When was it? Let me see, it must have been a year and couple of months ago. I was fresh in B and back home the Presidential heat was on. I can’t really remember when or how I got to meet Mr Master of Puppets. For argument sake, let me just tell you I was amazed at the quality of his work, the sharpness of his satire, the shrewdness of his humour. There I was, amazed that someone from back home could be so jagged could be so cool, so reinvigorating, so much like everything I had never seen in my native grounds.
It didn’t take much to befriend Mr Master of Puppets. You see, Mr Master of Puppets is a very lonely guy, because he’s so fucking talented and talent is such a fucking lonely gig to play – especially in a country like ours. And I, I was extremely naïf. From day one Mr Master of Puppets saw that I was nothing but another puppet. However, being such a cunning judge of characters, he also spot two things about me that could be useful to him: I had a certain amount of talent and I had the vibe; passion for high standards, hate for our common enemy.
Back then, Mr Master of Puppets was waging his own little private war against a very powerful man and when he noticed that he had a follower, a potentially talented follower, a devoted puppet paying tribute, he decided upon alluring the follower to the war and so he even gave him an honorary - if completely false - equal allied status.
How I was delighted! I was fucking bloated! There I was, fighting the war side by side with the master, mounting up, developing powers I didn’t even knew I had within me; there I was, in the big boys league, skirmishing the forces of darkness (or so I thought); there I was, building myself a reputation, at times even overshadowing the master himself!
The war dragged on and on. It was bitter; it was not a pretty war. For each victory ten defeats. It was all over the Press: ours' was a lost cause.
Nonetheless, we fought on and on to the end, and in the last battle, drunk with the rage of despair, we threw at them fuckers everything we had, everything; every little fucking piece of ammo we had left in our shabby armoury. By nightfall we got word. Our side had lost.
To this day I’m proud of our stance, of our resilience, of our courage, but the fact remains, in the end, our side lost. In the night of defeat, my heart full of pain and despair, I humbly went to my master and laid tears deride tears upon his shoulder. In a way, Mr Master of Puppets despised me for the childish sobs I so abundantly lay down on his lap. Of course, defeat had taken a toll on him too. But he knew the odds from the beginning, and he wouldn’t be a Master of Puppets had he not knew them.
He was furious with himself for me and for my infant like manner. Oh yes, he utterly loathed me for being such a child. And he loathed me even more because my sadness got to his heart and he too felt the pain a Master of Puppets is not supposed to feel.
From that day on, although I was unaware of it, how naïf was I, Mr Masters of Puppets decided I was in need of a good old fashioned beating, a good trashing, just, you know, to sort me out, to help me realise the world is not fair in any circumstances and you either cope with it or the son of a bitch next door chews you half alive for breakfast and shits you half dead into a black desert.
And so he did. It was a vile, cruel lesson for someone like me. Mr Master of Puppets resorted to all means to show me who was in charge and what was at odds, not in our personal duel, but what had always been at stake for him all along throughout the war. You see I had been a mere pawn in the war, the real force had been Mr Master of Puppets, and although our enemies couldn’t give a toss about me, they hated Mr Master of Puppets, almost as much as he hated them, and still does.
He planned my lesson with the subtle strategic approach of a Count Von Moltke charged with the ruthlessness of a suburbia panzer general. Hell, the element of surprise he mastered like very few indeed. First he felt his enemy, delivering cautious slaps, because by now he was aware his dealings were not the dealings of master and follower but those of master and pupil. He had trained me well and was aware my talents had multiplied a thousands times since we had first met. After the first squashy punches, I intended to fight back, and so I did. With the determination of youth, I said to myself, fuck him, I got something going for me this wancker hasn’t: I got street wise.
Unfortunately, street wise strategy might even be fit to defeat a regular foe; not a Master of Puppets. At a given moment I thought I had him against the ropes; oh, naïve ness, naïve ness… In the most fierce moment of our duel I found out something about my master I had never suspected; not only had he a bag full with the most disgustingly dirty tricks you can imagine, but also he applied then on his opponent with the cruelty of a Gengis Kan.
And the fight kept on, I was losing my feet every single fucking day but the roundness of my pride instilled me with the courage to keep on fighting. And Mr Master of Puppets kept on, delivering blow after blow; for each victory of mine there were ten of his. Finally, one day, he had me at his mercy, completely by the balls.
In that night, I didn’t cry. I went home and decided to play it quits. I left the country and went back home. Sensing that I had admitted defeat, Mr Master of Puppets never bothered me again, although I know he sometimes comes here, to check on my progress. I think he liked me once, and I think sometimes he still does. If he didn’t, these words would have never seen the light. Despite all the suffering he caused me, today I cannot but say: it was a very fucking good lesson the one Mr Master of Puppets thought me.
You see, today, I’m not a Master of Puppets; neither have I aspired to be one. It’s too fucking lonely. But I can tell you one thing I’m not. I’m not a puppet and I smell Masters of Puppets or fellow apprentices by the mile.
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