Not sure about this - A burning story

 

Not Sure About This

"Shall we light it?"

I remember the question well. It came suddenly, interrupting my train of thought.

I've never been clever enough to feel reasoning flow through my mind like a river in spring flood, but I'm no fool either. On that occasion, the gears of pros and cons suddenly seized up, and that annoying squeak of my conscience fell silent.

"I'm not sure about this," I answered, but I was persuaded by that captivating smile, garnished with the glint of a gold tooth peeking out from the base of his tongue. The money was within reach. One bright flash and it would be mine.

Now I'm enjoying the view.

The wind, blowing from the mountains, has warmed itself against the rocks and its pressure inflates my open jacket. I'm surrounded by a rain of dry leaves. They've surrendered to the approaching winter and are searching for a place to rot. Against a backdrop of interwoven branches, two young deer chase each other. The first jumps over a bush and the second imitates it. The earth kicked up by their hooves translates into many dramatic puffs of dust. My eyes fall for the trick of camouflage, and I only sense the gradually fading vibration of footsteps, or perhaps that's just my imagination.

I'm not sure about this.

Caterina has grown up so fast that I struggle to replace the memory I have of her as a child with that five-foot-eleven of gentle curves and peach-soft skin. At the beginning of winter, she's still tanned and beautiful. She moves like a ballerina, every time she smiles it feels like a celebration, and she never speaks out of turn. The thought fills me with pride.

I'm convinced I've been a good father, and I turn my gaze to the clear sky.

The deep blue shimmers a bit from the effect of a tear, and at that moment a pair of buzzards soars over the woods, describing a series of increasingly tight concentric circles. They must have spotted small prey, probably in trouble near a precipice at the edge of the pine forest.

Caterina plays volleyball. She arrives at the gym first and leaves after everyone else is already in the shower. There isn't a uniform that doesn't suit her perfectly, and when she jumps, she stays suspended in the air for a long time, her shoes with diagonal red stripes a good three feet off the floor. In that instant, you can take perfectly focused photos. When she lands, she makes no sound, not even the usual squeak of soles that sometimes turns into a concert. She wears number sixteen on her fitted lycra tank top, or maybe seventeen.

I'm not sure about this.

If there's one thing I hate about mountains, it's that they're an anachronistic obstacle.

Progress hasn't yet managed to tame them, and sometimes you have to bow to their imposing presence and go around them. You have to endure the shadow that makes the asphalt slick, the darkness made sudden by dense woods, and that cold that clashes with the lukewarm air of the plains. The valley at my feet narrows until it disappears behind a fog-inhabited ridge. A winding road runs through it in a succession of hairpin turns and straightaways, before getting lost in turn. It looks like a drunk painter amused himself by cleaning his gray brush while searching for inspiration.

Grazia is a treasure. There's nothing about her I don't like, and the passing years have transformed her into the pillar of my existence. We met when we were still young, and now, at every moment, with every beat of my heart that adds to our story, I feel I've spent my time well. She loves her job with a reciprocated love, receives recognition, is adored by colleagues, and brings home money and smiles. The last time we went to the restaurant together, she wore a long red dress, perfectly married to the harmonious line of her hips and destined to attract envious glances from diners toward her behind. Matching her black faux leather purse, she stylishly wore heels, fifteen centimeters high, or maybe twelve.

I'm not sure about this.

The concept of pillar, granite, and solidity perfectly matches my surroundings. From the rock wall behind me, which only a few brave shrubs have attempted to conquer, the mossy arrow slits of an abandoned fortress peer out. On the space-starved passage that the walls grant to the precipice, a line of chamois organizes itself to reach the beginning of the woods.

Where the sweating wall begins to jut from the earth, a faint scent of smoke and fog rises to meet the squared stones, and a flock of small birds divides into groups as soon as they reach the sky.

"Shall we light it?"

"Yes," I answered, swallowing saliva that felt like a mouthful of thorns. My hand, cold and contracted with fear, tightened around the wad of banknotes that the man with the captivating smile had spread on the desk. Before withdrawing it, I had time to interpret the flash of satisfaction in his eyes, and the question came along with a corrupt breath.

"So you're sure about this?"

The warm wind hasn't yet given its best. A first and then a second powerful gust arrives, and the uncertain gray of a smoke column takes on increasingly compact shades of black. Soon after, tongues of fire twist around the base.

If I'm not home for dinner, Grazia will judge me badly, and so will Caterina. Perhaps she has volleyball practice this afternoon, or maybe after-school activities.

I'm not sure about this.

Fire isn't silent at all. In lovers' fantasies and romance, it crackles, but when it affects a forest annihilated by months of drought, it screams, and it does so along with thousands of creatures.

The smoke slithers low, slips into burrows and kills small rodents still busy gathering provisions for winter. The fire infiltrates under the leaves, disintegrates insects, and runs in search of its release. When it finds oxygen to feed on, it transforms into an explosion.

"Good, then. The money is yours. Take it..."

And finally, the hand withdrew. I noticed that crumpling banknotes produces a sound very similar to flames devouring a bush. After all, there's a perverse affinity that binds money to all things that burn.

The resin that cooks produces its vapors, and the fire feeds on them.

On its path there are flames thirty meters high and a cemetery of glowing trunks in its wake. Sometimes a tongue of fire comes forward and seems to want to catch me.

The man with the captivating smile made things clear right away.

"You'll have to abandon the area long before the trigger can ignite and expose you... Remember that!"

I crumpled the banknotes to stuff them in my pocket. When those people assign you something, you can't refuse. I stood up and reached the door without turning around.

"Well, thank you..."

The desk drawer closed with a sharp snap. I didn't miss the gun handle placed next to the money box, and the man with the captivating smile noticed that.

"Do you have a family? You know, a loving wife and a beautiful daughter who makes you proud?"

I imagined having them.

I thought of a life different from this cesspool, which I believed I'd left behind simply by dressing myself in good manners. I spread one of the most fake smiles from my repertoire. "Yes, they're two wonderful women!"

I leave when the alarm sirens scream like eagles and people rush to face the fire. There's a coming and going of vehicles and men shouting instructions, running and wearing masks. One of the youngest is seized by panic and remains paralyzed as if in a freeze frame. A wild boar, its fur lit up like a matchstick, darts past him and nearly knocks him over.

"Remember, then. Don't disappoint me and remember. There will be people like you starting fires in other places, and it's important that everyone does their part at the same moment..."

The man with the captivating smile lit a cigar and disappeared behind bluish swirls of smoke. I left the office in its gasoline smell and started repeating like a mantra:

Fire purifies, fire purifies, fire...

Purifies.

And I see a large male deer charging toward me like a train.

A female and three desperate fawns follow him. The last one lags behind, slows down, speeds up, and then changes direction. When the others are already far away, deceived by the yielding ground, it loses its footing and ends up rolling into a stream's gorge.

The flames are surrounding me, and I'm tired.

If Grazia and Caterina had really existed, I would have followed my instructions to the letter and left immediately.

The boy paralyzed by fear has been reassured by his companions and now he's pointing at me, or perhaps he's indicating the infernal blades that have attacked a group of conifers behind me.

The fire roars.

Those who speak of crackling live in a plastic world, as small and predictable as their fireplace burner.

If Grazia and Caterina had really existed, I wouldn't have become a criminal and my life would have been different, or perhaps not.

I'm not sure about this.

The male deer's antlers slide under my ribs.

Rough, I feel them pierce through my lung and end up pushing against the inner wall of my back. The heat surrounding me is so intense that the blood pooling in my throat might start to boil.

The young fawn emerges from the streambed and starts running in zigzags toward the valley.

The boy paralyzed by fear is about to leave with his team, and I hear him shouting without understanding his words.

From reading his lips, I see an encouragement to save myself, or perhaps it's a curse, hurled at me and garnished with a crown of profanities.

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I don't know, I'm not sure about this.

. The Party on the Terrace. A Dance of masks and bullets

 

The terrace is tastefully arranged.

Colorful string lights crisscross it in two directions, closed umbrellas stand tall, and flags flutter at the four corners of the railing. The buffet table, made of expensive teak wood, is placed against the back wall and covered with a tablecloth that leaves its natural grain visible. The lights from the penthouse shine through the wide glass windows, framing the studio apartment like a scene in a cinema. The entrance door is visible at the back, along with the bathroom access marked by a heavy cast-metal “toilet” sign and two paintings that would delight many collectors. The city rooftops merge with the night, and the lit windows add a nativity-like charm that warms the heart.

A waiter, hands clasped behind his back and steps soft, tends to final details, checking the freshness of the dishes and straightening a few bottles here and there. The Amarone della Valpolicella stands out, its red embossed label stark against the dark bottle, and three choices of champagne for the appetizers chill near a fragile tower of crystal glasses.

The first guests to arrive are a middle-aged couple. The man, bald, wears a blue jacket with ease, paired with faded jeans and a white shirt hinting at a gym-sculpted chest. The woman, still attractive, wears a light blue dress that shows off her healthy, slender legs. The waiter greets them, collects her handbag, and places it on a long bench near a built-in wardrobe large enough to house an entire boat.

Next, two women enter, smiling generously. They flaunt enviable décolletés and fresh beach tans. True to tradition, one is blonde, the other brunette, making it hard to choose who is more striking. The blonde boasts a contest-worthy figure, while the brunette has enormous, dark eyes. She exudes elegance, albeit betrayed by a touch too much lipstick. Their handbags, too, are entrusted to the diligent waiter.

The terrace starts to come alive: an older woman in a long, glitter-adorned dress; an equally elderly man with white, well-groomed mustache; and a young couple of lovers, slightly awkward. She clutches her bag while he, much taller, wraps an arm around her shoulders, leaning comically to kiss her hair. Both are astonished by the lavish menu and the generous offering of fine wines. They peruse the buffet, weave through the chairs, and reach the railing to marvel at the view.

Still no sign of the president.

I had studied the ten photographs provided alongside the €50,000 payment. The client would place a €5,000 bundle on the table, topping it with a photograph.

“Study it carefully,” he instructed. I scrutinized her features, the youthful tautness of her skin, and the sparkle in her eyes. Red lips, toned shoulders. The second photo, paired with the next bundle, showed her in a yellow Brazilian bikini, walking on a deserted beach with her discreet bodyguards in tow. The third captured her at work behind her desk, and the fourth as a speaker at a crowded conference. The prominent microphone didn’t obscure her lovely face, while her hair in a bun and large tortoiseshell glasses transformed her significantly. Nothing was left to chance.

“This will be the only occasion when she’ll appear without security and without any protective protocol. You know you can’t fail,” he emphasized as the fifth installment of my advance appeared on the table, accompanied by yet another photo.

I had memorized her face and delved deeper, searching for videos featuring her.

I’m a professional.

I started shooting during my three-year military stint, where I discovered my talent as a sniper. I had enlisted after my heartbreak with Lara, the most beautiful and important woman of my life. My perfect partner. She left without explanation, without second thoughts. One evening she embodied love itself; the next, she was a bundle of whims and paranoia. The bouquets I left at her door were futile, and in the end, instead of twelve red roses, I grew accustomed to clutching a precision rifle.

Bang, the targets’ heads would burst.

Bang, the heads burst.

They nicknamed me Bang Bang Boy.

This is my fifth assignment, and I’ve never been paid this much. The president is a target worth every euro of the fee, including the rest I’ll collect once the job is done.

It’s not a bad line of work. I never get close to the victims; I watch them fall lifeless through the precise optics of my Sako.

Bang.

It’s a cold sensation, like watching actors die in a movie. Remorse lasts only a second, and let’s be clear—once the bullet is fired, it’s like destiny: there’s no way to change its direction.

“There’s no room for mistakes. We’ve got the right tip-off and the perfect spot. You’ll shoot from up there...” he said, pointing to an old 19th-century building painted in that ubiquitous Torino yellow. It stood four stories tall on the hillside, hollow like a snail shell. Up to the third row of windows, the facade was hidden by the dense foliage of trees.

“The owner is an old woman who lives alone in that barracks of a house. We know she recently had her hip replaced and won’t be leaving the clinic for another three weeks. You won’t have to force the doors—we’ve got a copy of the keys.”

They jingled in front of my face, much like the Mercedes keys the latest guests handed to the obsequious waiter. These were two men who looked like they’d never worked a day in their lives, with faces unmistakably marked by plastic surgery for the trained eye to notice. The taller one walked with a slight limp—I imagined he’d injured himself during a water-skiing session or maybe falling off a horse. The shorter one kept his hands buried in the high pockets of a hooded sweatshirt. I wouldn’t dare show up at such an elegant gathering dressed like that—or with such a vulgar rapper attitude.

I pull my eye away from the scope.

I want to rest for a moment before the president makes her appointment with destiny. I glance around the room.

The space is pitch dark, and the door to the fourth-floor apartment is ajar, opening onto a landing that smells faintly of wax polish. Once the job is done, I’ll shut it behind me and vanish. The windowsill I’ll shoot from is low, perfect for a precise shot without anyone noticing the muzzle flash.

I stretch my legs to keep them from falling asleep, get the blood flowing, then resume my sniper’s stance.

The terrace is more crowded now, a growing hubbub. I scan the interior but still don’t see my target—just the same people as before, with some insignificant extras adding to the commotion.

“No complaints if you have to take down someone who steps into the line of fire or just won’t get out of the way. Clear your path if necessary, but don’t miss. Don’t hold back for that rabble; they wouldn’t hesitate for you. You know the drill—if you miss, one of ours will be waiting downstairs to send you to your maker. Few things are certain in this world, but so far, it’s pretty clear that dead men don’t talk.”

He’d said it, and somehow, I thought of Lara—our years together, our white kitten, Thursday night pizza, movie dates, her smile that healed pain, her flawless body. I remember her green eyes, the small mole beside her lip, and her eyelashes, long as petals. I remember her scent and her skin, smooth as silk.

If I kill today, it’s because she hurt me yesterday.

I scan all the guests with patient precision, sweeping from right to left. I’m 200 meters from the target, but my scope is powerful, revealing every detail. The shy young couple has let someone fill their glasses with something blue. The man with the white mustache chats animatedly with the Mercedes duo, gesturing flamboyantly. Now there are two waiters; a younger one with a conspicuous earpiece has joined, both bustling about, ensuring nothing is amiss. The bald man with enviable pecs nibbles on a caviar tartlet.

The contrary wind carries the music down to the city, but judging by the swaying hips and tapping feet, I guess it’s jazz with a swing rhythm.

I breathe.

It’s good to keep my brain oxygenated, to push back the dull aches and faint cramps.

“You’ll shoot as soon as she steps onto the terrace. She’s authoritative and revered enough that everyone will step aside for her. They’ll make way like for a cow in India, and then it’ll be easy. Place your usual shot to the heart, and another squarely in the forehead. Pack up, leave the room neat, close the window and the door, and disappear. We’ll get the rest of the cash to your house.”

There she is!

The president enters the house. The obsequious waiter clicks his heels together and approaches to take her handbag. With her are a friend whose face is hidden behind a wall of shoulders and applause, and an elderly executive who walks with difficulty. The friend appears to ask about the bathroom and slips behind the door with the heavy plaque.

I could shoot now, make the bullet pierce the glass and hit her, but if the web of cracks spreads too far, it could obscure my view. Better to wait until the target steps onto the terrace. When I see the guests part like the Red Sea, I’ll know the moment has come.

I relax.

Shooting requires the awareness and calm of a Tibetan monk. You must control your breath, dominate your heart, and overcome emotion. No trembling or second thoughts. A good shooter learns quickly to relax his sphincter. It’s funny, but the sniper has to manage his ass better than anyone else.

Applause erupts.

The terrace is lit up brightly, and the guests leave a wide and comfortable path for the guest of honor, his downhill road to hell. To enhance the dramatic effect, the lights inside the house are turned off. The dead woman walking will emerge from the darkness like a great actress taking the stage. And I will take her.

I breathe.

My neck is soft and relaxed, my shoulders light, and everything, from my chest down, stretches as written in the manuals of the seasoned assassin.

“They’ll have the lights in their eyes. No one, really, not even the lucky ones, will understand where the shots came from. You know what I’m telling you? I’ll fill her with money to do it, but almost I could do it on my own,” he had laughed until he felt sick while I waited for the slap on the shoulder that would come soon after. Some people don’t even respect the dead.

My heart slows, my blood slows.

Time slows.

The crosshair of the scope splits the width of the door. The crosshair points where soon there will be a heart to split.

When Lara, my ex-girlfriend, appears first, surprising the guests, I feel a punch in my stomach and I lose my breath, my reason clouds, and the circle of the lens frames a confusion of colors and lights in motion. I struggle with the rifle, overwhelmed by a flood of pain and tension, and my mouth dries as if I had swallowed a hairdryer. My ass clenches, and the world crashes down on me.

The president is behind her. She smiles, offers greetings, jokes, gestures with her hand, and bows proudly. Only, her vital organs, the ones I’m supposed to shatter with a 7.62 Heckler & Koch bullet, are protected by Lara’s body.

I couldn’t have imagined they were friends or lovers or partners, so close. I would have refused the assignment had I known, and I would have run to warn her at the cost of burning my career. Lara is as beautiful as ever, matured, with a gaze full of awareness. She must be rich, and she only moves for a moment when the waiter hands her a glass, and I know I could never take advantage of the opportunity, not even at the peak of concentration.

Now, I’m a hostage of chaos.

There’s an irrefutable mission, a killer waiting for me at the exit, and fifty thousand euros in advance that will do for my funeral. Whoever gave me the assignment couldn’t have known about my love for Lara, and here’s the shipwreck about to happen.

I try to concentrate, wiping the sweat that runs down my forehead, and I try to slow my pulse. There’s too much of it even for watching a game.

Nothing.

The president advances across the terrace, with Lara always one meter ahead. When all the lights go out, the second act of the macabre play begins.

The terrace remains in the dark.

Only the candles shine on the tables, but the rest of the party is a confused, dark mass. No target for pam pam boy.

"You’ve got an excuse, my friend!" I convince myself that the sudden blackout is my grand opportunity to slip away, return to the client, and dismiss it all with a shrug.

"Didn't you know it was a candlelit party? I’m really sorry if you were misinformed, but you should have sent a hitman to the venue, not placed a sniper by the window…”

It works.

I don’t have infrared optics with me, and with every passing minute, I become an easy target. Goodbye, high-profile assassination. I glance once more toward the terrace, but the only lights I see are the usual candles and the red tips of lit cigarettes.

I disassemble the rifle from its mount, place it in its case unhurriedly, and stand up. As I close the window, I see the party continuing under the soft glow of flames. There’s nothing I can do about it. As instructed, I make sure the room is in order, step out onto the landing that smells of wax, and slowly begin to descend the stairs.

The landlady materializes on the landing below, propped up by an orthopedic walker. Her armpits are pinched between its grips and her pajamas, her face of wrinkles and blotches frozen in shock. I notice her fuchsia fur slippers and a curious hairnet that screams “bank heist.”

"Good Lord, who are you?” she stammers, then starts shrieking like a banshee, spitting like a faulty exhaust. She screams, stomps her good leg on the floor. "How the hell did you get in, and what… what’s in that case!" And I get it. I realize she could dictate my description over coffee and that she’s sharp, with perfect eyesight behind those thick, old-lady-teacher glasses. She reeks of disinfectant—fresh from the clinic—and I’m certain she’s as fast on her phone as a gunslinger.

When I see her begin to pivot the walker to retreat into her apartment, I strike her with the edge of the case. She crumples like a can under a wheel and dies. Nobody survives a cracked skull and brains oozing onto the doormat like cheese from a toast onto a napkin. A few nervous spasms of the legs, then stillness. The cloud of white hair trapped by the hairnet absorbs the blood pooling on the floor.

Since things can only get worse, I head back to the top floor to check if the party has resumed under electric light. And yes, damn it, it has. Not the Texan party bulbs from earlier, but spotlights flooding the scene in purple.

I feel like I’m going insane, but what takes my breath away is that all the guests are wearing masks.

And capes. Masks of various designs and black capes dragging on the floor. Some are tall, some short, but they have no gender, no faces, and no one can tell who the target is—or who Lara is.

I take out my phone and snap some photos. I feel genuinely sorry for the old lady, and the client will believe me. No hard feelings. As I focus, the phone vibrates in my hand.

"Yes…"

"We’ve got no choice. Shoot anything that moves!"

"What the hell?"

"One of the waiters is ours. We’ll have him block the door so they can’t leave, and you figure it out. After you drop a couple, they’ll probably take off their masks, and then you’ll get an idea…"

"No, seriously, this is insane. And by the way, I made a bad impression on the landlady—the one you said was at the clinic…”

"We’re mortified. These things happen, but we have to kill that bitch, you understand? Otherwise, the stock crashes, and millions—no, billions—evaporate. And then it’ll be our asses on the line. Crack a few skulls, and let’s see what happens."

I taste overripe fruit in my mouth and see death settle in next to me. The partygoers are either performing a ritual or—more simply—they’re so rich, bored, and drugged that they no longer know how to have fun. Lara is among them. I expected anything from her except becoming part of high society.

I hastily set up the mount, reassemble the rifle and scope, and peer into the deepest purple I’ve ever seen. There are masks, extravagant and gothic; others, baroque and ornate; and some, minimalist and pristine. I recognize the tall guy with the much shorter girlfriend. They’re awkward in a distant corner, holding hands that peek out from under their capes. The Mercedes guy is limping; there he is, wandering among the armchairs. And then there’s the old man with the mustache. I haven’t forgotten his slightly hunched posture.

Lara, where are you?

Madam President, lead like a leader even under the mask. Part the crowd like a plow. Show yourself!

But it’s just back-and-forth through the scope, and frustration mounts. I want a glass of water, a foot soak, and a chance to call my mom.

Denied.

"Hello." Silence.

"Hello…"

"Apparently, the bitch is wearing a mask with lace details and vermilion red lips. That’s all I know, buddy. Good luck."

Vermilion red lips, lace. There are at least ten masks like that, and I fear that Lara, in the name of corporate branding, is hiding behind one of them.

But Lara is tall, so I shoot the shortest one. The bullet strikes her chest; she staggers, grasps for the teak table, clings to the tablecloth, then collapses, pulling everything down with her. Everyone rushes to her; some grab their phones, others clutch their faces. No one removes their mask, so I persist. I put a 7.62 next to the cheekbone of the next tallest. A broad reddish crack forms in the mask as the crystal glass tower explodes in all directions. The stampede toward the house is immediate, as violent as a tidal wave. And I am a dead man. I shoot, then hope, then shoot again. Some trip over the dead, piling up, while the chaos at the blocked door is a chokehold, a gulp of broken glass that won’t go down—my career’s end.

They’ll have to pay me double. Triple. Quadruple, because I just shot through the ribs of a mask that had nothing to do with vermilion lips, lace, or women to eliminate. I see a cape fluttering like in a storm, the body collapsing beneath it.

Reload.

Shoot. Goodbye, old executive.

Reload.

Shoot. Farewell, beautiful brunette; may the earth be light upon you.

I’m so tense I could snap if a canary landed on my back.

I regret hitting the shy girlfriend. I see her clutching her stomach, falling to her knees, bowing her head. She remains kneeling like a devotional figurine, her mask rolling to the ground. Her boyfriend has been dead for a while now.

Ten times as much. They’ll have to pay me ten times as much, and I’ll shoot.

A small table crashes to the ground, candles scattering sparks everywhere, and down goes the blonde with the desirable little derrière.

They topple like bowling pins, and the shot that hits the elderly gentleman—slightly hunched and proud of his mustache—splashes blood, brain, and shards of mask across the glass pane dividing the terrace from the house. And not just that—it cracks an ill-fated spiderweb into the crystal.

I keep shooting until the glass shatters into a cascade of tiny shards. I even shoot those sprawled on the ground, hands crossed over their necks, and the others hiding behind flimsy armchairs, slender tables, and lifeless bodies under a black shroud.

I reload.

I shoot.

Reload. Bang bang, and my shoulder aches.

I fire so much that I make the air in the room unbreathable.

When the last of the targets collapses, a gush of blood spurting from their neck, I realize there are only two left on the terrace. I’m sure one of them is Lara. And the other—it’s her, the millionaire manager who stretched her luck too far.

“Take off the mask, go on,” I demand, but I know it’s a deliberate choice for them.

As blood drips from the terrace, streaking the facade with countless red streams, and a mountain of lifeless flesh presses against the barricaded door, I wait for one of the two women—trembling like leaves in a storm—to slip. I murmur, implore, pray like a man on death row.

“Come on, sweetheart. Take off the mask...”

The phone again.

Through the receiver, I hear the wail of police sirens. My time is running out. Someone in the city must have located the shooter, and the clock is ticking.

“You’ve done thirty, buddy. Come on, make it thirty-one before the cops show up.”

“Take it off, Lara. Take it off, show me your pretty face. Please, don’t disappoint me again!”

I feel my sweaty hands slipping on the rifle, the barrel smelling like an old stove, and I’ve only got one bullet left. I might have even soiled myself by now. I must look like a mess, but I can already hear the sirens for real.

They’re coming.

The two friends know they have no escape. They don’t scream or try to run. In my frenzy, I even shot the obsequious waiter—the only one with an uncovered face—which has dramatically affected my ammo count and will cost me dearly.

Now they’re hugging, waiting. Lara knows the dividends of their reckless stock market schemes will go to her, too, and I have no choice.

I’ll live if I return to base with not a single bullet left—and maybe, so will she.

I’ll live if I become one with the darkness before the police lights blind me.

I control my breathing.

Steady my heart.

Conquer my emotions.

No tremors, no second thoughts. I relax my muscles, aim at the mask on the left, and pull the trigger.

Once the bullet leaves, it’s like fate: there’s no way to change its direction.

In Italy, alas, there are few readers. I tried to classify them into categories, but don’t take me too seriously…

 

Readers in our country are scarce.

It’s not just me saying this; there are some fairly eloquent statistics on the subject. If confirmation were needed, just think about the places where there used to be a bookstore (and now there’s an auto parts shop or a chain lingerie store) and the not-always-smiling faces of the rare booksellers scattered here and there.

At the shopping mall, for example—the one where you have to tailgate the guy with the cart, hoping he’ll surrender his precious parking spot after loading up his car—there’s always a big bookstore from a big publishing house. That’s the only place you can escape the Sunday crowd, the barbarian horde of Christmas shoppers, or the zombie apocalypse. Within the reassuring walls of the bookstore, in an almost bucolic atmosphere, you can find your oasis of peace while the world outside boils like a volcano’s crater.

Even though readers are few, they do exist.

We have photos, videos, and testimonies from real people whose faces have been pixelated, their voices distorted. We even have images of some individuals, caught in the act, clutching bags full of books, cautious and elusive.

As someone who writes and—like any writer—needs to sell as much as possible, I’ve developed a sense of the most recurring types of readers and the quirks that make them so unique.

I’ll try to list them, using a light-hearted tone and, hopefully, not offending anyone (though if I do, let me know, and I’ll apologize):

---

THE ONE-AUTHOR DEVOTEES

They are quite numerous.

They harbor a spontaneous and unshakable passion for one specific author and tend to fill their shelves almost exclusively with their favorite’s works. The Kingites are the most numerous, but you’ll also find Rowling enthusiasts, Sparks fans, and Dean Koontz loyalists. James Patterson’s Facebook page, for instance, has over three and a half million followers.

The one-author devotees are often resistant to other literary offerings and tend to reread the same book over and over. Some have even read it ten times, including the original language version and the quirky edition written in Cyrillic.

They never miss out on the reprint with the new cover, the exorbitantly priced first edition snagged on eBay, or the novel translated by that particular interpreter. I get it, to some extent. I, for example, am obsessed with King, madly love Koontz, and am developing a crush on Lansdale.

But our friends, the ones at the pathological level, aren’t satisfied with even the most prolific one-author catalog. Many tend to buy novels written by the beloved author’s relatives, those cobbled together by four or six hands, or those obviously handed over to uninspired ghostwriters.

---

THE ONE-BOOK BUYERS

I know, I’m twisting the knife in the wound.

I’m sorry to do it, but the subject had to come up sooner or later.

The one-book buyers always show up in the bookstore when you’re in a hurry. They flood in a few days before Christmas and cluster around the pile of books that, a moment ago, had tripped an elderly lady with a cane.

They were heading to the outlet mall, but the line of cars made them postpone. They arrive, debit cards in hand, and make a beeline for the season’s buzzworthy book. Sometimes, if you’re lucky, it’s a good novel that deserved its success. Other times, the mountain of volumes blocking the display window and the afternoon sun is the biography of a footballer nearing retirement or a collection of a trendy comedian’s best jokes.

Then there’s the usual book by the TV host who’s been churning out one annually for at least half a century and the cookbook by a chef, teaching you how to make the same old pasta but in six painstaking hours.

The one-book buyer usually has the purchase gift-wrapped and sometimes browses other books, only to put them back with a promise to return. I won’t be the one to tell you that, most of the time, they forget their shopping intentions within a minute.

---

THE BLURB FOLLOWERS

They’re decent readers but have little confidence in their instincts.

They arrive at the bookstore reasonably prepared, having followed debates and read various reviews of new releases, and they’re willing to spend money, dedicating time to browsing the shelves.

The blurb followers, however, often succumb to laziness and end up buying only books adorned with a promotional band.

The blurb is every writer’s dream. Sometimes it features an excerpt from a famous newspaper’s review, a quote from a celebrity, or a recommendation by a trendy musician. There’s also the boast about the gazillion copies sold and the massive success in the 175 languages the book has allegedly been translated into.

Blurbs are diabolical.

Whatever persuasive tidbit they contain, they manage to capture the blurb followers’ attention and convince them. I’ve fallen for it myself, and I swear, despite the authoritative opinion on that particular blurb, I went home disappointed, unable to find the promised magic in the pages, and lost a bit of respect for the author who approved it.

---

THE BUY-BUT-NEVER-READ TYPES

I think they’re legion, numbering in the hundreds if not thousands.

They buy, download, rush to book fairs, and fill carts.

The “buy-but-never-read” types can accumulate dozens of titles only to abandon them on the shelves. Occasionally, they pass by the ranks of anonymous spines, only to leave with a massive sense of guilt.

These individuals, however, deserve credit for keeping the struggling publishing industry alive, though they’re guilty of letting the characters in those novels languish, desperately clawing at the pages, yearning to be set free.

---

THE CHRONIC BOOK BORROWERS

I like to think they don’t understand how much work goes into publishing, that they’re unaware writers are rarely rich, and that they don’t know how precarious an author’s career can be with low sales.

The chronic borrowers have a trash can for a heart (citation needed) and would probably cheer for a dubious penalty awarded to the opposing team in the 93rd minute of a legendary match (an outburst of rage).

The chronic borrowers likely don’t realize that authors’ royalties are calculated on the cover price, minus bookstore discounts, taxes, distributor fees (which sometimes swallow half the value), and publisher rights. We’re talking about pennies per copy.

Do I like them?

Yes, because many of my readers have candidly admitted it to my face. And no, they weren’t obliged to know how exploitative the publishing world is.

Well, now they know.

The Black Car and the parking lot drama - Generation X humor

 

You’ve just stepped out of the shopping mall. It’s scorching hot, the kind of heat that makes your soles feel glued to the asphalt.
The bypass, wrapping around the area like a noose, smolders like a fire doused with buckets of water or a spent matchstick, and you push the cart. It squeaks and veers to the right, as always. The previous customers forgot their receipt pinched between the grid. No matter how hard you try, no matter how closely you examine the contraption like a Formula 1 pit crew, you always end up with the one cart whose wheels are misaligned or whose bearings are reduced to gravel.
Nothing major — you just needed toothpaste and toilet paper, and maybe a couple of frozen pizzas for those quick-fix dinners. But things got out of hand, and by the end of it, they had drained one hundred and seventy euros from your credit card.
At first, you don’t see it. You sense it.
It’s so close that a single puff of air could nudge it into you. It reeks like a volcano and is as silent as a killer in the fog.
It’s there — the black car.
You ignore it, but you can’t help noticing an extra pulse thumping alongside your own and feeling another bead of sweat sliding down your back. So, you quicken your pace, digging your hand into your pocket for the keys as you turn into a side lane of the parking lot. The cart’s alignment doesn’t help, but you push it past a blue sedan, the one dumped with three wheels out of four in the disabled parking space.
But it’s Sunday.
Your favorite team played on Friday night, and the mountain hike stayed in the realm of good intentions. There’s more belly than heart these days, your hiking boots are drying at the bottom of the closet, and the bike surely has flat tires.
Your car is at the far end, baking under a tree that has no intention of growing, its trunk paired with another sporting the initials of some long-forgotten lovers. You’re no expert in measurements, but it’s at least thirty meters away.
You wonder how architects managed to design green areas with wide, shady canopies and illustrations of happy families, men in bowler hats, and ladies with parasols framed against a playground, only for you to end up on a blazing expanse of concrete and broken bricks, sharing space with weeds.
But it’s Sunday.
The parking lot is as vast as Nebraska, yet there isn’t a single spot available, not even for a bribe. Impatient husbands drain their phone batteries double-parking, dogs pee on alloy wheels, and their owners brave the air conditioning to deliberate over swimsuit colors — the ultimate trial. And the kids are inside, drowning in a sea of colorful balls under the watchful eye of the same staffer as last Sunday, and the one before that, and that rainy spring when cars splashed puddles all over you. You’d swear you’ve seen him slicing deli meats, driving a forklift, or rushing to a loudspeaker announcement with a whiff of sweat wafting from the fluttering blue apron.
You’d swear, but you don’t care: he probably doesn’t even have a girlfriend.
And the black car inches closer.
You hear its tires chewing the road and the fan humming in the background. It pulls up beside you. The tinted window slides down, releasing a tangle of low-frequency Dolby Surround sounds. That’s when you don’t understand, when the voice from inside the cabin makes you squint.
But it’s Sunday, and the cart veers to the right, nearly kissing the black car’s door. The driver moves his elbow away and glares at you, seething.
Then it passes. He forces a smile, as if jacking up his cheeks with a car lift, and exhales a whiff of mint. The woman next to him tries to appear friendly, but all you see is a cleavage marked by tan lines and the faint start of a neck.
You stop.
You stop and notice that the black car isn’t alone. It’s followed by a line of compacts, SUVs, and minivans bursting with restless kids. At the end of the queue, a lady, trapped by a maneuver with no apparent solution, blares her horn and curses the world.
The black car inches closer.
It’s followed you across the parking lot, and with it, half the vehicles registered in the last five years. Looking closely, you can’t tell where the line ends.
“Are you leaving?”
The smile propped up with the car lift falters, and the hand dangling outside taps the bodywork with its fingers.
“Excuse me?”
“I said: are you leaving?”
It’s Sunday. The bypass is probably jammed, and the toll station impassable. Your spot at home has surely been snatched, and you’ll need to circle the block twice with your bags. The sliding doors of the shopping mall are paralyzed by the customer flow. Sure, the stupid sensor occasionally tries to shut them, but it’s Sunday, and the two panels just can’t meet halfway.
“Yes… yes, I’m leaving,” you say, gesturing toward your car as if to justify yourself.
“Good. Then I’ll take your spot.”
At that point, the window rolls up. Farewell to the faceless woman and the triumph of subwoofer-enhanced basslines. Farewell to the hopes of a thousand other anonymous drivers, as free to go wherever they please as they are prisoners of that ton of metal and rubber.
But it’s Sunday.
You’ve grown accustomed to the cacophony of horns. You load your groceries, get in the car, start the engine, and begin to reverse. The black car sticks so close you have to be careful not to scrape its bumper. You feel stupid for over-maneuvering in front of that entire audience. You think you heard some insults hurled your way.
But it’s Sunday.
You’re gone before you can round the corner, and the black car has already slipped into your spot.
The couple with the cart and the kid riding in it doesn’t seem to care. Like at a funeral, a gray station wagon silently follows behind. Judging by the situation, the others will have to keep circling for a long time yet.

The Coin Laundry Chronicles

The quilts Are Three
And as everyone knows, the number three can sometimes be hard to wrap your head around—even if you have unwavering faith to rely on.
The winter quilt is light, warm, and technological. It’s made of those fabrics you don’t really understand, but you’re certain no feathers were plucked from a bird to make it. The mid-season quilt, on the other hand, is heavy, sturdy as military-grade gear, and probably warmer than the winter one. The third quilt is white and airy, like a cloud at the start of summer, and no one really knows where it fits in the calendar year.
I’ll have to ask my wife.
They’ve been piled up on the couch in the home theater for a while now, because in August, winter is a distant memory. Even though the northwest in 2021 never really suffered from the heat, that mountain of fabric and synthetic feathers had become part of the landscape, and the cats had grown quite attached to it. When my wife, in a rush, throws the quilts down the stairwell—taking a couple of pictures off the wall in the process—the cats are shocked, worried that this piece of their world is gone forever. One even sniffs the now-empty spot, searching for an explanation.
The laundromat is part of a Swiss chain. They’re very proud of being Swiss, boasting about their uniquely Swiss cleanliness, their drums that spin perfectly round, and the silence inside their laundromats, as quiet as a cathedral. This one is in a location where you can park right out front. And I swear, I’ve seen skilled professionals, healers, accountants, magicians, and bargain shops go under for no other reason than the lack of parking. The Swiss aren’t stupid, you know. Otherwise, they wouldn’t be outside the EU, their banks wouldn’t be full of money, and they wouldn’t have the privilege of staying neutral during wars.
Self-service laundromats have never really caught on in Italy, especially not in smaller towns. It’s intrusive and risky to load your personal belongings into a public machine. You might end up a cautionary tale, forced to move provinces if one of your items turns out to be too dirty—stained yellow, or worse, brown. Even if it’s just coffee or orange soda, your reputation could be ruined. The same goes for worn-out underwear. If it starts spinning in water and detergent, showcasing its unforgivable decay right in the porthole’s glass under the judgmental eyes of other customers, you’re done for.
They may be Swiss, but one of the machines is out of order. And the solution is very Italian: a piece of masking tape slapped on the start button with a terse handwritten apology in marker. The other machines, though, work perfectly. Even though the elderly woman with her mask pulled down has taken up an entire table, the young woman is waiting for the dryer to finish, and the even-younger woman I ask for help just tells me to read the instructions, the vibe is right.
My Beautiful Laundrette, The Big Bang Theory, Mr. Bean, that classic Levi’s ad. Self-service laundromats have inspired so much cinema. In Anglo-Saxon countries, they’re places where people chat, where romances are born. Here? No one gives a damn.
I barely turn around before the critiques begin—softly spoken, as any good gossip should be.
“That quilt is too heavy. It’s just sliding disgracefully to the bottom of the drum instead of tumbling.” The elderly woman with her mask down says this. But it’s not true. It’s just envy—or that unbearable sense of superiority that arises when watching a newbie. My wife goes to check, but the quilt is tumbling. It tumbles and dances, immersed in a fresh scent, and I see for myself that everything is working perfectly, spinning round like the world itself.
So, I do it. I write a review in the notebook left out for comments. I don’t care if the Bic pen is infected with germs from a thousand hands—I want to say it. No mention of the broken washing machine, because I’m a suck-up, but I lay down a harsh critique of the clientele: “People here don’t know how to mind their own damn business!”
Thankfully, they leave. They fill their Ikea bags—taking an eternity—but they leave.
In all that time, the heavy quilt has been spinning with the drum without missing a beat.
The first confident guy, who of course parked out front, empties an Ikea bag into a machine, says hello, and leaves. He clearly doesn’t fear holes, frayed edges, or suspicious stains.
The second confident guy arrives and carefully loads a machine. His bag is also Ikea, and at this point, I’m convinced they’re part of a cult. He’s a sporty type, and it shows: fluorescent yellow, fluorescent orange, nuclear radiation green. Low-rise jeans, tight shirts, and a cyclist’s outfit. Batman boxers.
He says hello and leaves, and I’m a little jealous of his boxers.
The laundromat is wonderful. Dirty laundry doesn’t get washed at home—not in public either, according to Manzoni—but in the Arno, apparently.
Everything went fine. We picked up the quilts, left the machines to their work while countless little bats endured the spin cycle without complaint, and went in search of an Ikea bag.
The cats, needless to say, are glaring at us with pure disdain.

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Blown to bits

 

"I think my leg is broken..." he says, forcing the words out between wheezes as the buttons on his shirt pop off one by one. That desperate hunger for air makes me think a rib must have slammed into the hard frame of the steering wheel, the lungs grazed by claws. "Look, look! Tell me what you see!"

But I don’t want to move. Without leaning over, I can already make out a mound of flesh pushing up against the denim, right where it shouldn’t be. A closer look reveals my partner’s pants soaked in blood and piss. The smell reaches my nose along with that unbearable stench of hot iron, gasoline, and burnt plastic. The windshield, reduced to a spiderweb, frames a sky of endless blue, while engine oil drips into the void below: plop... plop... plop.

I can only imagine a jagged rock wedging itself between the rear wheel and the fender, the only thing postponing our appointment with death. I remember gripping tight as the van skidded down the slope of grass and wildflowers, knowing nothing could stop its descent toward the cliff. But then, just as the fragments of my life were flashing through my mind at breakneck speed, the ton of metal and rubber came to a sudden halt. I remember my partner, as always, refusing to wear his seatbelt. "They choke me, make me feel like my junk’s crammed into tight underwear, you know? Like I’m a crash test dummy or something," he’d say. That’s when his leg and ribs gave out.

"Listen, buddy, you’re in bad shape, but what does it matter? We’re hanging on to something that won’t last, something that’ll play us for a fool before letting us drop."

A tear from the pain slides down his face until it mixes with the blood pouring from his nose. His labored breathing sucks it back in before pushing it out again, a volcanic mess of clots, bubbles, and eruptions that splatter the buttonless shirt. All I can do is hope he’s got one good nostril left and pass him the cocaine I’ve got in my pocket. It’s wrapped in foil, meant to dull the impact, to douse the fire burning inside. Alongside a couple shots of whiskey, it would’ve numbed our souls.

"No, I don’t want that shit!"

"It’ll put the pain to sleep. Maybe we can think of something in the meantime..."

The mere thought of fighting back against fate shifts our weight, and the van sways like a drunk on the sidewalk. What I see in my partner’s eyes is a cocktail of terror, resignation, and pain. Dig a little deeper into his gaze, and you’ll glimpse the urge to pray, coupled with the knowledge he doesn’t know how. Me? I’d save my breath. No point wasting it trying to bribe my way into paradise with a scalped ticket. But him? He’s got to deal with a rabid dog chewing up his shin and a crushing weight on his chest.

"Take a hit, and let’s try to put two brains together."

His teeth clench so hard you can almost hear the buzz of a sawmill, and he reaches out. "Come on... just lay it out here... shit!" he curses, because the motion makes it clear: we’re slipping. The chassis seems tired of biting into whatever rock is holding us up. The suspension creaks, and the ground beneath us crumbles under the weight. If you listen closely, you can hear the front wheels slowly rolling into the void: gnick... gnick... gnick.

"Who the hell stole this piece-of-shit van?"

"Just snort the damn coke!" he yells, spitting blood onto the windshield and waving his hand dangerously. I do my best to improvise a line on the back of my hand, but it comes out crooked and ridiculously heavy. No complaints from him—he raises it to his nose and snorts like one of those coin-op vacuums at the carwash. "Shit, shit, shit! Give me more. I’ll grow wings!"

And I don’t argue. First, because wings would really come in handy right about now, and second, because I’d rather he not start bouncing around in his seat. I focus on precision, laying out five centimeters of artificial happiness capable of blowing your brain out like a hollow-point bullet. Terror grips me, starting in my guts, when he slams the back of his head against the headrest, and a noise like a boat at sea courses through the van’s frame like lightning. Then, just that endless blue through the cracked glass and a strange sense of peace.

"Who stole the van? You really want to know who stole it?"

"Maybe... maybe it wasn’t his fault. Who was it?"

"Who the hell do you think it was?"

"The Rotten One, was it him?"

"Who else? The Rotten One, same as always. Cleared a parking spot without anyone noticing, and not a single soul bothered to check if the damn wreck had working brakes."

"You sure?"

"Yeah, I’m sure. I’m saying they sent us into town to park this heap with 400 kilos of TNT in the back without checking the brakes first."

You never really learn to do this shit right. There’s that little voice inside scolding you as soon as your brain goes quiet, and that ache in your gut that never settles.

And they’re all amateurs, anyway.

Once, they had butterflies in their stomachs. They worked, fell in love, and watched the sun set, convinced tomorrow would be better. They were boys, fathers, women—but with too much war to digest, too many broken bones, too many prison walls in their memories. No one listened to them, so blowing up a building seemed like a genius idea.

"We’re gonna end up in the ravine and die. When the rescue team comes, they’ll recognize us from the little bits left behind," my partner says, his pupils blown out like frying pans.

I’ve got a lump in my throat and can feel the wind teasing the doors, soon to grow stronger with the nightfall, sealing our fate. Some situations have no way out. Our struggle, our future—we’d driven straight into a dead end.

"There are situations," he tells me, a flicker of wisdom crossing his face like the calm flow of a mighty river, "where the only solution is to disappear."

I could do it. I could leave him there with his broken bones, swing the door open, and jump into the grass, claw my way up the slope to the road. I’d glance at the tire marks my desperate swerve left on the asphalt and walk away. But the TNT in the back would blow, and within minutes, a helicopter would be circling overhead. I’d end up in an interrogation room with a lamp in my eyes and a bad cop ready to bag my head.

I’m hazy on the details, but I’m pretty sure my partner’s plan involves a bang right under his ass and a spoon to scoop up what’s left of him.

Now the chassis isn’t creaking anymore—it’s crying: gne... gne... gne.

It sounds like a starving baby, one of those who never makes it.

I know the spot. Beneath the van lies a 300-meter drop, rocks the size of RVs, and cacti bristling with spines to finish the job.

"Leave me some pieces." When he says it, it’s like the coke hit has been shoved aside by a higher will. Blood’s pooling in the hollow between his shoulder and collarbone, and a wine-colored bruise has spread to his sternum. The cold air rising from the ravine seeps through the vents, icy as a ghost.

He insists. He’s seen the light go out of my eyes, a gray shroud falling over my face. I’m an open book now. "Leave me some pieces."

Because I could disappear—open the door, jump out—but I’ve said it already: it would be a short, pointless freedom.

"Everything’s going to blow, and you know they’ll come looking for you if they don’t find at least part of you. But if they find something—anything—they’ll stop. You’ll have time to hide, until the world forgets your face. What better chance to start over, to get out of this shit: to disappear."

I fidget with my hair. I’ve let it grow along with my beard, but I know snipping a few locks won’t cut it. They’ll find them, scattered and singed, but they won’t buy it. My partner pulls out a knife, and the blade snaps open with a sharp click. "At least a finger and a piece of flesh."

"What... what do you mean?"

"You choose." And in my ears, the sound I never wanted to hear materializes: snick... snick... snick.

Disappearing is the ultimate gift, but this time, the cuts are anything but figurative. I wish everyone could do it—choose something they can let go of and vanish. But life isn’t that generous, and sometimes it shines a spotlight on you when you’d rather not exist. It hunts you down like gas seeping through cracks.

I snort a hit of coke strong enough to double as an anesthetic, then I cut.

It’s skin. It’s flesh. It’s a blinding light bursting in my head, a climb of venomous snakes coiling and sinking their fangs. It’s a chorus of a thousand demons. It’s bone. It’s pieces I need to leave to feed the TNT. When it’s over, they’ll look like steaks left too long on the grill, but they’ll fool the investigators.

Dead. Blown to pieces by the very explosives he was supposed to plant under a big building. Justice served.

I’ll jump out, run to the woods, and halfway through my escape, I’ll hear the van blow up. A thousand shards of metal, of my partner, of me, scattered everywhere—on the ground, for the ants, for the police labs. Little bags of scraps, like when you leave the butcher’s. And I’ll stop crying and bleeding, slowly, under the first bush I find.

In the end, whatever you decide to do, you always leave behind pieces.

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Voci elettroniche. Un articolo su Kukaos Magazine

 https://www.kukaosmagazine.com/parliamo-di-voci-elettroniche/

https://www.kukaosmagazine.com/parliamo-di-voci-elettroniche/

Voci

 

In una calda notte d’estate, tra le ombre imponenti del Forte di Exilles nella suggestiva Val di Susa, un gruppo di investigatori del paranormale si spinge oltre i limiti consentiti. Dopo aver assistito a un concerto nel Cortile del Cavaliere, si intrufolano nella parte più antica e interdetta della fortezza, ignari che quella decisione sarà fatale. Durante la notte, qualcosa di oscuro si manifesta tra le mura. All'alba, due ragazze giacciono senza vita nel corridoio delle galere, i loro volti segnati da un terrore indescrivibile.

Elettra Keita, Capitano dei Carabinieri, si incarica dell'indagine. Scettica riguardo a fenomeni paranormali, si trova a districare i segreti nascosti tra le mura del Forte, mentre i sussurri del passato sembrano risvegliarsi. Tra false piste e inquietanti video amatoriali di cacciatori di fantasmi, il confine tra realtà e illusione si fa sempre più sottile. In una corsa contro il tempo, Elettra dovrà affrontare una verità che supera ogni razionalità, portandola faccia a faccia con il male più antico e insondabile.

Omicidio all'Alta Felicità - Intervista con Kukaos Magazine

https://www.kukaosmagazine.com/omicidio-allalta-felicita/ 

Omicidio all'Alta felicità

Nel mezzo dell’estate, migliaia di giovani si danno appuntamento al Festival Alta Felicità. Vengono da tutto il paese e da mezza Europa. Si sono sistemati al campeggio e riempiono l’arena degli spettacoli, ballano, si divertono e fanno amicizia.

Ariel, una giovane ragazza romana, è una di loro. Nell’intimità di una tenda che non sa a chi appartiene, si sveglia accanto al cadavere accoltellato di un ragazzo conosciuto la sera prima e fra i capogiri della notte brava e i momenti di lucidità, telefona al Comando dei Carabinieri di Susa e chiede di Elettra, appena promossa Capitano e famosa in tutta Italia per l’indagine sulla strage dei porno attori.

Per Elettra è l’inizio di una giornata frenetica, divisa fra l’esigenza di essere discreti, di non causare il panico tra la folla e la necessità di fermare un assassino che promette di lasciare una lunga scia di sangue dietro di sé.