The Emperors of Existence
Illustration: Ansellia Kulikku. It was dawn, tepid, starless. The sky above Cairo was a bloody gob of spit. We’d gotten into a scrap on the street over some nonsense. For example, who should have the last gulp of whiskey from the last bottle. I’d raised that bottle out of the plastic bag to my mouth when Sanders muttered something. A moment later, I head-butted the pavement.
He was on top of me at once. He knelt on my chest, his sweat-soaked shirt touching my skin. He began beating my head against the asphalt in a measured beat. Blood flowed from my mouth. I became fucking nervous. With my free hand, I reached toward my pocket. I was looking for the knife so I could stab the scumbag. It was a reflex action, but I might have thought about it first: I myself had left the knife on the table earlier, so that if anything happened outside, the cops wouldn’t find it on me.
In post-revolution Egypt, it didn’t take much to be locked up without charge. One switchblade was quite enough.
All I achieved by digging through my pocket was that my loose change scattered about.
Sanders didn’t let up. His eyes were bloodshot. I was certain he would kill me. My head banged on the pavement five times before I managed to kick him off me. He flew four meters, smashing against the side of a nearby kiosk with a loud thud.
He sprang to his
