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On hazy tenament rooftops, fire roman candles. Fire them through the mist of a meteorological Red Alert, punching crackling holes in the cloud of dislodged dust that ambled south from China. You're wearing a blue SARS mask, where SARS is now the choking dust, and you feel vaguely like a bandito or surgeon or another professional of dubious, yet slightly bad-ass, repute. You can't see much: the mechanized tigers of China have been clawing through trees in recent years and the topsoil blows where it will, primarily into Korea. And it settles in the air, on your skin, into uncapped bottles of Cass beer. You're on Red Alert.

But you're firing roman candles. You mustn't forget that, and how could you? The whizzing of projectiles and the pop of technicoloured explosions and the acrid smell of gunpowder all around you turn time into mud. Forget departures, both pending and past. Not even the blinding vista of neon signage cutting through the night as a full-time occupation can distract you from the fact that these fuckers are trying to shoot you with fireworks.

You can see other English teachers, whooping and flitting around the constraints of the rooftop. You duck and dodge and weave behind planters, trying to shoot them all in the face or, perhaps, the back if they are temporarily unarmed. You don't pull many punches, not after all the battles you've seen. You've been shot in the ear on the beaches of Busan and had your balls blasted by a duel-wielding Australian wench. And so, tonight, you will chase the headshot.

The rooftop is ablaze and you can only imagine the incredulity with which honest Korean folk must be surveying the battlefield from their adjacent homes. They can surely tell that we're not From Here, can't they? They're probably wondering what the hell we do to their kids in the sober daytime while we're teaching.

Candles extinguish, one by one: ammunition expires. And deck chairs are flying. The artillery is here. The heavies have joined the fight. And yet nobody is down: no eyes punctured by shrapnel, no eardrums imploded from a direct hit. You are all too drunk to aim at anything worthwhile. Perhaps if you were trying to shoot the sky - shred the clouds and burn the blankets of dust - you would end up destroying someone, but not tonight. Not in an active state of conflict. Real war could take a few cues from your staggering level of inefficiency: world peace through exceptionally poor aim.

As the last projectile pops without harm and the aftermath settles comfortably on top of the smog, you check yourself for injuries. Burns, yes. Disfiguring scars, no. Holes in garments are a small price to pay when you're fighting Chinese air pollution. Look down to the street, for there walk the fearful civilians amidst this dark and desperate struggle. There walk the candleless.

Posted by Chris at 11:49 AM >> Commentations (0)