Crematorium for Phoenixes Read Free

eaten, and drunk. Ungodly deeds transpired, and
the location was known as the headquarters of demons and
monsters.
    In this place, as in any other, there was a
man who was the leader of all of them; in Pandemonium, he was
called “Sharukin.”
    It was not known what he had done before he
took up leadership, but rumors of all sort were told about him, as
occurs with people who are mysterious.
    Sharukin was the dog that had turned into a
wolf, an individual who had spent too much time in solitude.
    For this, he had won one great prize: the
right not to be asked questions.
    Maybe an irreparable act, the kind that
raises disgust in the normal world, had earned him the privilege of
not having to worry about being disturbed by anyone.
    So while debating heinous deeds, in a tone
like the peep of bloodthirsty bats, the stranger walked into the
adobe building and instantly the gloom and smoke of the room made
him nigh unrecognizable.
    “My friend, how can we help you?” asked
a man, who for convenience we will call “the innkeeper.”
    “Yes, I believe you can help me. I must
spend all of this before the evening is over,” the man said and
tossed a bag that rang hollowly as dozens of golden coins scattered
from it.
    Silence ensued and innkeeper said, “You’re
either the most courageous or the craziest person I’ve ever seen .
. . .”
    “Perhaps I’m maybe both,” replied the
man.
    Snickers and barely audible growls from
predators spread through the room.
    “Well, it appears that you’re
welcome,” Sharukin said.
    The place, as we have said, was filled with
the usual sort, and a bearded guy with yellow, decaying teeth
giggled hoarsely and blabbed loudly, saying, “Oh, that scum is
greedy. He will violate his own mother for a nickel or two,” and in
that moment a dagger appeared in his hand, smeared with blood and
everything sharp. The man’s harsh voice, as relentless as a demonic
torturer rasped, “I’ll kill you, false brat. I will violate the
principles of my mother” and the room echoed with laughter; it
awakened the dead come straight from hell. In no time there were
subtle outlines of people, people who were shadows of the dead,
standing and waiting for redemption.
    “I will not equivocate, I need a crew . .
.” offered the calm man.
    “And what do you suggest? We already have
your money, and we can profit as well by gutting you and selling
you to the cannibals.”
    “I can give you the most valuable thing in
the world,” the stranger said, “I can take away those memories that
lay like layers and layers of dirt in your hearts. Thus you can
create a new life.”
    Many of them laughed. The words of the
stranger held that clownish delusion that gave some comfort in a
place like this. Dissipated in eternal boredom, the men had long
ago been jaded by the existence of sin.
    “Tell us what constitutes the work and what
you suggest,” said Sharukin, commanding instant silence in the
room.
    “I propose to erase every moment of your
previous life—perhaps the greatest gift that can be
given. I’ll give you a chance to start from scratch.”
    Many of them again wrinkled their lips and
stifled their laughter; outwardly the men were silent and devoid of
emotion.
    “Okay, do it, but as you know, you are
playing with more than just our good moods,” Sharukin finally said.
His words were spoken with that dullness that occurs after the
hard-hearted cruelty of life and pain have been rendered.
    “Well then,” said the man, rolling up his
sleeve and revealing strange shells of tattoos that covered his
elbow with ink; they were done in blue shades and depicted fairies
like smoky souls merging into people swimming through a stream or
river that had no beginning or end.
    The stranger stretched out his hand over a
globe and tightened his arm, outlining all of his muscle groups and
sinews.
    Then he began to rotate his fingers, gently
shaking them as if they were caressing words that should not