The Fire Breather: A Kafkaesque Paper Essay, Research Paper

In forepart of the cold eyes of 100s of people every twenty-four hours, he would stand on the street in his ragged apparels and brown paper sandals and breath plumes of fire into the sky like a mill burping fume. The people would gaze in astonishment as he did this over and over ; he seemed to hold an eternal supply of the bright energy inside of himself. He glanced down at his ticker every twenty-four hours right around three-thirty in the afternoon and packed his mat into his bag and put off for the bank, because it would shut at four-fifteen. As he stumbled down the dark, boggy side streets and back streets, he met a adult male who lived in his ain rubbish. The adult male was seemingly portion of this rubbish hill ; his weaponries stuck out all over and his face disappeared here and at that place, as if woven in. He stopped and talked with the adult male, and so he had to travel rapidly along. He couldn? T carry his net income with him all dark, and he didn? t feel safe with it anyhow. As he slid his manner along the pavement, he passed an eternal stretch of flower shops into which the cold, grey frontage of the bank was inserted. He looked confidently at the bank and so opened the door and stepped across the plush ruddy rug. The doorkeeper waved his chapeau and asked how he was that all right twenty-four hours. The adult male was all right, and so he said as much and made his manner through the group of Grey suits and asked to do a sedimentation. The Teller asked for how much, and the adult male fished out his sedimentation. That twenty-four hours he had cyberspace

ted about the same amount as he usually did, so he was not surprised. He told the teller, she wrote the amount down and bid the man good day. He slunk out, knowing his profit was in good hands. He wondered about his previous deposits. He had never made a withdrawal, so he had no idea how much was actually in his account. Inside the bank, the woman grimaced as she sorted through his deposit as she did every day. Finding nothing, she got out the broom and swept his deposit into the trash at her side and tended to the next customer. The man turned around in the street and came back in the inquire about the state of his account. Again, after fighting through the grey suits, he came up to the teller. She looks surprised, bewildered by his coming in a second time. He asks an unfamiliar question and she becomes confused, irritated. She?s put up with his nonsense before, but this was trying her patience. The doorman came over and grabbed the man and tossed him onto the curb, cutting his side in the process. He looked down, but he wasn?t bleeding; there?s no blood left to bleed. He retreats to his home and lies down, this time in a pool of his own blood. He closes his eyes to the light and dreams of his account, that which he has worked twenty years on the curb to obtain. They did not understand, so they became upset, but he knew that very soon he would march up to the teller and demand that she withdraw everything from his account, and he would march away, never to stand on his curb again.