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Ich Will: WÃ¤hrend und Nach	By : kimbk Category: Singers/Bands/Musicians > Rammstein Views: 1074 -:- Recommendations : 1 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: Disclaimer: I do not know any members of Rammstein. This is purely a work of fiction: it does not intend to reflect any aspect of the members' lives and I do not make any profit from this work.

Chapter List
- 1-Ich Will: Während und Nach
- 2-Die Kaputte Uhr
- 1
- 2
Warnings: Till/Richard hints, spoilers, gun use, very dark themes, character death, language, blasphemy, metafiction, lack of formatting in some places, even more tasteless than the other one and a horrible condescending tone. Reading 'Ich Will: Während und Nach' is kind of necessary.
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Meanwhile - Olli
Olli's story breaks off into its own separate path after the initial storming of the bank. As a result, his story doesn't intertwine with those of others and thus might either be the most or least interesting. Either way, it's important that we tell it, and we shall tell it first.
It is also important that he's suicidal. He didn't decide that for himself, some God up there tightening the strings of an Oliver-marionette did. But that's what he gets for being a marionette because marionettes are jackasses. Satisfied enough that he's aided the others to break in beyond the counter, he checks the window. The police are already gathering outside, along with a few journalists. Richard must have entered the building by now, and Till is probably in the foyer. All according to plan. This is where he has to leave, so we watch him as he quietly places his gun down in the arms of a confused and horrified middle-aged teller and back down the stairs. And then back up the stairs, but a different one. Haha. That's funny because it's different. Cue the canned laughter.
The camera pans out to show the overall scene outside the bank as he does this. Inside the building, Richard's gotten his first bodycount and has gained a look of collective disgust from his bandmates and it was very well deserved and all, but that is irrelevant to Olli's story. Unknown to the police, and camouflaged a little in his black suit against the black roof of the building, he slowly climbs the iron fire escape protruding from the side and right onto the roof. Due to the merciful nature of God in this story, he doesn't slip or fall in the slightest even as he makes his way across. Besides, if he fell off or slipped right now, that'd be quite ungainly. Wouldn't make a very good story for the papers tomorrow. No, Olli has something that he wants to show people, and show it to the world he will, risks be damned. And no, it's not anything down there. Get your mind out of the gutter. He kicks a random drink can that's been stuck on the eaves on the roof, bleached by sunlight, and as it rolls off the building laughter comes out of it.
He is keeping a vow of silence along with his bandmate. Said bandmate is currently sitting pretty in the foyer of the bank with a bomb and detonator strapped to his chest, eyes closed in apparent peace. Olli doesn't let it show to anyone now and never will, but he doesn't approve of the way Flake is sacrificing himself; everyone else acts too nonchalant, too macho to even really recognize what's going on. This doesn't mean that he thinks that Paul, Richard, Till and Schneider are shallow and self-absorbed, oh no - it's just that he thinks that they're not going to accept this until it's too late. That, and combining the frankly very dangerous and careless thing that he's doing along with the fact that Olli is suicidal, we can deduce that he kind of wants to join Flake. He'll miss his fellow keyboardist a lot if he goes without him, that's all. But unlike Flake he's not actually fated to die - he's just fated to be a decoy and a decoy he will play.
We watch as Olli stands up on the roof, swaying a little but perfectly balanced, now situated in perfect view of the armed police and the reporters down below. There is a collective gasp as he throws off his suit jacket and stands there in his shirt and loosened tie. Olli is a very tall man, which really does help his case a lot. Like a degenerate, he slowly begins to unbutton his shirt, his brown eyes focused determinedly on the crowd. He's got something to show us all. Closeup. He's giving us an impromptu strip show. We need every moment of it on camera. After what seems like an eternity, he finally gets his shirt entirely unbuttoned - and then throws it open, exposing his bare chest that has a black bullseye drawn on it with a black marker. Flake drew it earlier that morning with permanent marker, tracing around things like plates and whatever round things they could find for the lack of a compass. Olli also shed a few tears during it because it would be the last time Flake had proper human contact with anybody, but we aren't supposed to know that. That'd be too human.
Ooooooooh. Damn he's ripped. Wait, we didn't mean to say that, didn't know the mic was live. Uh. Out comes the laugh track again. That was totally just a joke. Really.
Olli has a few choices to make now. He can stand and let himself be shot. All guns are trained upon him now, distracted from what's going on within the building to focus on him; make a threatening movement and he'll be torn to shreds. Or he can just walk off the edge as simple as anything. Either way he'll die. But the sooner he does so, the more pointless his purpose as a distraction becomes - he's not catching the police's attention just for kicks. Nevertheless it's an interesting thing to contemplate. If shot down by police, they'll search him to find that he was not armed in any way - could just have been someone who was slightly crazy and needed to be helped - and the media will lambast the police for killing someone so senselessly. If he walks off himself, the media will focus on how suicidal he must have been, how terribly sorry they are for such a tragic loss, while conveniently forgetting that his bandmates have robbed, destroyed and have killed numerous people. Dead people are sacred subjects. Whatever the consequence, he certainly won't have to live with it for sure, he can bugger off to whatever afterlife there might be with Flake.
"All right," he says to no one in particular. There goes the silence. "what's it going to be, guys?"
His answer comes in a series of camera flashes, which, combined with sunlight, nearly blinds him and causes him to lose his balance. He doesn't, and still manages to hold on, but hears the stunned gasps of the reporters and bystanders beneath him. Somewhere in the crowd a policeman is shouting at them to hold back on the flashes, goddamnit, there's a man's life on the line. Nice of them to care, but it's embarrassing as hell. I mean, just look. Did he just get caught actually showing self-awareness and an unwillingness to die? Blasphemy.
Well shit. That was just uncalled for. How can this be fixed?
Olli doesn't know. So he just keeps holding open his shirt, baring his chest and the bullseye drawn on it, staring into the sky. Keep that image in mind, we'll just play the laugh track one more time.
-----
Flake
Huh?
-----
Before - Paul
In retrospect, this was kind of all Paul's fault from the beginning. It was him who pointed out the unduly attention they were all getting from the media after the release of their third album. All sorts of names being called: fascists, Nazis, skinheads, white supremacists, filthy racist thugs. Nothing but the lowest common denominator. Some could laugh that off, but Paul's been feeling for quite a while now that it's all getting rather old, the name-calling and general lack of appreciation.
That's just how media in general works, Richard says. Richard is the one who later proves to be the most difficult to persuade when Paul comes up with the bank robbery idea, because he's surprisingly passive and accepting when it comes to controversy. Only Till's own full approval and alleged difficulties in Richard's marriage being publicized makes him do a one-eighty on his opinion, and even then the bastard proves to be anxious and jumpy through the most of the actual event. But then he's also the first to get a bodycount out of everyone else - not even a very pissed off, machine-gun-toting Schneider gets in a kill before Richard does. He'll never figure his fellow guitarist out. But back to the backstory we go before things get too introspective. Television, radio, the news, they will forever be living off stuff like this. It's just how they operate, he says.
Fuck the media, Paul shouts. Yeah, that's right. You heard what I said, Risch. Paulchen says fuck the media. They'll bleed us dry one day with all their accusations, all the probing into our personal lives, and we'll be left as nothing but empty husks. I won't have that. I want a last stand. If they want such a sensational story they can have one - for a price. I bet I can make them scream, Paul comments nonchalantly. I'll make them scream all day.
How exactly are you going to do that, Richard sniggers. Take out another cancer stick. Paul isn't fazed and takes out one of his own, lighting it elegantly. Why exactly would they be screaming? Because they'd be terrified at the fascinatingly insane and comically short son of a bitch?
That, too, he tells Richard. And somewhere along the line they'll be screaming out of four things when they see me: fright - he counts them off with his fingers for emphasis - happiness, anger and lust. You probably wouldn't expect any of this from someone like me, but I bet you I can tick all the four boxes, yessir.
Fright and anger are fair enough, but the other two? I doubt it. What are you planning on doing anyway?
Two hundred Euros. And you'd be surprised, Risch. Very surprised.
Heh. Deal.
Paul might seem like a man who's perpetually cheerful and jovial, forever wearing his million-dollar smile. The true charmer of the group. This is by no means a false statement, but he's actually a fairly serious person inside, sane enough to calculate and accept just how much damage and casualties they can expect this so-called heist to produce at the end of it all and cold enough to not care. He'll do everything he can to make it spectacular - they're not in it for the money, they just want an outlet for their unspoken wants and needs, manifesting as rage and destruction. Till is the one who will lead the operation and make their motives clear to the world, with him being the face of the band and ll, but Paul is the one who will physically lead them into the building and clear the path that they need.
The morning of the robbery starts off beautifully when Paul shoves the glass doors open and rushes inside the building with a gun, and people start dropping their things and screaming in their utter terror and confusion. He's also lucky enough to first turn his gun towards a couple who's carrying a little girl in their arms, who then immediately crouch down to shield their child, screaming what he thinks are obscenities at him as fury overcomes their fear. Two boxes ticked already. He's so impressed and kind of touched by this scene that he just walks past them and slides right onto the counter, distracting Schneider (following right behind him) from taking anyone's life for now. Of course, all of this is done while he's deaf and laughing his head off.
Well, actually, he can hear fine. But he's got earplugs in so everything either sounds muffled or inaudible - this is done so that he, as the one leading them inside, does not get distracted from their objective. He's got to rely on lip-reading most of the time. It's no different to how Schneider can see but doesn't see as well as the others because of his eye, and how Flake and Olli can speak but just chooses not to for the sake of simplicity. Hear no evil, see no evil, speak no evil. He's doing a splendid job of leading, either way, causing havoc and chaos as he makes his way beyond the counters, towards the large safe, then to the corridor beyond that that leads to the conference rooms and employee desks. All that in less than half an hour.
I thought you were really taking it too far with that girl, he vaguely hears Till complaining from behind him. At least he thinks so, he could just be making it all up, it's not that hard. It was like, we're busy enough trying to rob a bank. What were you doing holding onto her? Killing someone to do that, nonetheless, I thought I was going to have to hit you on the head for not being able to keep it in your pants.
Hey, the body's to be had sex with, Richard shoots back. Not, uh, not to be had sex with. I wasn't even planning on that anyway. Too hysterical for my liking.
Paul wants to turn back right there and tell Richard exactly how stupid he sounds when he says something like that, but then is reminded of the fact that he is himself dragging along a hostage. A lady, slightly younger than his age with black hair, weeping hysterically as he pulls her along. Taking hostages doesn't prove anything and he doesn't intend to keep them around. They're just immensely convenient for gaining access to certain parts of the bank. Kind of like a human master key, fitting neatly into that lock that people call empathy.
You know, this would be easier on you if you either shut up or screamed out loud, real loud. It's for a bet, you see, Paul tells her cheerfully.
Oh God, she whimpers out loud, trying desperately to escape his grip. Oh God. Oh God. It's still not a scream, though. Paul is vaguely disappointed until he sees something at the end of the corridor that makes him smile again.
Look over there, sunshine.
She obeys him and when she sees the same thing that he does, she lets out a shriek of delight. Save me! Oh God, please save me!
Halt, the guard at the end of the corridor shouts, jumping up from his chair and fumbling at the gun holstered at his side. At least it looks like he's shouting, but he could just be mouthing the words like a ventriloquist's dummy for all Paul can see. Halt! The guitarist simply lets out a wild laugh and shoves her roughly aside, knowing that her way back out is blocked by two of his bandmates and that there is nowhere for her to go when he's walking towards the armed guard as calmly as anything. The guard looks at him, really looks at him - his gaze focuses on the other's maniacal yet dissonantly serene grin, moving to the side of his face and to the glint of his silver earring. He looks into Paul's eyes, into the intensely blue gaze, and his own eyes widen as he peers into the other's mind and suddenly sees the scene unfolding before him, one of the guitarist's little hotel room with a little sink on it. A single pack of Valium lies within it, all compartments popped open; seven of them gone, three melting into sludge in the basin. Paul grins wide, inhumanly wide, and then the man loses it and starts clutching at his head and screaming in agony.
You see, Paul giggles at the cowering guard. I told you. I could make 'em scream.
Bastard's practically pissing himself, too. Either that or he's actually getting a boner at how terrifyingly sensual Paul is. Well, it's the latter, but it's probably more a fear response - blood rushing to where it shouldn't be rushing. Whatever. Four boxes ticked, two hundred Euros please. Of course it doesn't mean a damn thing because they're in a bank where money is like water, just as he thought all along. All the guitarist cares about is that he's shown people more than what the media portrays him as, and regardless of what might happen to him afterwards they will never forget the truth. As Richard and Till come hurrying to see what the fuss is all about, Paul kicks the guard to the floor and calmly takes out his earplugs, sounds flooding his ears for the first time that morning. This time there are quote marks because it is the only thing said that day that he knows is truly real.
"Hurray for vociferations! This is the happiest day of my life."
-----
Christian
Who?
-----
In Medias Res - Schneider
"-eady, Landers, do we really need to listen to you laughing like a bitch even as we walk towards our destruction."
That's not how it begins. Let's rewind. You're blind in one eye, you're just around the corner from a building and you're holding a gun. Oh hey, look, you think. A rock. You try to pick it up, but due to your grievous lack of depth perception, you just end up swiping at the air just above it like an idiot. This pisses you off so you swear and kick away the rock just to prove the point that you don't take shit from anything or anyone, let alone a rock. Your feeling of smug pride lasts exactly 0.214 seconds as Till taps the back of your shoulder and politely inquires as to 'what the fuck [you're] doing'. That number was just pulled out of your ass, but that's not the point. This is still too far towards the beginning for comfort. Let's fast forward a bit to the middle. You are now in the depths of the bank, having plundered and shot your way through everything with Paul on the lead and Richard and Till having followed you until the last ten minutes or so. You were the first in this little room, though. Paul, Richard and Till were in the big conference room with the cameras set up so the latter could make his broadcast to the world. Paul has just entered the scene, and the curtains open to you pinning the little bastard down and holding a gun to his throat while a few blindfolded and tied-up people cry helplessly in the background.
"This is all your fucking fault," you snarl at Paul. "you named me. You. You stupid fucker, you. Why in the world did you ever suggest Doom as a nickname."
"Why in the world did you actually take me seriously," the short guy responds blankly, and after a moment of thought you have to concede that he has a point. Pulling the gun off his neck, you sigh and hold out a hand towards him, offering a truce and helping him up. Paul is the epitome of easily forgiven and he knows it. You're just smoldering with rage, that's all. You've been pissed off all morning. This has quite a lot to do with the fact that Richard's stolen your Valium. He stole all the Valium, all twenty tablets of it. Twenty tablets. That's as many as two tens. Unforgivable. He couldn't even have all of it anyway, what does he need twenty for? Unbeknownst to you, Richard's actually not the only one who's rummaged in your stash, but either way, they're gone and that's all it matters. Your thoughts are interrupted by the fact that you can hear Till approaching. Till's leg brace and cane are making highly audible clinking sounds so you know that he isn't far behind.
You are so fucking angry you don't even.
Richard and Till enter the room and it takes all your military discipline to not completely flip out and start on them too. The latter stops in the middle of the room and pauses for a while, wincing as he rubs his bad leg. "How long do we have left?"
"About fifteen minutes or so."
"Before the bomb goes off or before we need to leave?"
Paul checks his watch. "Before the bomb goes off. So we should leave in about, ten minutes or so. Even then I wouldn't push it-" he pauses there to gesture at the hostages. "so. What do we do with them?"
This is when you interrupt. "You know what's needed in a hostage?" you ask the entire room cheerfully, fiddling with the trigger of your gun with a thumb and forefinger. Nobody answers, but then you didn't expect them to. "only one thing, really. You need them to qualify as-" casually point a gun at a woman's head. "-as alive. That's all you need."
Richard pulls a face and interrupts. "Now wait just one moment, Doom-"
"Don't interrupt me. You're not one to talk. And despite what you might think... I'm not getting at that. The point is, we didn't need hostages in the first place, did we? Considering we never intended to bargain for anything and we've got not much to lose?"
Heaven must be playing a huge cosmic joke on you because right that moment, outside the window, you hear a voice magnified via a megaphone shouting up at you. "We know you're still in there and that you have hostages at hand. We don't want any blood being spilt, here. You boys just cool it and come down with your hands up, release everyone, and we won't even consider life imprisonment."
"Whoever taught you to negotiate, I'd like to shove a bullet down their throat," you scream out of the window. "cool it, indeed! Jesus! What even took you so long? Anyway," you continue in a considerably lower and calmer tone of voice, looking away. "I was getting to this point. We don't need those hostages. Even if we let them go, they might not survive. This means they don't even need the 'alive' factor in them, right?"
"You aren't going to kill everyone, Schneider," Till responds quietly. "we've done what we've done. There's no need to add on any more. It was always the cameras that we were after, not those people."
"Fuck yourself. I'm angry. This is the final nail in the metaphorical coffin. Because of them prying into my life at every possible point I've never managed to marry anyone and my family has to live in near hiding. This isn't revenge when they'll just move onto other targets! I'm angry and I want to take down everyone with me. Everyone in the damn room would make a good start, that's what I'm saying!"
There is silence for a while, and then Richard rests his plastic hand on your shoulder. "Calm down, Doom. Calm down. Take deep breaths. It's okay. I know. I understand."
You spin around to face them. "I'm a German cyclops with a mohawk and a gun, Kruspe. You don't know a fucking thing about me."
"What's wrong with mohawks," Till says in a smooth, rumbling tone of voice that calms you back down again. You sigh and rub your forehead, and in an act of defeat that surprises everyone (including yourself), you lower your G36 assault rifle and toss the cartridges away, dropping the useless gun at your foot.
"I'm tired," you moan out softly. When the bomb goes off, your adrenaline levels will spike and you'll temporarily feel awake and alive again, but apart from that, you're getting the first taster of the hollow emptiness of an unfulfilled vendetta. At least you see it coming afterwards. "I'm tired. I'm so tired."
Paul nods, and for a moment he looks completely and utterly calm and stoic. "Yes. I know. We're going to throw away our guns now and we're going to walk out together and maybe it'll hurt a little, but I promise we can sleep all the live long day afterwards."
"Serious?"
Till answers for him this time. "It is the most serious thing, Christoph. The Most. Serious. Thing."
Till doesn't mince around words in serious situations like those, which is a trait that you much admire. Till knows you, man, you two even have the same hairstyle. Paul can be nice but half the time he's laughing at shit and Richard pretends that he doesn't know a damn thing and Olli just wants to be killed. You might complain about Flake as well, but seeing he's most definitely not going to make it out alive, you hold off on the complaint. What's that? Do I hear you complaining about dead people and how much of a dick they actually were in real life? You insensitive bastard. You almost hope that you and Till will share the same cell in the aftermath so he can guide you around. But at the same time the chances of that are pretty much nil. The man doesn't notice you that much anyway. You sigh and rub the eye that you can't see out of. Time to leave all this behind and face the cameras once more.
"I don't like it either, Doom," Richard comments from the blind side of your face as if he's read your mind, and all you can do is nod without a smile. "let's do the bastard. Come on."
So you put down all your guns in a heap on the floor, untie the terrified bank tellers and guards and then tell them to run, run far away. None of them hesitate, although you know that some of them are probably goners anyway because they're taking the long way around in their haste to put as much distance between you and them as possible. Among the ones that are let go is the dark-haired lady that Paul dragged in as a hostage. Pity. She looked like a pretty one. You hope she makes it out alive and that she'll forget about all this over a pedicure or something. With that in mind you slowly walk out of the bank, keeping to Till's pace so that you are all together, passing Flake's motionless form as you emerge into the foyer, pushing the glass doors open. Paul's still giggling, although in a much, much quieter volume than before. It's still annoying, though.
"Will you shut up already, Landers, do we really need to listen to you laughing like a bitch even as we walk towa-"
-----
Christian Lorenz
[REDACTED]
-----
The Ballad of Love's Trajectory
I was born in Germany in 1987, created in a factory along with hundreds of other cases of my brothers in war. I consisted of a lead bullet encased in a steel shell filled with gunpowder; this is still true though I had no name when I was first created. Our kind is called a 9 x 19 mm Parabellum after the Latin motto of our original creators: Si vis pacem para bellum. If you seek peace prepare for war. It isn't much of a name, but you take what you can get. There was a flash of light as I left the factory lines, lovely beautiful light, although it vanished when I was boxed and shipped off into the great unknown.
There, in that cosy box, I would lie dormant and asleep until I was fourteen years old and the turn of the new millennium came. This is the background of my story.
One morning the box is opened and I am picked up and loaded into a tight space that I instinctively recognize as the chamber of a Walther P99. All my knowledge is inherited from the machine, stamped into my body, engraved on me until I am destroyed. It is before sunrise so there isn't much to see, but nevertheless I register a half-warmth that I felt, years ago, when hands touched me the first time. In my adolescent shyness, the return of such warmth is sudden and unexpected but nevertheless very much welcome. When I slide in, however, his grip is cold and unfeeling - he has one plastic hand, one that does not feel. I am a little disappointed, but the fit of the chamber against my body is tight and perfect. I shall not disappoint my new master. I want him to be pleased with my work.
"Your name is Love," he says in a hoarse, raspy voice that sounds like it's had a lifetime of cigarettes forced through it. He then chuckles a little; I am thrilled, though. I've never had a name like this before. "the most beautiful of our numerous vices, and one that belongs to me and perhaps Dietrich. Love is what you shall represent. But I shall forget this by the time we are there, though."
I am the first to be loaded. Five more of my brothers follow. Revenge. Hatred. Understanding. Death. Freedom. My master explains the story behind each name, punctuated with more names - more human names - that I do not really understand. He then laughs harshly and cocks the gun, spinning the barrel carelessly. "I do not know if any of you will ever be fired. Let us hope not."
But I know that I am destined not to wait for more years in this gun. I am fourteen years old and eager to fulfill my purpose, please my master. Soon the gun is slipped into a coat pocket and I am carried somewhere until my master's hand closes around it again. From the sounds outside, I know that we are no longer where we originally were - we're now in a busy place somewhere. Full of people. He spins the barrel again, shifting my entire world, and to my delight, I click to the ejecting position. People play Russian Roulette for the dangerous thrill of it all the time but surely it doesn't compare to seeing it from a bullet's point of view, clicking into position and seeing the target for the first time. I see light outside, inviting me to explore its depths; there is so much to see from here. I fall in love with the majesty of the sun. The only thing I miss is that my master is now carrying me in his fake unfeeling hand and I cannot feel his warmth. But that's not his fault. He is only human. It's fair that he wants to distance himself from the things that he will do with this gun. I am none to dispute that.
And I don't dispute it at all when the trigger is pulled and the hammer kicks in. The gunpowder detonates and I am ejected from the barrel, experiencing flight for the first and last time; I hear my master shout something behind me, and see a young man with his frightened expression reflecting onto my body for less than half a second before I impact his sternum. Parabellums are lethal up to 50m depth and more, which is more than enough depth for me to find and bury myself deep in his red pulsing heart. A jolt and a crash shakes my world, dissipating my already-weak momentum as he crashes to the floor; somewhere behind me I hear a woman screaming and imagine that my master has disposed of a rival. I wonder if she loved this man. I wonder if she rightfully belongs to my master now, being held with the hand that is attached to his body and radiates human warmth. No matter. I did not spare my target. I am proud.
Even though he does not remember that he named me Love, and likely doesn't know which ones he named which, I am proof that it triumphs over all. I capture this young man's heart in my cold embrace, his warmth soaking into the casing surrounding me. I know that through me, my master has seized both the young man and the young woman's hearts as well. A job well done.
I have fulfilled my purpose. Love indeed conquers all. I can die happily now.
-----
Doktor Christian "Flake" Lorenz, Age 35, Keyboardist of Rammstein (a.k.a. Sir Not-Appearing-in-This-Fanfic)
I so am. What the hell are you even talking about.
So I've been sitting here for what seems like years, but a quick glance at the timer tells me that I've still got ten minutes left on the clock. My God is a snuff director. I just hope I'm unconscious before I feel any of this. I probably will be.
What do you want most in the world, Flake? Paul asked me back then. Everyone wants something. We all want something.
It's strange how I'm sitting in the foyer, have been for more an hour now, and no one's actually come to drag me away. Strange, but I can't say that I'm surprised, because the closest things are usually the things that you're most blind to. I wouldn't be surprised if people thought I was just a bank clerk who passed out, or a statue, or whatever. Either way, the plan has been undisrupted for most part and I'm still here holding the detonator and briefcase. I also have a gun in my jacket for self-defense, although I didn't tell anyone this. Will there be anyone coming back for me?
Till will come back, I think so to myself. I don't really want him to, at least not alone, but I have a feeling that he will. Ideally, he and the others will just walk past me without fanfare or even a goodbye, leave the building, and I'll explode to become part of the universe. But I have another undesirable scenario playing out in my head: Till will come back and he'll talk to me, maybe about how he appreciates my sacrifice or doesn't, maybe he'll try to untangle me from this bomb and call it quits. He was the only one who paused to look, really look at me with sadness in his eyes when everyone entered the building. It was disturbing. But I have a solution to that, as crude as it might be. He will come back with whatever else he'll have in store and I'm going to smile back at him the way I always have and then I'm going to shoot him in the face. I'd be doing him and his bad leg a favor.
I've been lucky, actually. I knew what I was in for. My house will get searched when I die. On the kitchen table will be a stack of papers that consist my will. See, right now every member of the band is under the impression that I hold no grudges and that I gave my full permission to be blown up, And they're right, I'm quite happy to die and I hold no grudges. But the public doesn't. After they read my will, no one will believe their testament that this was done with my consent - I'll be a poor victim, someone forced to act as a suicide bomber. They'll be in jail for a very, very long time to put it mildly, cursing my name for all of it. But that's fine. I intend it to be that way. It's for their own good; they wanted escape, and escape they will to prison where no one will touch them.
It's all right if you hate me. I forgive you. You know not what you do.
The guys walk out and I give them a long look. Not one of them meets my eyes, which is good. I close my eyes and hold the detonator tight in my hand, silent and contemplative as I watch them open the glass doors and out into freedom. I take in their forms for the last time. Paul wanting to be noticed, Doom loving the thought of revenge, Olli loving the allure of death, Richard wanting women, drugs and loving Till, Till loving Richard, Till wanting understanding, the media loving and hating Till and all of us, all of us wanting to escape. All of us thinking that we'll escape. Too bad that only one of us will get it. Really, I do feel bad. It seems to be not a honor that we can share, breaking this cycle. And I won the jackpot because I could see beyond all of this in the first place. I'd feel worse that none of them could join me if this didn't feel so liberating.
What do you want most in the world, Flake?
"I want..." I whisper as the guards burst in, and smile. Broke the vow of silence. Oh well.
Go to hell, media. You undeserving pack of whores. Screw you too, Lindemann and the four other German guys. There are no banks to rob and no statements to make in prison. I'm out of here.
I'm going to live forever. I want martyrdom.
This was my gift to all of you; a world of a solipsist. I will take it back now. If there is no one but you left in a world, you rule it.
There is a bright light after that - and then I touch the face of God.
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Ich Will: WÃ¤hrend und Nach