“The Children Smell the World, Too!”

“It was the trick that turned around and tricked the Trickster,” said Venetians, as he relocated the bullets into his revolver. He watched the spinning motion seduce his available hand. The revolver flicked, the spinning carriage of pertaining bullets sufficed to exist onto his armored shelter. Underneath the shelter, the rain astounded about him, cornered on all sides of his sitting position. The wilderness on the outside continued to travel forwards, time overlapped natural instincts. “What a trickster this world has become, severe and outdated.”

The light-weighed rain pattered on the roof of the metal made-shift carded shelter, and he watched as the rain poured from the heavens, continually investigating his mind. The allowance of the clicking run of smooth metal cased with steel metal contained his Pride, and he eventually removed his vision from the revolver, and laid his hand down on his knee, with the revolver situated there, too. Thunder and lightning conveyed itself properly among the clouds darkened into desecration.

Venetians closed both his eyelids, his mind yielding against the nothingness, the dark entrapment forgetting his eventual satisfaction to burden, find, and discover the natural flow of the following battle heeded towards his motioning mind. “What reason do I continue to search for them—these humans whom find love in Cherubim inheritance? What shall I do when the world becomes a heap of dirt, once more onto the earth?”

At once, as he ended his thinking posture, he heard rumbling from the thunder, which excited Venetians to an appropriate mind-thinking action. He lifted his revolver, aimed with one hand and embraced to the weapon, and noticed three humans remove themselves from the forests in-front of him. “Here these humans come, but whose aim does decide faster retention?” he said as he listed his mind onto the shelf for another thirteen minutes, he removed himself from the iron chair, folded it, and laid it against a wall border on the treeline.

“Whose command situates perturbed intentions?” he wondered.

Now, within the motions of the wilderness one can hide in the shrubs, or the bushes, as one calls them from an American side or perspective, but Venetians did neither. He aimed his revolver, the wide barrel continual towards the enemies before him. “This is what occurs to man when death does demand!” he fired the magnum with efficient proficiency, and dotted out the humans with eventual described humor, which he denied, and continued to fire.

Venetians learned about the intentions humans proceeded to create—made for fragile alliances with humanity; all the same, he trained, and was told in the venue of his life in training for these small moments: “Shoot twice! Forever more, shoot twice! So one knows that the enemies shot at are dead.” Two shots were destined onto each individual, continual, continual, and on-wards onto the fire blast of Venetians offered Peace onto the embrace of the world.

He refused the appearance of the dead. The rain continued to travel on-wards in directions southern, contents of bodies remained constant to the earth, and the earth became burial witness of their screaming souls.

“Their blood screams and cries from the ground, from within the soil,” Venetians said, and he left the area, and visited into the forests, closest to the neighboring village—whose hand shall defend the demon Seraphim made realistic onto the name of Venetians?

As Venetians continued to unravel his trek across the forests, three times did he become interrupted with human bodies aimed towards him. Within moments, each time a human dredged their soul, he had become the barrel holder to their destined resting-place. And for whatever reason needed, he’d embark on-wards, with his mouth adding to the fruits of his mind.

Even the deaden, and worn out bodies of children considered him an evil presence, to confront, and abide to dissuade from the world.

“But who can kill me?” he said, as he drink-ed from a canteen of wine; with boasted venues of wine intercepting through his tongue, gagging, and expelling the fluids from his vessel. The wastes were concerning, but he trudged through, his mind viable to become interchangeable, over the high and low grounds of the forestry; downwards and upwards he climbed, ascending, and returning to the same level. “What a notion of hatred that burns the sacredness of the world.” The sound of more children with rifles came from the lowest shallow grave known to man’s shielded mind. “Continue to come out?” Venetians said to himself. But, as he maintained aim onto the children from a distance, his skill and advisable direction consumed him, and he removed his weapon from the aimed sight; holstered it, and ran around the children.

“There is no reason to dissuade the lives of small children, unless instructions are made—should I demand orders onto me to resent the crimes I commit? Is it a crime should it be a direct order from above, or below? What should I do to the voices plagued into me, concerned, and viable to die?” Venetians allowed three tears to perform down his sadden face, his muscular structure in the facial expressions demanded him to resort to routes unknown to the children, whom would rather kick a football and become like other children around the world, but, these hearts are demanded to do their own covered orders.

Venetians sneaked, his feet soft onto the residue of rain embedded into the now created and shifted mud. “Come to me, and death shall be not retorted; advise me to aim, and without hesitation, I shall defend.”

He continued his trot against the brave forest, and entered onto Saigon three minutes before midnight; the rain ceased, moved on-wards towards new directions available to his anti-slogan for justice and perchance to confine his memories of death.

The Americans stationed on the outside of Saigon permitted themselves to welcome Venetians, the demon whose name defiles love, but suffices to control human temperament. “Should I circle over the lands permitted?”