4. In The End

"I'm reading your bundle «Precious Poetry», and I like it. I don't like everything, and I don't understand everything either, but there are quite a lot of poems that… How do I say this…? Your words make me think. You make me feel different. Your poetry makes me realise there's more to life than paying taxes."

I expect Malik to be happy with my little compliment. Every writer should like it when she gets positive feedback from a reader, but his frown shows the opposite: "Critically, what's the part you don't like? What part don't you understand?"

I feel attacked and try to defend my opinion, my amateur opinion against a professional writer who dominates the language so much better than I do: "It starts with this rhyme, I don't know why, and it doesn't really matter how hard I try, but… I just can't figure it out. Listen:

The time that they give us is a valuable thing.

Watch how it flies as the pendulum swings.

Watch it count down to the end of your day.

The clock ticks your life away.

» What do you try to say with this text?"

At the back of the limousine, Malik gets angry: "Cynically, keep in mind, I designed that rhyme. I composed that rhythm. The prosody is perfect, the—"

"The prosody is crippled, Malik. The first three sentences have four accents, but the last one only has three. It doesn't sound perfect at all. Don't you hear the prancing pony at the beginning of the first line? I would change that into «Time that's been given is a valuable thing». It would not only avoid my question about who those «they» are who give us that time, but it also makes the rhythm match with the second and the third line, like a rap, starting and ending with a strong, accented word, with two other accented words in the middle. Your first line sounds like crappy writing to me.

» But my question wasn't about the rhythm; it was about the meaning. You start saying time is valuable, but you end with the clock, ticking life away, a clear image of wasted time. What's the conclusion? How can we feel better about the time given to us? That's why I read, Malik: I like to get emotions and I want to find information. You don't give answers. You just raise questions."

Malik is truly hurt: "Crappy writing? Controversially, I spent seven years, working on that first line. Who do you think you are? You don't give answers either. You promised me the answers to the six Big Questions of life, but all you give me is some crappy writing. Are you a professional critic from the New Joke Times? No. Distinctively, you're just an amateur who knows NOTHING about poetry!"

I close the book and take a deep breath. Talking with Malik is complicated. He's an artist and, of course, convinced that his poetry is precious, but he shouldn't neglect his reader's opinion: "Criticism is meant to learn from, Malik. Okay. I'll answer your remarks about criticism first: yes, you're right, I promised you the answers to the Big Questions, and I have all these answers for you, but… you're not ready for them yet.

» Did you read A Christmas Carol in Prose, by Charles Dickens? Scrooge needed those three ghosts before he was ready to accept the answer he was searching for. You also need to fight a few ghosts first. I gave you one answer to start with: the egg was first and the chicken came later. So that question is now solved forever. When the time is ripe, I'll answer the other five Big Questions for you: «Truth or Dare?» «Does God Exist?» «Poetry or Prose?» «Is There Life After Death?», and, of course, the answer to humanity's biggest enigma: «What's The Meaning of Life?», which is the most difficult one."

Malik's stubbornness shows exactly what he doesn't understand: "Diabolically, which are the ghosts I have to fight before I can understand the answer to Truth or Dare?"

"The Ghost of Critique and the Ghost of «Show, Don't Tell»."

Malik's triumphal smile shows I'm right: "The Ghost of «Show, Don't Tell»? HA! And what do YOU know about that? Frequently, every respected publisher and editor and writing coach, when he teaches his students—"

"HOR students. If you're talking about a mix of male and female, it's educated to use the sexist-free terms «hor» and «horself». It's also better to say «she» instead of «he» when you refer to both genders; «she» includes «he»."

Now, Malik gets furious: "Busybodyishly, you should not interrupt me when I'm explaining something important to you. You think you know it all. You—"

I have no other option but to interrupt him, again: "I know the answers to the Big Questions and you don't. Who's not listening here? Don't you agree that gender-friendly language is a blessing for everyone? Don't you prefer a language with tools to avoid discrimination educatedly? Or do you just block every intention to solve this problem because your teacher didn't teach you this in Kindergarten? Are we here to be entertained or are we here to be educated, Malik? Why do you refuse to learn from the opinion and experiences of others? Is it pride? Or is it prejudice?"

At least, I have Malik thinking. He's an intelligent man. Only stupid people stick to an opinion, based on pride and prejudice. Their opinion only tells us something about themselves, and nothing about the world around us. Stupid people push others down, trying to convince them about their own superiority. Intelligent people understand we all need each other. New ideas aren't always good ideas, but good ideas will survive when intelligent people understand their value, by thinking them over and trying them out.

Malik is an intelligent man: "Pragmatically, you're right. I'm sorry. Prejudice is a horrible thing. Discrimination of race, gender, religion or sexual preference is a horrible thing. I overreacted. I'm sorry."

"It's okay, Malik. I understand how important your work, your art, is to you. Nobody likes to hear anything negative about the things that are holy to us. My intention wasn't to say something negative. I tried to explain my point of view, which isn't better or worse, just different. Your… irritation when others criticise you, makes it difficult for me to explain some of the answers to the Big Questions. If you refuse to listen to criticism and learn from it, you refuse to see the roadblock that stops you from going ahead. How can I lead you over the narrow path towards the answers if you stubbornly block the road?"

Malik understands: "Diplomatically, that was a nice metaphor, the road and the roadblock. That was a beautiful way of using «Show, Don't Tell». When you tried to Tell me that, I didn't want to listen. I've heard those same words so many times. They've lost their meaning. But with such a powerful metaphor, you opened the door to my listening heart. Regardfully, I hope you accept my apologies for calling you an amateur. Your qualities in expressing yourself are better than I prejudiced. Eruditionally, you must have a splendid example around to learn that fast."

Malik gives me the pass I was hoping for. I score a simple point with a header: "Are you going to tell me you're sorry? Or are you going to show me you're sorry?"

"What? Ah. Yes. «Show, Don't Tell». You're helping me. You're good at this, Sami. Obviously, I'm not only going to tell you I'm sorry. I also want to do something. I'll be nice to you, pay the price to you. I understand. You're my friend. I don't hate, but appreciate. To show my sincerest apology, respectfully, I would like to invite you for a cup of coffee."

"Thank you. As you're a local and I'm a visitor, which place would you recommend for a coffee and a chat about criticism, writing tools, and literary figures?"

"Personally, according to my humble opinion, open for better suggestions, I would advise to visit The Maltese Falcon, a literary café where the coffee is excellent and the quality of the clients is of a high standard."

"An excellent idea. Do they have a car park for this limousine or is it better to walk?"

We'll walk.

The limousine was my idea. After our hasty flight from «The Wrinkle of Time», where an armed and dangerous elderly lady under a white blanket spooks around at night, I accepted Malik's advice: never sleep in the same bed twice. With cash and a fake passport, I hired a limousine, big enough for two people to sleep in, and inconspicuous enough to avoid unwanted intimacies from authorities and felonies. We both slept well last night.

The Falcon is a small café. At this early hour, we're the only visitors. Malik orders coffee and two pieces of homemade Kejk Mignun (marble cake).

"Apologies accepted, Malik. This cake gives you credit for three more insults and two unfair attacks on my poor knowledge of poetry and language. «Show, Don't Tell» is a piece of cake too. What did they teach you about «Show, Don't Tell» in writing class?"

"Literally, like I said: professional publishers prefer writers to «Show, Don't Tell» their stories. It doesn't work if I Tell my readers «Sami is funny». Contextually, I should Show why Sami is funny, by making him say funny lines and by letting him do funny things. When my reader falls from hor chair with laughter about Sami, she will understand that Sami is indeed funny.", Malik explains.

"That's the theory. Now, give me an example. How would you «Show, Don't Tell» that Sami is funny?"

Malik tells: "Exemplary, Sami sits in a bar. A waiter passes his table with a plate full of cups of coffee and pieces of cake. Sami doesn't notice the man. Suddenly, he stands up and hits his head against the plate. Catastrophically, the coffee and cake fly through the entire café. The white waiter turns red, his white shirt turns brown, his white floor turns black, and everybody laughs about this silly Sami who always does things like that…"

I'm serious: "Do you see me laugh? That's not funny; it's awful. I would hate it if this coffee and cake fell on the floor. Why do you think Sami is funny? You «Show» me the opposite. The waiter doesn't laugh. Sami doesn't laugh. How can you be sure that I, your reader, will laugh? How can any professional publisher order you to write crappy prose like this? Does she know every one of her readers personally? Have they given hor their opinion about this scene?"

Malik starts to understand what I try to say: "Basically, you state that both «Show» and «Tell» are not recommendable."

"You're getting close. What's the goal of every writer? If your goal was to produce beautiful sounds and rhythm, you could write in Chinese, Russian or Swahili, and you could use meaningless words. The content, the message in your text, is the most important thing. The form, consisting of word choice and style, rhythm and rhyme, sentence construction and literary figures, that's just a tool to help the message get stronger, better, and clearer. Am I right?"

Malik stirs his coffee, absentminded, and finally nods: "I never thought about it that way. Being a poet starts with beauty, and that consists of rhyme, word choice, and all the other things. Monosyllabically, «Ro. Nal. Do. Mal.» would be a great poem… but it would be meaningless. For a novel writer, or a journalist, or anyone who writes a report for work, the message is indeed the most important part."

"«Tell» and «Show, Don't Tell» are just two different tools to make the same message clear. No matter if you use a metaphor, description, action or dialogue: «Show, Don't Tell» is an indirect way of giving the message, while «Tell» is a direct way."

"Bilingually, that's correct."

"So when «Show» doesn't make the message clear and «Tell» doesn't contain enough power to pass the message, you shouldn't choose between them, but combine them: «Show AND Tell». That was what I tried to show and tell you when I asked you about the meaning of your poem «Time». Make the message clear. Add a brief explanation below each poem and you'll take away your reader's doubts. Is that so hard?"

Malik doesn't react.

"Perhaps I need a better example. I've read the Qur'an. It says that women should hide their jewel. As precious as the Qur'an poetry is, it doesn't clarify to me what that jewel exactly is. In my humble opinion, the part of a woman's body that looks most like a jewel is… her eyes. If I read this, I might think Allah is trying to tell women to wear sunglasses. When I look a girl in the eyes, I feel surprise, and hypnotise, I'd hate her cries, so divine advice to cover her eyes would solve a lot of womanise. And what happens? Muslim women cover everything except their eyes. Isn't that funny?"

Malik smiles: "Comically, yes. That's funny. Obviously, «Show, Don't Tell» leads to men Telling women not to Show anything."

I'm not ready yet: "Now take the news. Imagine they «Show» panic, but they don't «Tell» what it's about. What does a viewer learn from «Show, Don't Tell» on a TV show? Those professional publishers are completely out of their minds."

I can't hide my laughter. This is great stuff. Malik gets infected: "Hypocritically, you're right. Those professional publishers are crazy. They «Tell» writers to «Show, Don't Tell», until readers don't know anymore what the story is about. Inartistically, readers might think that Hemingway's «The Old Man and the Sea» is a metaphor about the sharks from the tax office who rob the poor working class from the results of their fishy work, while that story is all about the need to preserve nature and avoid that there will be no more fish left for next generations."

I grin: "And the story becomes even funnier. Readers have to pay upfront. How do you know if a story is good when you have to buy it first? How can publishers claim that any bestseller is the best book, when not one reader has read that book at the moment she buys it?"

Malik enjoys himself too: "Exactly. My Precious Poetry was the best book of the year, but it's not on the New Joke Times Bestseller List. Bestsellers have nothing to do with best writers. A Bestseller List is just a list of publishers who are best at marketing."

Laughing, he throws his hands in the air to express the size of the literary swindle he's been facing all his life: "Evidentially, all those bestsellers have no other quality than the economic power of their publisher. That's why the publisher gets the lion's share of the income and the writer only gets 7%."

The waiter behind him, the one with the full plate of coffee and cake, gets the full share of Malik's enthusiasm. The plate flies through the air. Thanks to the whipped cream and the cake, his face looks like a Picasso painting. The steaming coffee turns his perfectly white shirt into a burning brown bathing suit. Malik stands up, turns around, steps on a piece of cake, slips, tries to hold his balance on our table, but goes down anyway, takes the table and his chair with him, and makes the calamity even worse.

I fall backwards on the floor, double with laughter: "You ARE the best writer on Malta, Malik. You «Show AND Tell», even without words, that you're funnier than any other writer I know. For you, this is a piece of cake; for me, this is the best piece of writing I've seen in many years."

The waiter's face is purple. After tearing his shirt off, showing the red burns from the hot coffee on his skin, he shouts at Malik: "Wait until you've seen MY writing: the bill for all the damage you've caused."

Malik tries to apologise: "Unintentionally, I tried so hard to get this far, but I had to fall and lose it all. In the end, it doesn't even matter. Unsuccessfully, I'm not Number One on the bestseller list, and I don't have even one penny to pay you. But don't worry: my friend Sami here has the answer to every question. Solving your financial damage is a piece of cake for him. Am I right, Sami?"

I no longer think Malik is the funniest writer on Malta. I stop laughing: "You invited me for coffee and cake and you didn't even have one penny?"

Malik laughs twice as hard: "Check your phone's recordings of my words, Sami. Literally, I said I would like to invite you, but I didn't say I had the money to pay for it. Didn't you tell me you always carry enough cash in your pocket because cash is the best insurance against any disaster? Well? Is this a disaster or isn't it?"

Now, even the waiter sees the funny side of the situation: "What a comical coincidence. Calculating the coffee, the cake, the cleaning and the tips, 1.000 euros will make me happy again. Let me laugh. Show Don't Tell me the money."

I show him the money. It's funny enough for both to roll on the floor, laughing their hearts out. I don't get it. After being just two days on Malta, I've lost my Makarov, my backup, and my place to stay, and I've probably lost my job too. The LSD, the CIA, the KGB, the MSN, and Interpol have placed me on number two on their Most Wanted list, and the number one on that list is looking for me too because he wants me dead. My only resource to help me solve all my problems is the cash in my pocket, and now I'm about to lose that too? And those Twins of Grins on the floor think that's funny? I think they're reading the wrong books.

I pay for the coffee, the damage and the cleaning. We have to keep moving. But where do we go to?

On the corner of the bar, near the entrance, I see several flyers. A spectacular picture of a dark demon with two smoking guns in its hands immediately draws my attention. Between the two horns on his head stands the title of the book: «Truth or Dare». In the lower-right corner, I see the name of the author: Katie.

I take one flyer and read the text on the other side: «Mafia boss Toni Peroni doesn't have many enemies; he kills everyone who knows him. A small group escapes. When they join in Lin-Kin Park, a deadly game of Truth or Dare starts: do they dare to stand up against Toni and his gang? If they want to know the truth, they can't run away…»

"What's Lin-Kin Park?", I ask Malik.

"Beautifully, it's a park in Japanese style, a gift from President Lin-Kin when he visited Malta in the 1950s. It's a twenty minutes walk from here, in a southerly direction. Why?"

"Just a hunch. Let's go there and take a look."

* * *

While we walk the narrow streets of the ancient city centre of Valletta, I finish my unfinished business with Malik: "Big Question #2, «Truth or Dare», is a Hop, Skip, and Jump problem. You accept my criticism of your work now because you understand that criticism is something you can learn from. That's the Hop. With the right criticism and the right amount of logical thinking, you also understand that your holy concept of «Show, Don't Tell» is open for improvement. That's the Skip. Are you ready for the Jump? Truth or Dare?"

Malik thinks there's some kind of secret formula to solve the Six Big Questions of Life: "Basically, you suggest I shouldn't choose? The correct answer is Truth AND Dare?"

"That's impossible. The enigma Truth or Dare is about doing the right thing by following the Truth, or Daring to take a risk against the rules to get a faster result. Should we follow heaven's long, safe, and narrow path of peace and durability? Or should we pick the risky highway to Hell of war and fast profit? You can't follow both routes at the same time. You'll have to choose.

» Mothers teach us the Truth: don't lie and don't fight with our little brother. Media show us Dare: they draw all our attention towards terrorists who attack World Trade Centers and governments that attack countries that have nothing to do with the terrorists who attack World Trade Centers. The third party in the conflict, humanity's hope for a better future, is the artist: the writers and the film directors, the painters and the musicians. Which side do they choose? Peace or conflict? Safety or Risk? Boredom or Adventure? Truth or Dare?

» As long as history remembers, Europe suffered a major war every thirty years, but after World War Two, democracy gained power over the dictating Napoleons and Hitlers. Words became more profitable weapons than atomic bombs. Peace became the leading trend. For the first time in history, Truth was beating Dare. But since New Media conquered the Internet, Dare is getting stronger again. The writers cause that. Why do writers fill every book of fiction, every film, and every episode of the news with violence? Why do they think there's fun in funerals and fundamentalists?"

It's good to have a good definition of the problem before you start looking for the answer. Malik already knows the answer: "Characteristically, it's our human nature. We're fighters. We want to learn, and we want to learn from as many examples as possible. Finally, all those violent stories have a happy ending. I told you before: if you want to be the successful Number One on the New Joke Times Bestseller list, you have to be a novel writer and not a poet. Sensationally, you should write bloody action thrillers instead of precious poetry. Subconsciously, I knew the answer all the time. It's Truth. It's «follow the holy rules». It was right under my nose, but I—"

I interrupt Malik: "For ages, writers poison us with literature in which Justice wins in the last chapter. That's not Truth. That's not Justice. That's Poetic Justice. In novels, the hero always wins. In real life, every story of violence ends with death. That's the truth. Writers try to make us believe the lie."

"Substantially, if I get paid for what I do, that's justice. And if people pay me better when I give them what they want, that's justice too."

I'm wasting my time. If people don't listen, I better stop talking. As I tried to explain to Malik earlier: I can't give you the answers as long as you're not open to criticism, unable to change your opinion about concepts that are holy to you. I stop Telling. It's Show Time.

Five youngsters surround us to show how we can be more open: the stilettos in their hands are long and sharp.

I've lost my Makarov.

I'm not armed.

I can't even give them Malik and run away: there's no way out; the five circle us like a pack of hungry wolves.

They don't attack.

Yet.

Between my teeth, I whisper to Malik: "Fear is a useless emotion here. When they smell your fear, you're dead meat."

I'm cool.

I look at them like they look at us.

There are two girls and three boys. They observe their prey before they strike, like five street cats, playing with two mice.

I try to find clues about their personality. Perhaps I find a weak spot and save us.

I give them names.

Jung Chan is the woman in her late twenties with features from the Far East. The other woman, the one I call Malala, is a teenager whose roots lie in India or Pakistan. I give the name Nelson Mandela to the black man, who's tall and strong like a South African. The handsome boy with the Latin-American looks, I call Pablo Neruda. And John Lennon is the Caucasian with the long, blond hair, the beard, and the round glasses. Five people from five different ethnic backgrounds, united against the rest of the world: the multicultural Maltese society presents itself.

They call us names too: "What you're doing in our park, luck?" - "Why don't you go away, stunt?" - "What you're looking at, sick?" - "This place is ours, pit." - "Are you looking for trouble, ditch?"

Malik is 58. He doesn't speak Modern Talking. He doesn't understand the Newspeak that every new generation invents to identify themselves: "I beg your pardon?"

Without taking my eyes off our attackers, I translate: "A luck is a lazy fuck. A stunt is a stupid cunt. A ditch is a dirty bitch. A pit is a piece of shit. A sick is a silly dick. You should reply, Malik. Come up with something witty now. Show you're at least as good as they are. You're a writer. You can do this. Help us win this fight."

"Immediately invent something? Sodom and Gomorrah! I don't have inspiration."

"You don't need inspiration. You need to save our lives. How do you call a bull's shit? No, we need something bigger, something worse. How do you call a troll's dump?"

Malik panics: "I don't get it."

"You better get it fast or they will give it to you. Did you look around? This beautiful park is full of graffiti. That's modern art. Every young generation wants to express itself, prove their unique identity, show they're different from their parents. These kids create art on the street, where it belongs. They rebel against commercial art. They react against entrepreneurs like Leo da Vinci and Leo Messi, who trade art for money. This new generation takes art back to the streets, for free. They show the world art from the soul. You're a poet. Words are your profession. Rhythm and rhyme are your middle names. This is a fight with words. Teach them a lesson. Make them respect you and we walk away. If not… This is the jungle. There can only be one."

Malik almost pisses himself now: "Mathematically, it's five against two…"

"No. It's five against one. I'm a runner, not a fighter. As soon as they attack you, I'm off and they'll never see me again. This is not my battleground, Malik. This is your fight, your land, and your people. We play fair: nobody has the benefit of playing at home by competing in hor native language. We fight this in English; it's the same handicap for everyone. Recite the best poem you've written. If it's good, we'll get their respect and they'll let us live."

Jung Chan makes the first move:

"Respect is more than propaganda.

Perfect is the Chinese panda:

Black and white with Asian roots

makes racists look like prostitutes."

She's good. But Malik is a professional. He's Malta's best poet. For him, this is easy. I hit him with my elbow: "Come on, Malik. Defend yourself. Give them your best."

Malik tries to get his wits together. He lifts his right hand and recites:

"My papa was a Rolling Stone.

Wherever he laid his head was his home,

And when he died, all he left us was a loan…"

The five laugh out loud: "Poor immigrants." - "White trash and an Arab beggar." - "Let's cut them to pieces."

Nelson Mandela turns killing into art:

"You don't belong here.

You're boat people.

You fly from the land of the victims.

You row to the land of the killers.

You die at sea, your cemetery,

the only place that will take you."

Rostov! These guys are good! I hit Malik on the back of his head: "Come on. You can do better than that. Claim this park!"

Malik clears his throat and strikes back:

"MacArthur's Park was melting in the dark

All the sweet, green icing going down

Someone left a cake out in the rain

We don't think that we can take it

but it took so long to bake it

And we'll never have that recipe again…"

The five haven't seen such a good stand-up comedian in a long time: "We ask for fresh language and you give us old cake?" - "Did you hear that siren? The cliché-alarm just went off." - "MacArthur's Park? Wasn't he a mass murderer in WWII?" - "Green icing on a cake? I'd rather kiss a frog." - "Typical commercial art: sweet cakes, hollow calories, and impotence to reproduce it." - "That's how the world falls back to barbarism."

Malala shows how it should be done:

"The world is a mess and you've made it.

The parental trap you created

calculated

dictated

is nothing but money-related:

your wealth caused my need and I hate it

castrated

outdated."

I'm getting nervous, but all I can do is try to motivate Malik: "You're her parent-generation that messed up, Malik. You're the enemy, who created a world where these kids have neither a future nor a present. They can't afford to study. They can't find a job, buy a house, get married, or have children because your generation took that away from them. The greed of your selfish generation turned their future into an impossible dream. If you want to win their respect, you have one last chance to make it up to them, right here, right now, and very clearly."

Malik mutters: "The dream. Of course. I won the silver medal at the European Games with that poem.

In the dream, she was right here with me

Right here with me in the bed

She said: «Malik, come and kiss me»

«Never leave me!» was what she said

Then when I reached out to hold her

I woke my wife instead."

The five are certain now: "He's a loser." - "We better finish him." - "Right here." - "Right now." - "And very clearly."

They do have a point: the point of their stiletto, sharp and coming closer. They want someone to blame. They want revenge on those who are responsible. The no-no-generation (no job, no education) blames their parents.

Does it help to attack others with criticism?

Does killing us solve their problems?

Or should they act instead?

What they say doesn't hurt anyone. It's words. It's wind. It passes without touching you. But at the moment the point goes for my throat, suddenly, I get the point: these kids don't create art to make money with it. They want others to listen. Malik didn't listen. He was so full of himself and his own stories that he gave them all the wrong answers. Their first poem was about racism. The second one was about poor refugees who leave the land of the victims to row to the land of the killers. The third was about the power of money that leaves no future for our future generations. These kids are worried about the world. When they speak, they want others to listen. They want respect. And they follow the lessons of the world they grew up in: violence creates attention.

I get the point.

It's my last chance to survive.

I put my right index finger on the point of the closest knife and say:

"It starts with one thing and this — is — it

Your words will never hurt me, cause they just — don't — hit

You'll never be successful, and it pays — you — shit

so you sit

and you quit

and you listen to the master, to the words — I — spit

and you wonder how I do it, how I touch — the — CLit

how I'm working with the words, how I make — them — fit

and admit:

I've got grit

I've got wit

I've got it

It starts with this thing and you don't know why

It doesn't even matter how hard you try

Whatever you will say, will be out of reach

'cause your words don't mean a thing if you don't practise what you preach

In the end,

You must be blind.

The only thing that matters

is what you leave behind.

In the end

I defend

my friend.

Last time I checked

that was correct

Respect…"

…

Silence…

Cold silence…

Freezing-cold silence…

I press my bleeding finger on the forehead of the tiny girl in front of me. It leaves a red spot, a holy eye that helps her see the truth. It breaks the ice.

"Respect, man.", Malala says.

The others mumble their agreements: "Yeah, respect, man." - "That was cool." - "Did you make that up, right here, right now?" - "Very clear."

The stilettos disappear in tight pockets of wide trousers.

I won.

I want to breathe in deeply and let out a sigh of relief, but that would spoil my victory, it would show I'm a loser, just lucky to find the right words at the right moment, not able to repeat them even if someone put a loaded Makarov on my forehead. Stay cool. Give up my win and offer a draw: "Don't mention it. I liked your panda metaphor. You're good. I like you even better than Tupac."

"Tupac is great." - "Tupac left a lasting legacy." - "Tupac cares."

John Lennon recites:

"but please don't cry, dry your eyes, and never let up

forgive but don't forget, girl, and keep your head up.

So when will the real men get up?"

I take the bridge: "Malik and I, we're real men. We're after Khalid El Bullít. Do you know where we can find him?"

They look at each other, a mix of fear and doubt in their eyes. Pablo Neruda looks around and says: "Khalid is… the devil himself. He's everywhere, but can never be found. He's evil like mad, just for the pleasure it gives him."

Nelson Mandela adds: "Khalid is bad news, bro. We used to be the Hateful Eight. First, Indjun Joe, the Native American, disappeared. Was never found again. One week later, Jewish Anne Frank was missing. We've never seen her since. And last week Hoessein, The Prince of Persia, didn't come home after a night in town. It's Khalid, bro. He doesn't like poets. He kills our art. Khalid is dangerous. Don't mess with him."

I shake my head: "We have to. We have to help each other. Poets, rappers, artists and friends: Khalid wants us all dead. If nobody acts, the problem won't go away. We're a team. If poverty was only smart enough to support each other, instead of giving all their time, money and energy to the ones who cause their problems, the world would be a better place. You should help us with that mission. As famous poet M.L. King said: «it's not the wrath of my enemies that I fear, it's the silence of my friends»."

The gang of five falls silent at hearing these wise words.

We're not getting any more help here: "It is time for us to go. We have to start a war…"

Malala stops me: "I heard rumours about Khalid. It seems he has a problem with book people. Perhaps that's why he kills poets. Perhaps he's an economist who loves numbers and hates words. Perhaps a book fell on his head when he was a kid. Perhaps he's dyslectic or something."

"Word blind? That would explain something. When he stole Malik's manuscript, he promised to come back and kill Malik later: if he's dyslectic, he wasn't sure he had the real thing.", I say.

"Was it a good story? Is he after the money from the royalties?", Pablo Neruda asks.

Nelson Mandela shakes his head: "No. Words don't pay shit, man. We're the best modern poets in the country, but even when we put our work online for free, we don't get any response. Nobody makes money with poetry these days."

I agree: "We think Khalid was after the book because of the content, to stop the world from finding out about all the dirty deeds he did. He doesn't want a bad boy reputation."

Malala knows about bad boys: "No, that doesn't make sense either. People want others to think of them as the bad type. Good girls go to heaven, bad girls go everywhere. Being bad pays off. Being bad gets attention. Dare is winning the battle against Truth. If I were Khalid, I would try to promote any scandalous book about myself, not try to forbid it."

"That's what we thought too, which left us without any theory about his motive. We never thought about dyslexia, word blindness. It might just be the missing link, the link of Lin-Kin Park. Thanks. You're real friends."

"For the art, bro. For the art."