Free show tomorrow

After passing a week of high fever buried under my blankets, I find myself rather happy to be able to bear a stand-up position for more than thirty seconds. That being so, I still don’t look very fresh but I’m vaguely working, therefore allowing me to take care of an e-mail quite… unexpected.

I was talking earlier about the altered use one can do of my mailbox, entrusting me with oh-so-prestigious missions, and about the sort of answers one is entitled to expect when one takes an onmyôji for a nutritionist or a feng-shui chiropractor. So I was slightly convinced that the email I received was along the same lines than the one much talked about (when my sinuses tried to kill me): no sender, no title, no signature, just a word.

Come.

Indeed, if I happened to be a shaman-chiropractor, that email could only possibly have been a hoax, a mail sent by error, potentially a computer bug. However, in an onmyôji mailbox… but my head was more than 102°F with fever and I admit I didn’t think it twice before sending the mail to its right place : in the trash box.

Then happened… how can I say … a little “problem”.

Next to nothing.

To describe it to you the best I can, let’s say a truck full of nitroglycerin came crashing with the remains of my brains in a first-ranked seat sounds and lights show. Without usherette or popcorn.

I woke up to find myself face to face with the carpet, with stiff aching muscles, burning eye sockets and an unbearable humming in the ears. I probably stayed unconscious for one or two hours, huddled up on the floor before my chair. Getting up, I had the rather irritating enjoyment to find blood stains on my carpet, probably coming from my eyes and ears –pity they were my only facial openings that were not pouring down liquids last week-. In spite of the illness I managed to understand that my cold wasn’t worsening to a lethally tropical disease –the only tropical plants I mix with are in ministries, and they’re scrubbed with bleach.

So I opted for the most rational option: unplug computer and go back to bed, thinking stained carpet, damaged brains and said disturbing email would be nice enough to wait for a few days.

This morning, here we go again: second email, same mold, but with a second word.

Come tomorrow.

Without being a computer super crack, it seems to me that if virus may induce black out of the computer, it rarely blacks out the user himself. No blood in the cdrom drive nor in the power cable –I checked.

On can say that you wouldn’t venture yourself in meeting someone who can knock-out a master of Taoist magic with a single pile of pixels, don’t you? Even more when it’s no nicely notified.

Well, firstly my rhinustuff-pharyngitia-colditis-thingy helped him a lot.

Secondly, I hate being given orders and more, being beaten when I don’t want to cooperate. Really truly hate it. It bugs me very much, drives me aggressive. Anyhow, a master onmyôji never indulges himself in gratuitous violence, and, why, ain’t it perfect timing? He did the first move. Therefore I’m allowed to retaliate with barbarically aforethought action.

In order not to end up dripping blood on the carpet, I created a small kekkai around me and answered the mail, using his synthetic and uncluttered syntax:

Where ?

I barely had time to hit the “send” button that the answer popped in, in the form of an address I acknowledged as Tokyo’s courthouse. Perfect.

I restrained myself from sending a “why” to my pen pal. In fact I kinda like to go and see what’s up by myself, must be my muck-rake side -the only part of my character fully satisfied by my job-.

I’ll be there indeed.

And the smartass who thinks he can take my head for a can would be well-advised to have a solid good reason for calling me out. Otherwise an onmyôji fight in front of the courthouse should be picturesque (and will help in keeping a low profile).

In any case he’ll be put on a show.