Piero Bosio Social Web Site Personale

THERE IS NO KILL LIKE OVERKILLThe Saint Boniface Maximum Security Prison. What a shithole."Hello, I would like to meet warden Titus Riccitelli", I said. The guard was a thin, old man that looked very bored. I gave him my business card."Miroslav...", he read it, paused, and said "Like the car?""What car?""The Corvette.""No. Like the boat, but with a double T.""A boat with a double what?""Is warden Riccitelli on premises? I have an appointment."After waiting for a long time and crossing a myriad of corridors and annoying check points I finally got to the warden office."So you are Miroslav Corbett", said the warden, a bald, sweaty man with a ridiculous mustache. "I got a message from an angry bureaucrat from the government saying that you were about to come here. You have very important friends up there.""Oh, I don't think so.""Do you want a drink?""I don't do alcohol."He looked at me with disdain in his face."Listen to me, young man. We are very busy here. I'm sure you don't understand the very important job that we..."I interrupted him."I'm sorry, warden Riccitelli. I'm here for a very specific thing. I'd rather not be here, believe me. I don't want to waste your time. I'm only interested in one of your inmates. Just a short interview in her cell.""What for?""As it says on my business card, I document things.""What kind of things?""I keep a log of out-of-place happenings, reality distortions, unexpected presences and such. The duty of my department is to document the bizarre things that happen since the Great Anomaly...""Oh don't talk me about the Great Fucking Anomaly.""I don't want to talk about it neither. I just need to meet a person that is incarcerated here. I just want to talk to Desdemona Dunkelmorgen."He looked very upset or surprised or whatever."What? No way", he said. "She is the most dangerous person here. She is the most dangerous person in the whole fucking world. And I won't risk my resources by putting anyone of them near that damned bitch from hell.""Do your employees know that you call them 'resources'?"Warden Riccitelli took a ceramic ashtray from his table and launched it onto the wall. It exploded into pieces."Listen to me, little bastard...""Mr. Riccitelli," I interrupted him in my quietest voice while browsing my papers, "I know everything. Desdemona Dunkelmorgen, aka the Queen of Deception, aka the Mistress of Disguise, aka One-Trouble-On-Two-Legs. Born in Madrid, Spain. Who would say, bearing that name? Con artist, mischievous robber, ruthless blackmailer, despicable criminal, drinks while driving. Previous warden report: 'Handle with special care. Do NOT listen to her lies. She could be anywhere, anyone. She could be me or she could be you and you will not notice.' I'm not sure to understand what this last quote means.""Damn. Holy Christ. I won't send my men to her cell because she will trick those dickheads and everything will go to hell again. I don't want another prison break from that motherfucking vixen. I will go there with you personally.""I'm sure that is a very intelligent decision on your part.""Come on, let's do it once for all."He grabbed his own copy of the keys and we went down the belly of the prison. While on our way, I asked:"Is it true what they say about her?""What do they say?""That she looks like no other woman in the world."He took some time to answer. "To be honest, I don't know how she looks like.""Haven't you seen her?""Not personally."Not personally, I repeated to myself. What a douchebag.We crossed the threshold to the hyper-ultra-high security block or whatever they called it and finally got to her cell's door."Ok, here we are", he said, "Be extremely careful.""I'll be."He unlocked the gate and we entered the cell. A small, barred window almost by the ceiling. Grey and dull walls. A dirty toilet. A chair and a table, no features. And nobody to be seen."What the fuck...?", he yelled, "But where...?"He searched for her like crazy while swearing like a sailor: under the table, under the bed, as if she was as small as a mouse. Then he got back at me, his face red and swollen and sweaty:"Why are you so calm? What the hell is happening here?""Have you heard the adage that the highest achievement of the devil was convincing men that he doesn't exist? Well, they don't call Desdemona Dunkelmorgen the Queen of Deception for nothing. She tricked you, all of you, into believing that she was here. She made you believe that you were able to catch her. In fact, it's a little more complicated; the highest achievement of Desdemona Dunkelmorgen was convincing men that she DOES exist. She is a trick of the mind. She is a glitch, a mirage. She is something that isn't and that shouldn't be."Warden Riccitelli dropped to the floor, crying like a child."Oh my. I'm finished. Everybody will laugh at me for years.""They'll do", I said, "but don't be too mean to yourself. Everybody was mislead. These illogical issues are overwhelming. All we can do is write about how this unfaithful reality is playing with us."He jumped up in an explosion of rage, ran to the passage and started yelling at everybody."What are you doing there? Do something! Find her! Nuke this fucking place from above! It's the only way to be sure!""I'm afraid I have to leave", I said, but he was no longer listening to me.It was a quiet evening out there. The parking lot at Saint Boniface was almost empty. I wrote some ideas on my notebook, not completely sure that I wasn't Desdemona Dunkelmorgen after all.previously#ShortFiction

@angel wow. Wonderful.

ACCORDING TO THE BOOKSJean-Loup Lamarc was no moron: he knew very well who were his bosses. He was the manager of a small hotel in the lakes; as he used to joke to himself, the manager of the only hotel owned by the mafia that was not used for money laundering. Everything was clear as a summer day in his business; no tricks, no cheating, no nothing. He slept well and loved the flavor of a good cigar in the evening.But one night someone knocked at his door. Lamarc was still wiping the sleep from his eyes while he let his visitor in; Elijah Blumenthal, the accountant, a bug-eyed, lizard-thin guy from Boston, was pale as if he just had seen a ghost."We're screwed, Frenchie. Yes, man, we're screwed.", said in a trembling voice.Lamarc didn't like to be called 'Frenchie', but that time he let it go. "Sit down. What's the matter?""The numbers, Frenchie. The numbers. They are false. And they will know.""What are you saying? The numbers are fine. Nobody takes a buck. Everything is clean as my mother's kitchen.""No, no, no, Frenchie, they will know. They have people, you know, they will check the accounts and they will know.""Stop that 'Frenchie' thing, Eli. And I swear that the fucking numbers are right. There is no dollar out. Everything is fine. What the fuck is wrong with you?" Lamarc draw a fist and the accountant acknowledged the threat by opening his hands."The numbers are tweaked, Jean. They do not obey Benford's law.""WHAT? What do you mean? Who the fuck is Benford?" He shoved Blumenthal onto his chair; the accountant shouted, covered his head with his hands and said: "I... I don't know who he is. A mathematician, I guess. He wrote... a method. A method to check if a set of numbers are fabricated.""WHAT?" Lamarc felt as if his head would explode. "Are you fucking kidding me?" he took a lamp from a nearby table with both hands and crashed it into the floor."Ah!", shouted Blumenthal, "Please! Please! Don't hurt me!""I'm gonna kill you fucking weasel if you don't stop all this bullshit.""No! No! Frenchie, listen to me. Please. The numbers look fake. I checked them. They look fabricated. Believe me. Have you...?""WHAT?""No! No! I see. I see. They are for real, no trick. I believe it. I do. But they won't. They will apply the formulas and they will suspect we are cheating on them. And they will come after us. They will come, Frenchie. They just WON'T believe these numbers!"Lamarc, who was no moron, calmed down and thought."So you say", he spoke to the accountant while scratching his head, "that these numbers, being real, look fake, am I right? AM I RIGHT?""Yes! Yes! You are right. The number 1 must appear as the leading significant digit about 30% of the time and...""STOP! I don't want to hear it, motherfucker. We will just... we will just make them look right.""What?""Are you deaf, dumb or both? We'll make them look right."So they took a deep breath and sat down to rewrite the numbers so that they obey Benford's law. It was a very long night. Elijah Blumenthal looked like he was the survivor of a flood when he walked down the street in the morning lights."Putain..." said Lamarc, closing the safe box. "So we have this bag full of money, real money, clean money, that we must take from their real owners because some fucker wrote a formula... This is fucking crazy."Days passed and everything went back to normal. One evening, while Jean-Loup Lamarc was delightfully tasting a glass of whiskey and remembering the stupid thing about the briefcase full of bills in his safe, somebody knocked at his door. It was an old man, iron-grey hair, in an old-fashioned suit."Who the fuck are you?" said Jean-Loup."Hi. My name is Benford. I'm here to take my money."#ShortFiction

@angel Yes, please!

LE MASQUE VIDE (THE EMPTY MASK)When we lived as kids by the sea, my sister and I found a body washed ashore. She thought that we had found a mermaid and immediately felt sad and horrified about it; I, older and wiser, realized that what we had found was a dead fisherman. His beard looked like seaweed, he had no eyes and lacked some limbs.First, we agreed to leave him there; we were no one to decide on what the sea had decreed. But soon we understood that rotting under the sun and becoming food for the seagulls was not a fair ending to what probably had been a life of bravery and courage, so we moved him among the rocks and covered his head with a shelter made of planks and ropes.My sister thought that he needed some eyes and she filled the scary holes that led to his long gone brain with branches of lilies, small blots of blue and violet.Our life went on and we forgot about the seaman. There were long days of light, rain and storm. My sister grew up and became a woman; me, I don't know very well what I ended up being.One day I returned to that beach and found it very different. I visited the rocks where he rested: he didn't look like a fisherman anymore. A sense of apathy and ennui filled by heart. Upon my head, a flock of birds flew in circles chasing each other.#ShortFiction