Artists’ Society   von Syntis
                             (See the real thing)
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                  Prolog: The Way has been made without you.
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“Take back the night”, said the boy. He didn’t understand what was meant,
but he also didn’t care about this. He just met the boy accidentally. Both of
them came along this street from opposing directions and ran into each other.
“Sorry, what do you mean?” He took a closer look at him. On the first sight
he may have looked filthy and creepy but this was just on the surface. Beneath
it, he had white teeth, short brown hair and his young face was shaved.
“Take back the night. There is more need for midday’s light.”
“Oh boy, it is half past eleven pm. What do you think should I do about
this?” The boy grinned and the next thing Joe could remember was the pain all
over his body.
Someone had beaten his head badly. As he touched it, he reached an area barely
bleeding, but his hair was stuck together from the blood, so it was supposed to
be better being treated, than lying alone in the dark.
He took a look around. At first he didn’t see a thing. But surprisingly his
eyes got used to the dark and almost unnaturally sharp was his sight. Joe was
definitely in a warehouse with lots of boxes around him. It seemed to him, that
this was arranged to cover him from strange looks. That was not something to
calm him down. He listened carefully but there was no sign of others in the
nearby surrounding. As he tried to get up he felt twisted around and his
evening-meal was about to return. Just with a conscious afford he managed to get
finally up on his feet. “Dear, this is strange.” Joe tried to get hold on
this boxes, because his legs were still slightly shaky. “This is a hell of a
nightmare. I shouldn’t drink that stuff again…” 
He recapitulated the evening. His old friend Mike had called him surprisingly
and asked to meet him in the ‘prancing pony’, a pub, a freaky fan of
Tollkien’s ‘Lord of the Rings’ had opened about a year ago. “Hey, Joe!
How are things going? Will ya meet me in the ‘prancing pony’ this night?”
Mike had asked. Joe was so perplex that he could hardly refuse. “Sure… I
didn’t know you’re in town. When did ya return??” – “See me at 9 pm,
I’ll explain later” Mike had said laughingly and hung up.
Considering Mike’s habit for long speeches, this was more than unusual. But
Joe knew, he would not get away from the ‘prancing pony’ without exactly one
of those long speeches. Maybe he had to endure even two of them for they
haven’t met for a damn long time. Joe had smiled about his upcoming memories.
Yeah, we had lots of fun back then. In school hadn’t passed a day they
weren’t together and playing tricks on everyone.
Now he started to wonder. Mike was supposed to have lived the past 6 years
somewhere in the middle east. Some sort of peacekeeper or something. Every now
and then they had a telephone call and some letters, but Mike always stressed he
wasn’t able to come home for a vacation. And the past 3 years Mike had
complained that besides him – Joe – no one else replied anymore, neither the
phone nor his letters. So, how did Mike get to know the ‘prancing pony’? Joe
himself hadn’t been there yet. And according to Mikes explanations he had
called him right away from the airport. After their visit there, Joe could say
that the ‘prancing pony’ was a nice little pub, but it was nothing more. But
in his thoughts he stressed the attribute little. Yeah, little it was indeed.
Too little to have any advertising. 
Besides his current situation – he had been struck down, was in a completely
dark warehouse and it seemed that he was all alone – he was about to develop a
full grown paranoia towards his best friend. 
The optimist in him asked himself, what he should tell his boss tomorrow.
Doubtlessly he had to pay a visit to a doctor. And of course, he needed a
shower, other clothes… and, thinking of it, some sleep would be fantastic. But
it was so damn cold in that warehouse, that the optimist within him grew silent.
Another closer look around his prison made him see a dark irregularly shaped
mark on the ground, just where he had lied. “What the heck…?” He tried to
squat next to that mark to have a closer look, but failed and almost fell. With
another try he was close enough to notice, that there had been a liquid. There
was a faint but yet strange smell in the air and he suspected that mark to be
the source. Reconsidering the wound on his head and this mark, he felt very weak
all of a sudden. No… That can’t be. Dear, that had to be at least a gallon.
Man, if that is my blood, I should be dead by now. Automatically he went for his
pulse. His fingers sought in vain, hysterically. “Where is it, where, where,
where…???” He tried to calm himself down, but had little success. He sat
down and stared at this mark, and thought, that he could feel the blood loss
instantly. Desperation had a tight grip on him. “I’m about to die, I gonna
die, … die… die as dead, I’ll be gone, all alone… die…” His voice
died away. There was no reasoning in him anymore – so he did not understand,
nor embrace what had happened to him. After all, it appeared to be the tragedy
of his life and he was his exclusive audience. Thus he felt to be the unhappiest
man ever to have lived upon the worlds cruel face and slowly fainted away, out
of his own misery.

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