Nothing Of Importance Happens In This One, Just Skip It

Content Notice: This article contains swearing and difficulties in assigning oneself to a sex. I advise the reader to be careful.


Ruiz Duchamp starts at the woman in the frame. On the one hand, Ruiz finds the sight yet appealing. On the other, Ruiz stared into the bathroom mirror of a loft.

Ruiz reflects.

Had anything like this ever happened before, where a work of art had affected him so strongly?
No, he had never been that kind of person who made this kind of art.

Then Ruiz wonders if his crazy brother Pico had ever done anything like this before?
No, Pico is too crazy to even find this entertaining.

Okay, Ruiz. Take a deep breath. You're a professional artist. Try improvising.

Ruiz imposes a critical artist's eye on his surroundings.
Yes, indeed, Ruiz is in a loft. And there were two other women staring at him her wide-eyed. Ruiz was never good with women. This will become a difficult situation where diplomatic sensitivity is required.

"Are you absolutely sure we didn't screw up the ritual, Nora?" the older woman asks.

Excellent, Ruiz didn't have to explain to the other people why she was standing here. (He just had to decide which goddamned pronoun to use in his thoughts.)

"Quite sure of it, Quinnie. Believe me, I hate nothing more than when an art project blows up," says the woman whose hair seems to change colour. She is flicking through a heavy volume, her eyes darting over the writing.

"Ah right here!" she turns to Ruiz, who had just sat down in the armchair for the time being until everything would have been cleared up, "How did you, Mr … Mr Duchamp pass away?"

"Which one? Theoretically, I have already died at least twice." To Ruiz's great delight, the voice of his current body was pleasantly deep and raspy for a woman. Matching his high and raspy one as a man.

"In this case: The first time please."

"With 'take shwoer 2 b cul'", and when the women failed to recognise his artwork, he added, "Through a shower of liquid nitrogen". (Ruiz had decided to give a shit about the correct pronoun and be whatever he wanted. He was in the 21st century.)

The young woman frowns and stares alternately at Ruiz and the Spell Book. "Technically, your body should be perfectly preserved in that case," she mumbles as she chews on her lip.

Her older colleague leans forward and taps on a line. They both look at each other and then at Ruiz, startled.

"What is it?", Ruiz wants to know. She leans forward in his new body. He didn't like the way the two of them were looking at her.

"You must be strong now, Mrs Duchamp. Your body could possibly have been a victim of body snatching."

Ruiz throws her arms in the air to express his following thoughts, forgetting that only he could hear his internal monologue.

FUCK. We're off to a good start again.

Then he repeats it so that the others could hear her exclamation.

"But who is interested in stealing my corpse anyway? I'm just in the middle of too unpopular and not annoying enough for someone to dig me up," Ruiz thinks aloud, "I'm also sure Pico isn't involved, considering what he usually does with the bodies."

His two new friends shrug. "We weren't, we can assure you of that."

"Good point: why did you resurrect me in the first place?"

The woman with the colourful hair blushes. "Well, I wanted to ask you personally for advice on a work of anart, to be honest."

"Can this wait until I catch my body snatcher?"

The young woman gives a thumbs up. "Sure, sounds more exciting than annoying Die Kritikerin."

Molly Stares Into The Void And The Void Goes Mad Cool War 2: Ruiz From Your Grave Ruiz Dies Again, Again
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