Champignonson
"Is it not the ultimate justice to free the world from this bitch?" Champignonson's trembling fingers drew naughty letters on the paper. "Is this not going to be done for the sake of the mankind?" He considered himself the sole salvation of the world. The only thing he lacked was determination. "Is it hard to strangle this bitch?" Champignonson was already talking to himself, asking questions he wanted to find answers to. "Why not just go in and strangle this bitch?" Champignonson's fingers were cowardly, trembling. He threw the pen and stood up. His old lamp was pouring its dim light upon his old table. It was deep midnight, and its silence was only disturbed by the barking dogs.
"They're barking at the Moon," Champignonson said to himself, beginning to pace to and fro. He was losing the thread of his thoughts. "I must do it. I must. If not me, who will?" he asked a very reasonable question. "Who will have the guts to do it?" And, although there might have been such people, Champignonson decided that he would be the one to do it.
"Whore, whore! Bitch! Dirty bitch!" Champignonson was furious. He was already running across the room. "Right now? No, no, I should prepare..." Champignonson calmed down a little, and, trembling with excitement, sat down again. The pen fell from his fingers.
"Shit!" Champignonson squeezed his aching head. "And what if now? No one will ever forgive me if this bitch lives just one more day. How will I look into the eyes of my ancestors?" He was thinking. "Will they all think that Champignonson turned out to be a failure, they will laugh, pointing to my grave?" A moonbeam was sleeping on the windowsill with its tail on the floor. Champignonson brutally trampled it under foot. "Whore!" Champignonson couldn't hold himself. He had been restless during the last three days. His eyes were red and wandering.
"Now?" asked Champignonson. Then he quietly sat down and began writing. The lines were written unsteadilly on the paper. Closing the notebook, Champignonson pressed back his hair and sat silently for about a minute. Then he stood up and went out of the room.
The floor was creaking. It was dark in the hall, so Champignonson stumbled against the sacks full of something that were lying near the entrance door. Swearing, he got up and touched the shotgun on the wall. Picking it up, he returned into the room and sat down, putting cases, powder and shot on the table. In a few minutes it was over, he stood up, put on his do-everything coat and put one bullet into his pocket together with the notebook. With the other bullet he loaded the shotgun.
He went out, shutting the door behind himself. Snow crunched under his feet. Champignonson was walking across his native village, regretting no one could see him. After about thirty yards he noticed a big house by the road. The gate was closed, but Champignonson had already decided to sneak through the farmyard. Walking over to the house, he approached the kitchen garden and jumped over the fence. Breaking the dry branches of a raspberry bush, Champignonson came up to the low wooden door that led to the farmyard. It was locked.
"Whore!", said Champignonson to himself and a lonely tear ran down his cheek. Then he broke the window and got through it, falling onto a frightened pig. He tried to get up, but the noisy animal rushing across the farmyard made him fall again. "Beast," - said Champignonson to himself and wiped his face which was all covered with dung. In the house people woke up, he heard doors banging, and someone turned on the light in the farmyard. Champignonson smiled and pushed the pig away with his knee.
A middle-aged woman entered the farmyard. She was wearing a coat, under which was her nightgown, and in her hand was a stick. Champignonson smiled again and raised the shotgun. "No!" screamed the woman, and Champignonson's finger pulled the trigger. There was a bang in the farmyard and then everything went obscure with blue smoke. The cow looked at Champignonson in surprise. "You are silly, cow," said Champignonson, clutched the woman's body without a face and threw it into the pig's feeding trough. Then he threw the shotgun through the window and began climbing through it again, but a dozen stout arms were already holding him. People had come.
At dawn Champignonson was sleeping on the bench in the local militia department, where they had taken him. "I am aware that my contemporaries will not assess the deep heroism of my doing, but I'm more than sure that future generations will understand me and forgive me." An elderly sergeant read the last line and closed the notebook. Then he banged his fingers on the desk and yawned. While Champignonson himself was sleeping and dreaming a wonderful dream.
Original Author: Slayer 1999.