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KAAMOS (A Tale For Grown-up Kids)	By : runningnakedinthepark Category: Singers/Bands/Musicians > Rammstein Views: 2131 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. I do not know the members of Rammstein. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

Chapter List
- 10
- 11
- 12
Title: KAAMOS (A Tale For Grown-up Kids)
Author: Robby a.k.a. Mr Naked
Rating: NC17/AU
Pairing: everyone and then some more
Disclaimer: I was smoking some really good stuff when I came up with this. I Betas: Ketene & Hannelore_K

KAAMOS (A Tale For Grown-up Kids) - Part I. The Day The Whole World Went Away
Chapter 11.

On the TV screen - the images of a huge crowd gathered behind the line of police people, their cars and military people. I can sense that tickling feeling of joy and of accomplishment in the rest of the guys without having to look at them; things are going according to the plan and even better, looks like we have a larger audience than we’d even dared to dream in that small, hot and dirty apartment.

The shrieking ring of a phone echoes through the huge, cold marble-covered walls of the hall. Phase two!

I smile vaguely at Christoph’s inquiring glance. But, they knew very well the proceedings.

“Yes?”

Richard’s sharp, husky voice. Here we start the dance!

Silence; few of those lying on the floor under the desks dare to breathe. Someone tries to change position – their muscles must have gotten sore from sitting like that, motionless, minutes in a row.

“Five reporters with their cameras. No funny stuff. That’s when you’ll learn our demands!”

Bam! The receiver almost gets smashed when Richard slams it back on the phone. But they have to know that we’re not fucking around.

Silence. The big, incredibly tall gray walls. The distant roars of metallic beasts of the helicopters flying above our building. Yes, ours! It’s no longer theirs, no longer belonging to the Beast! That huffing thing with monstrous mouths opened threateningly toward the skies.

The face of Flake, his black-framed glasses, his black spiky hair, the paleness of his skin, his slim silhouette as he’s sat on the edge of one of those walls. He is waiting. He has the bomb with him.

The ring of the telephone awakens me from my reverie, making me turn my glance off the TV.

Richard answers again; now he is talking to them, commanding them on a mocking tone. Yes, we are in control now! How many are we? You have fifteen minutes to send the media! Does the guy on the building have a bomb? Yes, and if you don’t send the media in 14 minutes, he’s blowing up this shit hole, with everyone in it!

I used to love his arrogance. His lack of fear. I can almost envision him, tied and beaten by the Beast’s henchmen, yelling at him to tell them everything they want to know: who was running the network that helped people flee the country and other things like that. I can almost see his bruised and swollen face, his bloodied lips grinning as he would spit the words through his teeth, to those people that could kill him in a blink of an eye: “Fuck you!”

I was the shy one, that’s why I chose to write everything down, to throw my thoughts in the air for them to fall on the crowd like rain, while I was hiding and disguising among the nameless faces. I wonder what did I tell to those questioning and doing their best to get information out of me, in those dark, empty and cold rooms. It was an underground prison, that I know.

The phone, again. Yes they agree, but we have to show good faith. We should release the women. Richard grins and tells the cops to kiss his ass. Ok then, we should let one hostage go, for each journalist that we will have in. Richard's eyes look at me, questioning.

“Only one person, for all of them,” I decide.

I turn and walk slowly toward a chair. My legs are aching badly by now.

Richard looks at me again. They'd like to talk with the boss of the gang. There's no boss, talking with Richard is just fine. They say that only one person for all the journalists is not enough. Richard lights himself another cig. Oh, yes, one person is enough, and with that he ends the conversation.

I look at the others; I can read in their eyes, on their faces that they agree. We have time to wait until those outside decide to take our offer. This time it will be our way or no way. Everyone will see that a few men can defeat that thing out there, the Beast.

The phone rings again. What about two people? Richard grins. No, only one person, and the offer lasts for only 10 minutes, otherwise there'll be no one left to trade.

Meanwhile Paul comes back. Everything is set.

Richard announces to me that they finally agreed. Only one hostage in exchange. Before I know it, I hear “Your turn, Till,” Richard says on a gentle tone.

“You don't solve things by murdering people,” it used to be my credo, and I used to tell Richard. But they've murdered not only all of our loved ones, they killed our souls. Not only the dead ones know what it’s like to die.

“I started to think that somehow it's not entirely her fault,” Richard explained to me one of those nights, as he was fixing me with his blurred by alcohol gaze. “If it weren't for this fear, she probably wouldn't have done it. She was afraid that we'd get caught while trying to cross the border and escape.” The things that they would have done to them, especially to the woman…

Paul is waiting for me in that room. The people from the media enter too. Schneider and Paul are searching them first before allowing them in. I take a seat on the couch as I'm scanning the dark eyes of the cameras – they resemble so much the mouths of black machine guns aiming at me.

In the corner, on a TV monitor, I see the news report, live. Paul stays with me, and we both watch the report: the white building with huge windows we're in; the doors open and I recognize Olli getting out. With him walks out one of the female hostages that he holds closely by her forearm. With his other hand he carries the money bag. He lets the woman free and walks boldly toward the line of cops. He grabs some bills from the money bag and throws them above the heads of the police people, to the public behind the line. The crowd cheers and applauds him, howling like hungry animals while hundreds of arms reach out for the money bills. Olli throws another handful, and the crowd cheers even louder, as he walks triumphantly under the shower of bills resembling confetti in the sunny hot summer day. He walks more toward the police line, which appears to move back under a spell, to allow him to jump on one of their vehicles. He shouts at the crowd, while throwing the remainder of the money. The people howl and cheer him deliriously. He appears to talk to them; he gesticulates and grins, pointing to himself a couple of times. Then – he grabs the edges of his shirt and tears the white shirt open to expose his chest to the line of police people, to the helicopters buzzing above his head, to that massive gray thing out there that controls all this world – the Beast.

“The funny thing is that you never know who's the next target,” Olli was telling me as he was taking his turn nursing me. “I'm so sick of having to be careful about absolutely every word I'm pronouncing, afraid that someone might hear and turn me in, afraid that would be interpreted as rebellion or that I'm speaking against the system.”

The room I'm in is small – I look at the monitors on the walls, at the cameras of the five people sitting in front of me; I clench my fingers over the silver skull on the top of my walking stick.

“Why me, Richard?” I asked.

“Because you are our voice,” he explained back then, in the small kitchen, and he dragged a smoke from his cig. “You're the one writing the words, and you're the voice. Now go, there's a beautiful man waiting there, in your bed. Go!” He added on a gentle voice, and he smiled a drained, drunk and teary smile.

I limped back to the door and opened it, slowly, as I was thinking that it might be the last time for me with that beautiful man.

My face appears on the screens – rugged, old, worn out. My meaty thick fingers squeeze the silver skull on the top of my cane.

My turn! We got their attention. It's us speaking now, addressing directly to the Beast and to those millions of slaves outside. Break the fucking leash! Wake up, there's more in your small lives. And the world is looking back at us, through its dark and glittering lenses.

I guess I didn’t tell them much since they did this to me. Starving me, beating me; I was put to run in circles in the small yard, in the snow. I was barefoot and wearing only a pair of pants. Even my head was shaved, as if to feel the cold even worse.

Quit loving the abuse! The abuse that makes us feel like we're needed! Hey, we got so used to our fear, we love and cherish it and do our best to preserve it! We feel so cozy and so safe within it.

And it was then, when I was begging my legs to move, to carry me, because, otherwise, if I would have stopped, they would have started beating me again – it was then when I realized I had only one way out of this, without betraying anyone. I don’t know anything, I don’t even know my name, I don’t know who I am, I was telling myself, as I was dragging my bruised feet. It was me who told my mind to shut down, for good. Shhh, turn the lights off; we will never speak again. The guardian was feeling cold too, with his thick furry coat on and warm boots. He was cursing me for not giving in already, because he had to stay out, in that winter cold. Even the sky was frozen, gray. Then, the sounds of crows. For me it was like a nightingale song; I knew what I had to do. You can have this body, but you can never have me. And I fell. I didn’t even feel the coldness of the snow on my bare torso; I didn’t feel the beatings either, I was going away.

Now I’m back. I don’t even look at the faces of the five sent to broadcast live my words. My words? Just words, like millions of other words. Then – the obscene bark of the machine guns killing those five. The end.

But the world keeps its eyes on us; it's so entertaining. They are there, outside, behind the police lines, they are in their houses watching the reports, they stop in the middle of the streets to listen, to watch.

Next phase! I stand up, and, together with Paul and Schneider, we meet the others. By now we don't even need to tell each other what comes next. It's as if we talk through the glances we're throwing to each other. We all five walk silently through the large hallway toward the huge glass entrance door. From outside we pick the murmurs, like the growls of a restless animal – the crowd, the annoying buzz of the helicopters, the screams and the orders, the turmoil of an ocean tormented by a storm.

Richard, Schneider, Olli, and Paul put their guns gently on the floor. We throw each other one last look. That's it!

The doors open wide; the restless and tormented ocean howls, yells, shouts, as greeting us. And it's so loud that it feels as if the Sun itself is screaming at us. We remain motionless, blinded by the light. Then, we step out.

In the same instant I feel shoved and pushed down, falling on the gray marble as strong hands are fighting with my arms to force them behind my back so I can be subdued and cuffed, while my chest hits the ground. I hear my own shout uniting with the yells of the cops arresting us; I turn my head to the side and see Richard's face contorted by hatred as he is yelling too, cursing them. For a split of a second we remain like that, immobilized on the ground, each of us with a knee stuck between our shoulder blades to keep us there, as they fight with us, trying to cuff us.

Then – the whole world shakes with all of us; the ground shivers and quakes as this brutal silence is slicing my hearing. I only see – I see the people falling, a huge tidal wave moving the ocean, I see the silvery sparkle of a rain of shattered glass pouring along the white walls of the building as the windows are broken by the explosion, one by one, right after they reflect the red flame, like a last spasm of a body in agony. Then, the sound ripping our brains – the explosion of the bomb that Flake detonated.

It’s about time you should turn the page!

The heavy body of the cop falls over me, but it’s like it’s not happening to me. I can swear that was Richard’s husky voice whispering to me. But what page?

“The fucking page, Till!” Richard spits through his teeth, while this big police guy is cuffing his hands behind his back.

Yes, the fucking page! It feels as if in the dark room of my mind a thousand suns exploded in the same time – there was light. All my thoughts are yelling at me. The page! Turn the page!

A murmur, followed by whimpers, words, voices, shouts, cries, screams, beeps, clicks, one by one get through to me. I can hear again!

The page!

I turn my head again and see how they drag the corpse of a dead cop that fell between my body and Christoph's. I look at him, and my heart winces. My Christoph. He looks back at me – his dead eye, his blue eye, his white face and the red blood smudging his lips, forming thick droplets and dripping on the gray of the marble steps. His lips move a bit, making the blood glitter in the sun. He can't articulate though. But he doesn't have to, his eyes are speaking for him.

“Fuck! He blew himself up!” The harsh voice used only to giving orders. “Shoot them! Fuck! Now, shoot them!”

I feel the cop that fell over me as he is standing slowly. Then he grabs my wrists again. Christoph's bloody lips grin, revealing his white glistening teeth.

“I wish I could sleep, but I can't lay on my back,” his lips were whispering to me, as if it were a lullaby. He was trying to calm my brain, demented by scattered terrifying memories. “Lie with me, cry with me, give to me,” he was repeating the words of that song, as he was trying to put my drained by seizures body to sleep. That song that he said was ours.

My hand escapes the hands of the cop trying to cuff me.

“Shoot them!”

I don't see it; I just feel it with my whole being, as the guy gives up trying to restrain me, and he puts the black mouth of the gun on the back of my head.

Christoph's lips twitch; I sneak my hand, reaching out and placing it on his already rigid fingers.

The goddamn page!

Times we hate, always seem to last...

“Now!”

His eyes look at me.

Click!

The armed guns.

His eyes smile at me.

Yeah, he knows. I remember it all!

“Fire!”

~ To Be Continued ~
- 10
- 11
- 12
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KAAMOS (A Tale For Grown-up Kids)