RIC J: Marguerite Duras wrote about Hiroshima, “It will begin again. It will be 10,000 degrees on earth. Ten thousand suns, people will say. The asphalt will burn. Chaos will prevail.” It has begun again. Why have you returned?
Plague: I was bored. And the Earth told me that too many humans were stepping on her. And that she was thirsty for blood. As in the time of the Trojan War.
RIC J: How do you perceive the world? What does it mean to you?
Plague: The world, humans, are fresh flesh. I have no mercy, no humanity, no tenderness, no favor to give, no love to offer. Just an endless appetite for death.
RIC J: Is your god different than ours? Who is our god?
Plague: Your gods have abandoned you. All Ganesh statues were knocked down. Kali is dead. There is only death. She’s the last god, the only one, the real one. There is no god but death, and Plague is her prophet.
RIC J: How do you express love to someone or something? By coming close or staying far away?
Plague: It is not exactly love. It is the kiss of peace that turns into the kiss of death. The annihilation. Everything you’ve been told is wrong. There is nothing after death, just putrefaction, the most complete darkness, the emptiness, the nothing, the big nothing. To offer this annihilation is a gesture of love, for some.
RIC J: Why do you hate humans so much?
Plague: I don’t hate them. I don’t love them either. I’m just doing my job. Hyenas are not mean, neither are wolves. They do their jobs as hyenas and wolves. It’s in their nature. My nature is to sow death, to cultivate death, to reap death. It’s my job, and I try to do it as best I can. Do not blame me.
RIC J: What was the last book you read that you liked? Did you spare its author?
Plague: I read “Chronicle of a Death Foretold” by Gabriel Garcia Marquez. It was too short, and I got pissed off.
RIC J: Is death your idea of a masterpiece?
Plague: Did you ever read “Assassination as one of the fine arts” by Thomas de Quincey? Yes, killing is not a game, it is an art. A first class art. We must not miss the death we distill. It must be perfect, complete, aesthetic, impeccable.
RIC J: You have many names. Pestilence. Black Death. The Great Bubonic Plague. Great Mortality. Which one do you prefer?
Plague: The next one. You’ll see, I’m preparing something crazy for you. An incredible thing. Deadly thing, you won’t believe it. Something sick.
RIC J: Your favourite poet.
Plague: Mayakovsky, no doubt.
RIC J: Your favourite colour.
Plague: White, the true colour of death.
RIC J: When will you leave? And where will you go?
Plague: But I will never leave, darling. I will survive you, since I will kill you. I will be the last, and maybe even I will end up killing myself?
RIC J: Last question. In the memory of a Sufi patient, please define life in two words.
Plague: Die, mortal!
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