zapad padl, je konec

I took leave of my father's decrepit farmhouse in my modest Guatemalan automobile, making reasonable pace across a landscape bereft of anything resembling what I had come to know as modernity. I eventually reached the general store, a flimsy wooden structure that emitted a dark cloud of smoke from a narrow chimney. Two locals sat outside in the midday sun, accomplishing nothing and seemingly content in their doing so. Their bestial stupidity, likely the result of generations of inbreeding and race-mixing, was apparent in both their appearance and vocabulary.

My eyes were immediately drawn towards the words emblazoned above the door. These words perplexed me in such a manner that defy ordinary description. I shall not repeat them here, for I fear that anyone who stumbles upon this tome will meet the same fate as I should they read them.

Fearing the harm that may come in entering this domain of squalor and criminality, great efforts were made to disguise my status. I appeared a tatterdemalion, the articles of my uniform purchased from a vagrant earlier in the day. Even so, one of the men accosted me in simian fashion upon my approach.

Despite my protestations he proclaimed without hesitation that the dry husks of black leather upon my feet were actually loafers of the highest quality. His toadlike companion merely looked on with vacant eyes and cretinous expression. I became petrified with terror, the foul odor of cheap spirits and tobacco leaf overpowering my senses. The incomprehensible envy of this man illicited a new horror in my mind, leaving me with thoughts of the unfathomable depths of decrepitude awaiting me inside.