the muzzle
270, 271, 272, 273, 274, 278, 280, 282. He wasn’t sure. It could well be 284, 285, 286… His target was a large, movable object which stood still in front of the three-way junction, looking like a dangerous snake poised for the strike. Some of its camouflage spots were flaking off, except around the target he was aiming at, the long, stout barrel that protruded out of the main body. A piece of coarse, army-green cloth was wrapped around the muzzle, which stuck out like a phallus ready and eager to perform its duty. 289, 290, 291, 292, 295, 299… It was as though it was shaking its head and greeting him in a display of sheer power. He didn’t wait, and shot at it in quick bursts, 330, 331, 332, 334… He didn’t think, didn’t feel anything. There was absolutely no doubt. Everything ahead of him was clear. What he was looking for was the raw, the coarse, the wild. He had no other sensation to impart, and his body felt naked in front of this huge mass that was so much bigger than himself. It wasn’t closing in on him, but looked as if it was about to, and was merely waiting for the order. When it moved, the grinding clatter spoke of the power to crush, curb and control. He stood still, aiming at the target with a seemingly relaxed posture, waving one hand and smiling in a distracting way. He chose an angle from which he could see it clearly. People walked past nearby, waving at him and posing, as though they were ready to let him take his revenge quietly. Some had worried faces and stroked their light-blue armbands as if they were ill at ease. Certain frames on the huge object were like signals boosting his confidence. He looked past it. The focus adapter was below the frame. No need to think, no need to feel, no need to be weak-hearted. 338, 339, 340, 345… Too far - it must be 344. He had always been at odds with numbers. It was the third day since the beginning of the trouble, yet nothing had happened. There was no fighting of any magnitude. Lines of cars stretched in the streets like long, tightly packed rafts of logs. People milled around as though they were unconcerned by what they saw. It was something ordinary, something they were familiar with. He saw a woman and two children walk up and point out to one another the huge target he was aiming at, as if they were strolling about during a festival and would continue to talk about it for ages after they had returned home. He was disappointed. There was no excitement - but life was like that. It was his duty to go out and search for meaning. He either found it or he didn’t. He felt utterly naked and cold as if he were the only person left in the world, even though there were people walking about all around him, in a flow of meaningful noises which he did not hear. The woman and two children may have heard something because they slowly moved away. He almost changed his target to frame them. The picture he saw in a flash expressed fear, but was not what he was after. He didn’t want that at all… He didn’t want any feeling to be expressed. He didn’t want any beauty. He wanted revenge. That meant his heart still had feelings and he was loathe to reveal them. The story lay buried in the past, since the day he had seen a friend fall writhing to the ground, blood gushing forth and spilling all over the grass of the esplanade. Even now the dry, caked blood formed a deep furrow across his heart. Every time he walked to that spot, he only saw the trail of blood. That was long ago… Ever since that day he had come out countless times and stood up defiantly in front of the big things, acting with hopeful determination unencumbered by any kind of feeling. This sort of situation had happened eighteen or nineteen times already - being a former history student hadn’t taught him anything new at all, just numbers telling the date of the events, starting in 1932, when he was not even born; 1933, three times; 1947, once, he was two years old then; 1948, once; 1949, once; 1951, twice; 1957, once, and then nothing else for a good many years. By then, he was already grown up, had started to work, and had slept with a woman. 1971, once - and he didn’t count 1973, when he had gone out into the streets, when he had seen the blood being spilt, seen the sizzling-hot muzzles that had come out to proclaim their authority only to be defeated. The horror was not worth remembering. It had started all over again in 1976, but from that time he had started working for revenge. He didn’t shoot very well. 18, 19, 20, 21, 22, 25, 28, 32. Stop here, because there were killings in several streets. Everything had come to a complete standstill. The only things left in those streets were pools of blood and streaks of tears, as if one had walked to the edge of the earth and seen the end of the world closing in. He couldn’t believe it. He waited, utterly alone. He waited in ambush to prepare for a new round of work. There were no feelings left, only his determination, like an artist who throws himself into his work with utmost dedication. He had a sharp imagination and knew what he wanted to do and why; he wanted to produce a work of art in which no feelings would interfere. Works of art are all about feelings, but not his. He had no feelings. He had only his mental pictures and he worked like a robot. The trouble started when the order was given. He shot without counting. The images that visually stimulated him kept on coming up mechanically, 102, 103, 105, 108, 120, 121, 125. That time, he went on until 164, 165, 168, 170, 171, 174, 176. He stopped right there… He remembered it vividly. 1981. There was another big event. Many people died in the streets, and light fighting was going on, for sure, on several roads, just as he had always warned it would. That time, he had gone out to do his work in the early morning, at the same time as the monks were doing their rounds and the children were leaving home for school. In the streets, the cars were stuck in long lines as usual. No event was as important and exciting as waiting for the long raft to lurch forward. The carts slowly inched their way like reptiles going through their last stage of evolution before being wiped off the face of the earth. 177, 178, 179, 180, 182, 185, 190. The morning light on that day was bright and beautiful and there was a soft breeze. People were strolling by, eager to take a look as usual. Wafts of patriotic music came blasting from a distance, and television (which channels he wasn’t sure) carried “special reports” between rounds of the King’s compositions. It was all so familiar, nothing in the least thought-provoking, nothing the slightest bit odd. The sunlight was getting nicely warm. Light, mottled clouds peppered the sky. The yellow sunshine contrasted with the deep black and horse-dung green of the meshes. The colours cancelled each other out and, from the right angle, appeared as reflections of the sun in the square viewer. If he framed the picture well, he could get an excellent work of art, but he was not an artist, he was not a professional who could be successful on this path. He was an ordinary individual. Whatever the reflections, he was not interested. He was only interested in the extreme boredom. He had to hold himself in check and not merely react to circumstances. He did not care about beauty, right? Wrong: he was especially interested in it, so he took considerable time to work on this piece to his satisfaction. Since he had started counting - 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 10, 20, 30, 40, 50, 60 - what number had he reached so far? Could he remember? Of course he could. For the last time on that day of beautiful sunshine, he had seen the huge shape that spelt power emerging towards him. He rotated on a 45-degree angle, shifting and swaying about to adjust its sights, moving and turning at will in the direction of an unseen enemy, who would be revealed when the order came. Viewing the fire-launcher from that angle frightened him for the first time, and he became fully aware that it too was naked and thrusting unerringly like a phallus in full erection. But where was the yoni hidden? The instrument of power facing him certainly held no beauty. It was only a machine used to threaten and suppress. All sides used it as an instrument of control and he himself had defied it often enough. This time he counted on to 191, 195, 200, 210, 212, 218, 230. Its message was clear; it was the message of power. Whatever its guises, it had only one message. The last time, he had stopped his work in front of Sanam Suea Pa and he went on rapidly counting through 236, 237, 240, 250, 255, 260, 266, 269. That was it… He hadn’t been wrong. He stopped at 269. The latest piece of vengeance started at the numbers 270, 271, 274, 278… From Sri Ayutthaya Road, then Sukhothai Road, around the Royal Palace, then turning right into Rajdamnoen Extension, then on to Rajdamnoen. 338, 339, 343, 345. No, that was too far. Only 344… He had stopped to rest near the Democracy Monument and that’s when he had seen the woman and the two children walk up to the muzzle of the M-41 tank. He had shivered with cold even though he was drenched in sweat. It was as if he was the last person on earth. The woman and the two children caught the friendly warning from the man on the turret: ‘Don’t come close… It’s dangerous.’ He felt utterly bored.
345. He didn’t quite remember anymore what the pictures he had shot were all about, but they were not the shots of a cannon
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