He walks through the streets with his tongue hanging out of his rosy lips, dripping salty water that mixes with the dust and sand on his feet to leave a trail of dirt behind his hairy steps. He wanders them streets with a magnifier in hand, an ax in another, speculating over every pebble lying in the corner, every scratch strolling on the wall. The magnifier has been partially painted red, the color of the flag, to remind him of his enmity to a movement that held resilient for decades but has long been dead. He shall see red in that pebble, and in every pebble and every scratch, and shall destroy all what poses a potential threat.
On that wall, in the dark alley by the bar where the prostitutes hang for drinks after their nights, he saw lines that made up men whose figures shone in that red. They were playing with glass they did not know held their death.