Nicky is sitting on his porch, sipping tea, his collar up against the cold. He tells me that no one comes to see him anymore. That he feels like an outcast. A prisoner in his own home.
He points at the men with guns patrolling the perimeter. “Fucking pigs,” he spits.
Nicky adjusts his right shoe, composes himself, and talks about mass murder, and war, and the end of the world. The Earth will be an abandoned factory of poisons, he assures me.
“It won’t be long now,” he says.
The sky is grey, there are no leaves on the trees and the grass on his small plot of land has long since died away.
“They’re already using the poisons,” Nicky tells me, “right here, on me. “ It won’t be long now, he assures me.
For a moment he cheers up when I ask him about his proudest moment. He defended a city once against a murder of black crows. There was red snow everywhere then, and pillars of smoke so thick and so tall that asphyxiated angels dropped to the Earth like flies. Nicky tells me about a magical place called Iowa. About corn and how much he loves the circus. But as silence returns his smile fades.
We take time watching the men with guns patrolling the perimeter. “Fucking pigs,” he says.