The tale of the pretzel at Prater Biergarten

“Shhhhh. Can you hear those whispers?” She sat there, a timid, short Indian girl, looking intently at the man with eyes of the bluest oceans. He asked again, this time his voice was deadlier than before, “Can you?” She nodded her head, afraid of upsetting him. Looking at her posture, he softened a little. “Here, have this.” With a sigh of relief she accepted the pretzel. And as she devoured the bready baked goodness, she heard it. The knotted pretzel fell as she felt the folds in her brain open up. Suddenly, she was surrounded by a number of people, whispering softly. But every soft whisper rung loud and unclear, like an early-morning alarm bell clanging somewhere in the distance. He saw her eyes roll up and sprung up to hold her as she fell. He said, “Repeat what you hear. Say something.” His words stung her ears, drowning the whispers as he spoke. He held her tight as she shivered. And then a few words escaped from her lips, “You are… the blood of the tyrant, warmaker, deceiver… murderer” said she, almost in a trance. Suddenly, the whispering stopped. Her eyes flapped open. A look of realisation dawned upon her. And she whispered, “Run.”

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