Complication Read Online Free PDF

of Sunday, September 23—
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    REZNÍCKOVÁ: As long as you refuse to acknowledge the killer’s existence, you aren’t accountable for stopping his crimes, is that it? Has some official at some ministry or other declared serial killers a cancer restricted to decadent Western societies? The embodiment of capitalism’s brutal excesses?

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    AGENT #3553: We refuse to engage in such demoralizing speculation, but it’s worth pointing out that you won’t find a single verifiable account of the so-called Right Hand of God’s exploits anywhere.
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    REZNÍCKOVÁ: Of course not. The killer and his crimes have been systematically erased from history. That’s what they say.
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    AGENT #3553: Who is “they”?
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    REZNÍCKOVÁ: You want me to name names? “They” is everybody. “They” is probably your own mother. Haven’t you ever heard the children’s rhyme? You people are always listening and yet you never hear anything.
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    AGENT #3553: If next you plan on asking us about the mysterious black vans that drive through the streets snatching up children to harvest their organs, we can assure you that this story, too, is a fabrication.
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    REZNÍCKOVÁ: “When moon is high in August sky, and wind howls through the trees / They say at night a killer walks the gloomy crooked streets . . . ”
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    AGENT #3553: On Sunday, September 23, you left your apartment.
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    REZNÍCKOVÁ: You’ve really not heard it? The song based on that poem by Rentner?
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    AGENT #3553: You boarded at the redline train at Kosmonautů.

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    REZNÍCKOVÁ: “Condemned to wander till time’s end, bowed neck hung with clock/His wretched fate to ever hear, the dread tick-tock, tick-tock . . . ”
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    AGENT #3553: You boarded at the redline train at Kosmonautů station 3 and rode to Muzeum.
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    REZNÍCKOVÁ: You can ignore it if you choose, but people still talk. In whispers over dinner tables after the children have gone to bed. Between those endless suffering contests the old women hold while waiting in line outside the butcher shop. In slurred barroom tales I overhear at the Black Rabbit. The missing garbage man’s corpse found last year in Bubeneč. A year before, the dead girl in the VyÅ¡ehrad cemetery. A thirteen-year-old boy namedin a warehouse of rubber tires in Smíchov two years before that.
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    AGENT #3553: You transferred to the green line and then exited at Malostranská. You caught a tram on Klarov Street to the base of Petřín Hill. Correct?
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    REZNÍCKOVÁ: For as long as anyone can remember, people have been disappearing. Each autumn, like clockwork. Some found strangled, some bludgeoned, others drowned or with their throats slit. Some are women, some men; occasionally they are children. All are found with their right hand missing. Never the left. Always the right.
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    AGENT #3553: You transferred to the green line and then exited at Malostranská.

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    REZNÍCKOVÁ: As a girl, my mother lived across the street from an antique dealer and his mongoloid sonon Street in Josefov. Thefamily. Just before . . .
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    [unintelligible—duration 7 seconds]
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    REZNÍCKOVÁ: . . . in the corner, his face swarming with flies.
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    AGENT #3553: You caught a tram on Klarov Street to the base of Petřín Hill.
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    REZNÍCKOVÁ: All stories follow the basic pattern. Grisly stories that stray into the realm of fairytales. The missing right hand is often just the start.
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    AGENT #3553: You were seen carrying an accordion case.
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    REZNÍCKOVÁ: And now a little girl. Her body found in Břevnov. Or was it the gymnasium in Smíchov? Stories vary. The girl bled white, or with her eyeballs pushed inside her skull, or with every tooth removed at the root. Asphyxiated, mouth stuffed with locks of her own black, red, blonde hair. In another