The young man handed him a glass of water for rinsing the mouth. The whole "operation" took a moment, but Morgan felt after that much better, just hoping the kid didn't give him anything in the water, but probably not.

"And that's it, it should be a lot better, but be the same I would visit an expert," he said, when he finished, he went to wash his hands, then sat down to his laptop. There was silence, and the boy sat and looked at Morgan, as if Morgan had decided what to do next.



"Do you know, man, that you can leave at any time?" in the end the young man broke the silence with a note that Morgan didn't expect.

"Can I?"

"Yes you can. You can go away from this room and the motel. You can go with your team and solve the pseudo vampire with them. Which I would recommend you. Or you can stay here and investigate missing people in the haunted house on your own. That's a pretty stupid option, I don't want anything to happen to you if I've done so much to save your federal ass. Yeah, I know you're from the FBI and your name is Derek Morgan, I saw your ID. But I think the worst option is that you will arrest me. You could do that too. I'm not crazy, Derek, I know how it looks like. I don't know any hunter, who would have good relations with the police, they see us like potential suspects, illegally armed individuals, credit card fraudsters, psychopaths with religious delusions and murderers... And it's sad that basically they're mostly right about it, but we aren't digging graves and burning bodies just for fun," the young man said and Morgan swallowed. The kid just admitted to several serious crimes or not? But why? That was strange, another thing that distinguished him from the common unsub when he was mentally ill. What he had experience, was that people with delusions were not able to connect with reality so well, they were not able to realize that others wouldn't believe them, couldn't think rationally, not be able to use their former knowledge, use them in practice. The boy, if he was mentally ill, wasn't be able to cure him, but even so he helped him. And why is he talking in plural? "We hunters," are there any more? Has this young man succumbed to some sect, crowd psychosis? But most influence of them work only when other people are in or near contact with the sect, but the young man looks like he has been driving for several weeks, months or years alone on his own.

"That's what you do: scams, buying weapons, digging graves and burning bodies?" Morgan tried to understand it.

"Do you know how many people inexplicably disappear every year? Do you know how much strange unexplained murders will happen? No one will just disappear... and especially not at night. The police and the FBI are not the only one who cares," the young man didn't answer to Morgan's question. "Then you could stay here and investigate the case with me," he said suddenly. So good, now that they have jumped from the suspect to partners? "When you were in the house, what did you see?" Now the boy got to the interrogation!?

"I, I saw Rachel McCall, murdered there. She had cut carotid artery and on the ground was some kind of ornament. I came to her and closed her eyes, then I went upstairs and there she was, her body again. I didn't understand it, I ran down to... I don't know, make sure it's true what I saw... that there are two, but in on the lower floor she wasn't Rachel McCallova anymore, but she's got a former my colleague Elle Greenaway... she was lying there just like Rachel, but suddenly she moved and spoke to me... She reproached me what happened to her that one killer had attacked her at home, and nobody from us has protected her... I was scared, I was so afraid... I rushed away quickly and suddenly I wasn't running away from the house, but just away from the danger of the man who was chasing me... The man who tyrannized me in his childhood…" Morgan didn't know, why he started collaborating with the young man, why he gave him important information about the case and personal things, but when he started he felt the need to confess. Confide with the horror, even though the boy could be the unsub, and he was, in any case, strange. "Someone had to drug me."

"Maybe," the young man agreed. "Or, not. What you described to me makes sense."

"How do you think, it makes sense?" Morgan didn't understand.

"Did you see this symbol under the body of Rachel McCall?" the young man asked, handing one of the papers back to Morgan. It was a simple drawing, but there was no doubt. It was exactly what our FBI agent had seen at the night, blood drawn on the ground under the deceased.

"Yeah."

"And there were words on the walls: fear, timor, and Agramon?" the young man asked.

"Yes, what does that mean?" Morgan shook his head.

"Timor is in Latin word for "fear" and Agramon is a demon of fear. The symbol on ground is and has always been used for human sacrifice, as evidenced by the position of Rachel and the spilled blood..." The young man mumbled again and handed Morgan various papers. "Rachel McCall was a family type, who would give everything to her family. Daniel Jones was deeply in love with his girlfriend. Sofia Gray was determined to do everything for her career. Esme Hall was a member of the charity. Gabriel Cook was a priest. Corniel Lewis worked on one of the emergency lines, helping people overcome obstacles. Anael Lee had a hard life, when she was young, whole her family died in a car crash, and then her adoptive parents was murdered, when she was 24 years old, she became ill and half of her body was paralyzed, yet she didn't surrender and became a popular comic book author. Family, love, purposefulness, helping others, faith, determination to overcome obstacles, the ability to see light in the most difficult moments, these are things that have to overcome fear in order to empower people, and they are also the victims that are needed to the ritual of the rebellion of the demon Agramon," the young man explained.

"Do you think a maniac is trying to rebellion, raise a demon of fear?!" Morgan couldn't believe that, but the boy was right. What make complete sense. "God, what will the unsub do, when he fails?"

"I wouldn't be afraid of that. I'd rather ask: What will be if he succeeds?"







Veselé historky z pekla - Zadek organické chemie

24. ledna 2018 v 15:54 Moje povídky

Zadek organické chemie



Ahoj, mé jméno je Dominika Nováková, jsem ve znamení ryby a je mi 25 let. Mám přítele Vladimíra a studuji v Praze konzervování a restaurování uměleckých děl. Se mnou na oboru, nebo bych měla napsat v pekle, je ještě jedna nevinná duše, nebo se alespoň domnívám, že je vcelku nevinná. Její jméno je Jaroslava Kladková, je jí 21 let a znamením je blíženec. Má krátké hnědé vlasy, kulatý obličej, není nikterak éterickou bytostí, ale ráda sportuje. Co vím, tak je značně pesimistická a ač se zatím jevila jako extrovert, stěží o ní mohu říct víc, zvláště co se týká jejího soukromého života, je to... Je to zvláštní!

"A to je pro dnešek všechno," ukončil hodinu organické chemie doktorand s dlouhými kudrnatými blond vlasy a starým tričkem AC/DC. Všichni jsme svorně zahučeli své "neshledanou" a vypotáceli jsme se ze třídy do velkých labyrintů budovy. Hřejivé sluneční paprsky pronikaly přes veliká prosklená okna, vypadalo to na příjemný zbytek dne, ale bohužel tento názor má spolužačka nesdílela.

"Ach Bože, to bude zase předmět!" zabručela v depresi.

"Ale prosím tě, to nebude tak zlé. Snaž se to brát pozitivně," pokusila jsem se ji trochu rozveselit.

"Jo, co na tom má být pozitivního!? Jen další předmět, u kterého budu za kreténa a budu si ho muset znovu zapsat," brblala dál.

"Nic pozitivního? Co třeba to, že ten doktorand měl fakt luxusní zadek," vzala jsem to za jiný konec. S žertem jsem doufala v její úsměv, ale ona na mě jen zvláštně pohlédla se svraštěným obočím. "Ale no tak, nedělej, že sis toho nevšimla!" šťouchla jsem ji loktem do žeber, ale místo smíchu a přikývnutí jsem dostala jen vystrašenou myšku.

"Já..." špitla. "Já ne," řekla, ale nebylo to nic škádlivého. Žádný dodatek: "A ty jo, co by k tomu řekl tvůj přítel?", nebo "Připomeň mi, kdo že je to z nás dvou zadaná!" Ne, Jaruš mi pak jen popřála pěkný den, zamávala a co nejrychleji se dekovala pryč, domů.

No, možná jsem na ni neměla tak naléhat. Čemu jsem se vlastně tak divila? Pokud se jednalo o moji spolužačku, téma "kluci" nikdy nebylo na top seznamu. Co si pamatuji, Jaruš s tímto tématem nikdy nezačala a jen jednou z ní vypadlo něco, co bych do ní nikdy neřekla.

Měly jsme zrovna čtyřhodinovou lekci malby a já, ona a holky z vyšších ročníků jsme rozebíraly mužské hledání sexuálních zkušeností u starších žen. Jo, téma k nezaplacení. Podivovala jsem se nad tím, co mladé hochy táhne na ženské kolem padesátky, vždyť pro zkušenosti mohou mít třeba třicítku a ta má i výdrž? A v tom se ozvala ona se svou teorií o nedospělosti a špatném dětství, chybějícím mateřství. "Oni nehledají přítelkyni, ale matku." Kristova noho, to byla poučka jak z učebnice psychologie, nic neříkající sice o její zkušenosti s muži, zato jsem dostala dojem, že by má spolužačka měla studovat něco dočista jiného.










Děsivé hlubiny internetu - Slash povídky

16. ledna 2018 v 12:56 Odborné práce

Děsivé hlubiny internetu - Slash povídky




Slash povídky též takzvané yaoi, shounen-ai, či yuri, zkrátka povídky s homosexuální tématikou, nebo ještě obecněji LGBT povídky s tematickou sexuálních menšin. Poslední dobou se s touto kategorií roztrhl doslova pytel a lze na ně narazit při hledání nějakých literárních děl téměř všude po internetu.

Někteří těmito povídkami pohrdají, jiní je milují a nedají na ně dopustit. Odpůrci této literatury, pokud pomineme ty, kteří nejsou prostě tolerantní k této menšině a domnívají se, že romantický vztah dvou lidí stejného pohlaví je špatný, argumentují nízkou kvalitou těchto příběhů, neoriginalitou a tím, že velmi často tyto povídky píší mladé slečny, které s ničím takovým zkušenost nemají, a tak píší hlouposti.

Jak jistě ovšem víte, tak má maličkost k odpůrcům tohoto druhu děl nepatří. Naopak sem tam si celkem ráda něco takového přečtu i dokonce napíši. Proč? Co vede lidi, kteří ani nejsou z LGTB komunity k tomu, že takovéto příběhy mají rádi?


Komentář


Mě osobně kategorie LGBT přitahuje ne tak ta romance jako taková, ale spíš ty sociální a psychologická témata, která se s tím mohou snadno vázat (téma identity, sexuality, náboženství, vnímání lásky, diskriminace, homofobie a mnoho dalších... s tím vším se dá slušně "vyhrát" a rozebrat to)... A stejně tak mě baví třeba u FF ten komický nebo tragicky-komický prvek, který může z jistého shippování vyplynout.

Jinak také láska má mnoho podob a žánr romancí je oblíben asi obecně. Je jistým způsobem často fuk jestli to je G/G, B/B, nebo G/B, pakliže je zajímavý děj, postavy jsou pěkně vykresleny, jedná se o příběh bez "chib" a je dostatečně napínavý. Většina oněch odpůrců těchto povídek, pakliže se nejedná přímo o lidi, kteří nemají rádi LGBT komunitu, argumentují, že právě povídky o homosexuálech, jsou často nekvalitní... a že "samozřejmě pro ti těm kvalitním nic nemají". Avšak asi na to neexistuje (nebo alespoň o ní nevím) nějaká studie, statistika, která by porovnávala mezi sebou žánry, kategorie a témata, co se týká procentuální kvality tvorby autorů na internetu. Takže je to více méně nějaký pocit, který může být stejně tak pravdiví, jako klamný. To samé můžeme prohlásit o jakékoliv jiné kategorii a bylo by to asi tak zhruba stejně prokazatelné. (Například já nemám v oblibě upíří a vlkodlačí povídky z naprosto stejného důvodu. Mám pocit, že většina z nich jsou nekvalitní a že je jich hromada... ale pocit je jen pocit. Nic prokazatelného, nic směrodatného.)

Ano, argument "nemůžeš psát nic, co jsi nezářila/nezažil" je hloupost. Zkušenost autora se světem je důležitá. Autor do díla dává své myšlenky, díky jeho zážitkům, může dílko i smyšlené působit realističtěji… a tak dále a tak dále. Nicméně myslet si, že dobrý autor je jen ten, který píše podle svých osobních zkušeností, že autorka nemůže napsat dobrý román v mužské ich-formě, je podle mého názoru blbina. Za prvé bychom tady na internetu četli pomalu jen samé školní romance a jiná témata z běžného života, které by nám po čase začala lézt na nervy. Nicméně půjdu ještě dál. Je to pohled na literaturu: "to co je reálné je dobré, to co není, je nízké a zbytečné", což v extrémní formě může znamenat, že správně jsou jen historické publikace, životopisy a podobně, a fantasy a sci-fi je nesmysl, v méně extrémním případě se setkáme s kritikou za naše schválné přehánění u charakterů postav, nebo situací, kritika, jenž tak ignoruje to, co nám dala avantgarda a celé 20. a 21. století. Chci říct, že dílo se nemusí řídit úplně realitou, ani běžným uvažováním o světě, aby bylo kvalitní. Samozřejmě že i sci-fi, fantasy i absurdní dramata jistým způsobem popisuje náš svět, protože prostě vždycky nějak těžíme z toho, co je v nás a z okolí, ale je na nás, jestli nakreslíme tím pádem abstrakci, nebo přímo reálně, co vidíme.

Jak napsal sám Aristoteles v své Poetice: "Epika i básnictví tragédie, rovněž i komedie a dithyrambická tvorba a většinou i hra na píšťalu a na kitharu, to vše je vcelku napodobování…" Podle Aristotela to však neznamená, že nejlepší umělec je ten, který perfektně umí napodobit realitu, ale podle něj básník stejně jako malíř může zobrazit danou věc realisticky, nebo idealizovat, popřípadě karikovat. "Umělci zobrazují činné lidi, a ti jsou nutně buď dobří, anebo špatní. Vždyť povaha je takřka vždy dána tím, tj. co do povahy se všichni od sebe liší špatností a cností. Proto je zobrazují buď lepší, než je známe, nebo horší, anebo právě takové." V Aristotelově pojetí tedy umělec vázán na skutečnost jen do určité míry, avšak s důrazem na logiku děje.

Jistě by také měla fungovat nějaká intuice a selský rozum, když autorka/autor napíše blbost… Například (ehmmmf… nic mě nenapadá), že "jeho penis byl jako maják v rozbouřeném oceánu", a nebude se jednat o nějakou absurdní komedii/parodii, tak se vám všichni vysměju a budu si klepat na čelo. Což ovšem není záležitostí jen gay povídek, ale i celkově erotiky jako takové a můžeme to vzít i plošně na všechny povídky (nebudeme u detektivky psát o jedu, který nevíme, jak funguje, a nedohledáme si to). A to je zase to… pokud nemáme s něčím zkušenost, ale chceme danou činnost/věc popsat realisticky, pak je tu ona druhá možnost, nastudovat. Pokud řekneme, že se všichni snažíme, nejsme líní, a co nevíme, dohledáme, pak největším problémem je tedy nezkušenost. Začínající autoři mnohdy neví, kde je hranice, co si mohou dovolit a co již ne, kde mohou vařit z vody a kde ne. (Já to možná také nevím, ale doufám, že alespoň snaha se cení…)

Takže zase zůstaneme na tom, že nekvalitní díla dělají nezkušení autoři... a nezkušení autoři potřebují praxi, aby se stali zkušenějšími a lepšími. Zajisté by mohli psát pro praxi do špalíčku, ale to by nedostali na svá díla žádnou reakci a posouvali by se tak v tvorbě velmi pomalu… A každý někde začíná.

Dále bych to mohla rozebírat, že některé povídky jsou hodně "jen o tom jednou", přímo bychom to mohli označit za porno… a porno je porno, a jako takové je někde hodně dole (pro některé dole až v pekle) v žebříku "literatury" (pokud se tomu vůbec dá říct literatura). Avšak zase po několika odstavcích bych narazila na ten samý fakt, že tohle není jen záležitost některých povídek s tématikou LGBT, ale obecně erotických a romantických povídek jako takových… A viz o jeden odstavec nahoru.

A co tedy mohu říci na závěr jako nějakou pěknou tečku? No, asi pouze již jen to, že od doby, kdy jsem tak nějak sem tam začala nějaký tyto povídky číst (navzdory tomu kolik těch povídek bylo špatných) i psát, tak jsem možná daleko tolerantnější. A o to v literatuře jde, aby čtenář prošel nějakou katarzí a stal se lepším člověkem… ne?










Veselé historky z pekla - Žákovský průkaz

12. ledna 2018 v 15:24 Moje povídky

Žákovský průkaz


Ahoj, mé jméno je Dominika Nováková, jsem ve znamení ryby a je mi 26 let. Mám přítele Vladimíra a studuji v Praze konzervování a restaurování uměleckých děl... tedy studuji v Praze, ono jak se to vezme. Zrovna k tomuhle se váže bezva historka.

Se školou se to má asi takto: Hlavní budova je v Praze, ale jezdíme do Světlé nad Sázavou, kde máme řemesla. Ve Světlé nad Sázavou jsme dva zpropadené dny s tím, že i tam přespáváme. Cesta trvá přibližně dvě hodiny rychlíkem a jízdenka stojí 179 korun.

Aby doprava byla levnější, je možné si pořídit takzvaný žákovský průkaz, což je vlastně studentská sleva na daný úsek. K tomu však, aby mu byl onen průkaz vydán, musí mít člověk hned několik věcí. 1) potvrzení od školy, že jste student, 2) potvrzení ze školy, že máte na onom místě praxi, nebo v našem případě řemesla, což je zvláštní další papír, ale jiný než potvrzení o studiu, 3) svoji fotografii určenou pro doklady, 4) správně vyplněn onen průkaz, bez žádných škrtanců a použití bělidel. Nemusím se zmiňovat, že na informacích nebo na pokladně jsou většinou paní moc milé, které vám tento seznam neřeknou celý, jen se zmíní vždy o jedné věci, která vám chybí, takže ve výsledku žadoníte o tento průkaz jak dlouho, protože tak to prostě většinou chodí, ať vyřizujete cokoliv.

Hlavní zápletkou toho celého ovšem je, že když už všechno máte a přijdete i k tomu správnému okénku za správnou paní, žákovský průkaz vám stejně nechce dát, ne když studujete náš obor. S tou paní jsem se hádala něco přes půl hodiny. Nebyla sto pochopit, že mám trvalé bydliště v Trutnově, žiji však v Praze, školu mám v Praze, ale musím dojíždět do Světlé nad Sázavou, protože tam mám řemeslo, a tak potřebuji slevu na úsek Praha - Světlá nad Sázavou. Hlavním argumentem, proč mě odmítnout, bylo: "Proč potřebujete slevu na úsek Praha - Světlá nad Sázavou, když máte školu v Praze a bydliště v Trutnově?" Bylo jedno, kolikrát jsem jí to vysvětlovala a řekla jsem jí, že jestli mi nevěří, může se podívat do těch potvrzení o studiu, kde to všechno má černé na bílém. Nakonec mi to tedy dala, ale myslím, že ne kvůli tomu, že by uznala, že se hádá o blbosti, ale protože se mě chtěla zbavit.

Tak jsem si zabalila svých pár švestek, koupila jsem si lístek a vydala jsem se směr nástupiště. Ještě štěstí, že jsem nějak vnitřně toto obrovské zdržené předpokládala a místo ranního lísání se se svým přítelem jsem dorazila na Hlavák dříve, takže mi i přes hádku o žákovském průkazu vlak neujel. Nastoupila jsem tedy do něj a začala jsem se od konce prodírat vagóny směrem k lokomotivě hledaje tak kupéčko, ve kterém byla má spolužačka. Má jediná spolužačka!

Měla být už dávno ve vlaku, protože jela ze Smícháče, tak kde pak... Najednou mě někdo chytl za ruku a odtáhl mě o kupéčko zpátky, což jsem bez povšimnutí přešla, protože bylo celé zatažené.

"Bože, tohle mi nedělej! Málem sem z tebe dostala infarkt!" křikla jsem na ni, jakmile jsme byly sami.

"Promiň," zabručela s očima v sloup. "Bylo to rychlejší než na tebe zavolat, když jsi mě přešla."

"Nemůžeš mě takhle přepadnout! Proč máš vlastně zataženo? Když je to takhle, nemůžeš se divit, že tě minu," vyčetla jsem jí.

"Proč mám zataženo, vážně se ptáš?! Chceš si snad zopakovat zážitek z minula?! Doufám, že ne. Protože alespoň já o nic takového nestojím. Říkej si, co chceš, třeba že jsem hamoun a chci, abychom měly kupéčko pro sebe..." začala vysvětlovat se svým typickým sarkasmem.

"Dobře, jasně, chápu. Nikdo nechce další podobný zážitek," zadržela jsem ji. Jaký zážitek a o čem jsme se to vlastně dohadovaly, by bylo na dlouho. Upřímně bylo by to na celou další kapitolu tak snad najdu dost odvahy se vám s tím svěřit, prozatím...

Seznamte se s Jaruš mojí spolužačkou a možná i kamarádkou. Celým jménem se jmenuje Jaroslava Kladková, je jí 22 let a znamením je blíženec. Má krátké hnědé vlasy, kulatý obličej, není nikterak éterickou bytostí, ale ráda sportuje. Co vím, tak je značně pesimistická a ač se zatím jevila jako extrovert, stěží o ní mohu říct víc.

"Řekni mi nějaké přímení," vyzvala mě, když jsme se obě uvelebily v kupéčku u okna a ona se chytla svého bloku.

"Hajman," vylétlo mi z pusy hned to první, co mě napadlo, což bylo přímení mého přítele. Jaruš se usmála a zapsala si to. Bezva, od teď bude přímení mého přítele a možná i mé budoucí přímení figurovat v nějaké té její povídce...

Vlak se rozjel a já si zřetelně povzdechla, to je dnes zase "supr" den.










The real FBI 03 - The Haunted House

5. ledna 2018 v 12:36 Překlady/Translations

The Haunted House



Morgan asked even a few questions about the case to the man and other people on the amusement park, but most people didn't know anything. He also listened to the families of the missing victims, which brought him only a considerable headache, because the victims shared only considerable amount of self-confidence and they liked amusement parks and horrors films. Even the unknown informant seems to have disappeared. And somehow whole day and evening passed until midnight, and Morgan stood in front of the haunted house, but fortunately, the young man was not there. Morgan hoped, that the boy had dropped his stupid idea, but it was more of a wish. Well, but now it did not matter, if the young man was there or not, Morgan was just as determined to enter the house. He hoped he would find something in the house to show him another direction in the case, so our hero dressed warmly, grabbed a badge, a pistol, a flashlight, took a deep breath of cold night air, and walked into the house.

At first it was what he expected. A half-broken old mansion where man is simply afraid of that he will fall somewhere, or something falls on him, which is a legitimate anxiety. However, what was completely different, and it was strange, there were several graffiti on the walls, which didn't mean absurd tags, but they said: "HELP!" "HELP ME!" "GO AWAY!" "NIGHTMARES COME TO LIFE HERE!" "DARKNESS IS COMING!" "HERE SURVIVE ONLY DEAD, BECAUSE DEAD CAN'T BE TERRIFIED" "DEAD CAN'T FEEL FEAR" Morgan snorted, these people in the amusement park didn't have the money to build a traditional haunted house, so they chose a dilapidated manor house, but their imagination about what should be frightened was obviously bad.

But then something changed. There were still the same words on the walls... in fact, just one word. Fear!

"FEAR!"

"FEAR, FEAR, FEAR!"

Still and all over again, even now it was no longer a graffiti made with a marker pen or spray, but it was often painted on the wall with some red to brown color or sometimes scraped back into the wall. OK, first it was just a play, embarrassing pieces of fun to scare in the haunted house, but now it wasn't that embarrassing anymore, and the inscriptions began to shout at him in a chorus of fear and power.

"FEAR, FEAR, FEAR, FEAR, FEAR, FEAR, FEAR, FEAR, FEAR!"

"FEAR…"

"RAEF…"

"TIMORE…"

"TIMORE…"

"TIMORE, TIMORE, TIMORE, TIMORE, TIMORE, TIMORE, TIMORE, TIMORE, TIMORE!"

Morgan swallowed. This was starting to be serious, but so far our big FBI agent did not feel that fear or anxiety, perhaps just a slight concern, but it only took time to see her. Rachel McCall, the beautiful seventeen-year-old girl with stunningly blond hair and the slim figure, whose parents so much cryed for her, lay here on the old, beaten table in the living room with undercut arteries. Everywhere there was a lot of blood. She was on the table and on the ground under her, was some kind of strange ornament. If Reid had seen it, he would have known immediately what it meant, unfortunately he was not there, and Morgan could only guess that unsub had used Rachel as a sacrifice for a ritual. Great, so someone with religious or satanic delusions. Morgan became sick, not because of the terrible scene that had appeared before him, but mainly because of the pungent smell of sulfur mixed with the smell of deadly dead meat. He had seen a lot of crime scene, and he had seen even older dead body than Rachel, but this was a little different. There was something diabolical about it, something beyond his experience and reason. Still, he walked up to her.

"I'm so sorry, Rachel," He whispered sadly and closed her dead eyes. "I don't know yet who did it to you, or why people weren't looking for the missing people in this house, they would have to find you like that. I don't know yet what's going on here, but I promise you, that I'll find out," He promised the dead girl and then decided to move on.

"FEAR…"

"FEAR, FEAR, FEAR, FEAR, FEAR, FEAR, FEAR, FEAR, FEAR!"

"RAEF…"

"TIMORE…"

"TIMORE, TIMORE, TIMORE, TIMORE, TIMORE, TIMORE, TIMORE, TIMORE, TIMORE!"

"EROMIT"

"AGRAMON…"

"AGRAMON, AGRAMON, AGRAMON, AGRAMON, AGRAMON, AGRAMON!"

Morgan went upstairs to the second floor and once again he came across the same room, a living room that was exactly below and was the same with Rachel McCall. Oh my God! That's impossible! Morgan's eyes widened and ran to her body, but it wasn't mistaken, it was Rachel again! Did he lost and go down again? But in that case, Rachel would have closed her eyes... How this was possible? He knew, Rachel didn't have a twin, so how! Morgan turned on his heel and ran down to the other body. And in his head the choir began to sound from the inscriptions signs on the walls.

"FEAR, FEAR, FEAR, FEAR, FEAR, FEAR, FEAR, FEAR, FEAR!"

"TIMORE, TIMORE, TIMORE, TIMORE, TIMORE, TIMORE, TIMORE, TIMORE, TIMORE!"

"AGRAMON, AGRAMON, AGRAMON, AGRAMON, AGRAMON, AGRAMON!"

He ran down the stairs, barely he wasn't slipping on them. He ran into the living room downstairs, where lay... Elle Greenaway on the table! His old team mate, who was attacked by the unsub and almost killed, who then changed, killed another unsub, and left ABU. The whole team, including Morgan, never ceased to blame what had happened to her, and now she lay there, dead, as well as Rachel McCall. Morgan's throat dried up. How was it possible with all the saints? But the most terrible thing had yet to come.

Dead Elle moved. She turned her head to Morgan and opened her eyes. "Why did you do this to me, Derek? Why didn't you come with me then? Why didn't you guide me on the right path, when you saw, that it is some wrong with me?" She said, and at that moment Morgan felt as like if all his blood stiffened in veins. For the first time since he doing this damn job, fear dominated him. He started running again, not even knowing where, just simply away.

"FEAR, FEAR, FEAR, FEAR, FEAR, FEAR, FEAR, FEAR, FEAR!"

"TIMORE, TIMORE, TIMORE, TIMORE, TIMORE, TIMORE, TIMORE, TIMORE, TIMORE!"

"AGRAMON, AGRAMON, AGRAMON, AGRAMON, AGRAMON, AGRAMON!"

Morgan ran furiously. His head throbbed, his heart beating his race and house as if it were a sudden endless maze of corridors and rooms. The big and powerful agent FBI only once feared so much in his life as he was now, at that time he was still a child. The child who was under the local youth center coordinator, who sexually abused him.

Suddenly, He was in this dilapidated haunted house again the child and Carl Buford pursued him, shouting: "Wait, you bastard, when I catch you! You will be fucking punish, you ungrateful brat!" And Derek tried, he was trying to escape, but he couldn't. With every step Carl Buford was closer and closer. Derek stumbled and fallen down the stairs to the cellar. His head crashed into the wall and he lost consciousness.