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Archibald Johns was a good neighbour in his neighbourhood of Queens, New York; where he did born and lived.
Slightly fat, slightly bald; everything in Johns was slight.
Slightly racist, but too timorous to manifest it openly, Mr. Johns used to lock well the door of his small cottage: there are dangerous people of dark skin stalking at night: key and key...and to close well the windows, too; Mr. Johns, Archibald.
Mr. Johns' clothes were the epitome of an anachronic nothing, settled somewhere in the past: slightly anachronic. Johns.
His job, in an office as employee. Correct employee, Johns, punctual.
He never would be fired...his boss felt an obscene contempt for him. Obscene and comprehensible.
Johns was the best expert in data and informatic systems of the office.
Actually he was the only one.
His performance in "Pludgeon & Son" -an invisible insurance company- it was always an impeccable journey into the routine.
One day, 25 years ago, Johns started working in this company, always in the same desk, close to a window that shows the dirty-flat roofs of the zone; people dealing with illegal substances, lazy patrols...the streets.
But Johns, Archibald; he just arrived to the office one day, 25 years ago, and sat down on the heart of the opaque oblivion, forever.
It frightens his own shadow, it frightens...
He lived alone in his small cottage: his mother died 15 years ago; his loneliness became heavy, dense; like a thick, stiff broth.
Every month he went to visit her tomb in the cemetery, Amen.
Johns, Archibald, cried; slightly...
Archibald Johns stretched his own decadence like a chewing gum: master in the boredom and the common place; Johns, the predictable one.
But he wasn't a drag! He just was the epitome of the anglo-saxon lack of grace. Slightly.
Johns, Archibald...
ONE DAY NOBODY SAW HIM ANYMORE.
One day after his birthday Nº 59, Johns didn't go work.
The indignation and surprise of his boss it was huge.
It was the first and last time that Johns surprised someone.
Because he was found dead at his home, days after.
A rotting smell coming from the cottage -besides the complete absence of Johns-, made the neighbours realize: the police was noticed: the corpse of Mr. Johns was found sat on a chair, at his kitchen, stiff and surrounded by flies and cockroaches: the hot days of July operated a quick decomposition in Archibald.
He was found correctly dressed, though.
A cold cup of tea almost empty was found on the table.
Goodbye, Archibald.
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