Yes, yes, yes, that's exactly what happened: someone knocked on my door. I put on my coat, opened the door, and stepped outside. Standing on my lawn was the grotesque, cursed monster holding a pumpkin haunted by wicked spirits. They were about a meter tall, if I recall correctly!
I grabbed my stick and ran towards the parasite! I closed my eyes and swung an old, wild strike! The monster lost consciousness! I had struck it right on the head! The problem, though, was that when I looked up, the neighborhood was filled with similar-looking monsters. It was as if they all turned to look at me at the same time.
I didn't know what to do. I ran back into the house, shut the door, and peeked out the window. The monsters gathered around the one I had knocked unconscious.
Oh, forgive me—I haven't introduced myself. I am Malek. I am eighty-eight years old. Most people call me "the madman." They often throw labels at us that don't define us.
Earth has become ugly lately, as if it's burdened by its own weight, like it's exhausted… much like me. The monsters carried their fallen kin and left. I caught my breath, returned to the kitchen, and made myself some tea. My mother always said tea is soothing for the nerves.
I spent a calm night, listening to jazz, reminiscing as I sifted through old pictures of my former lovers. Those photos infuse me with a sense of youth. I delved into the memories of Razan, Dunia, and countless others across my eighty-eight years. I've seen a lot, my boy.
Women and wine were the only sins I don't regret. Both make a man's journey through life a little easier.
The door knocked again. I stepped out and spoke to two monsters dressed in blue. They asked me to come with them to a place they called… the sta...? The precinct?
I slapped one of them, and the other shot me.
I am Malek, the old man at the end of the street. dead now. I'm speaking from this body.
Hello.