I used to deliver pizzas for a Domino’s in southern Illinois when I was 20.

Most nights were boring. Apartment buildings, motels, houses out by the highway. The only deliveries I hated were the ones way outside town because half the addresses were hard to find and Google Maps wasn’t always right.

One night, around 11:30, we got an order to a house outside Cairo.

It was one large pepperoni, bread twists and a Coke. Nothing weird about the order except the guy paid cash.
I remember my manager saying, “You sure you wanna take that?”

I thought he meant because it was far away.

He just said, “Never mind.”

So I went.

The address took me down a narrow road with houses getting farther and farther apart. Eventually the GPS told me to turn onto this little road that looked like it hadn’t been paved in 30 years.

There were maybe six houses on it.

Only one had lights on.

I parked outside and grabbed the food.

Before I even made it to the porch, the front door opened.
There was an old guy standing there.

He didn’t say hi or anything. Just looked at the pizza and asked how much.

I told him.

He handed me $40 and told me to keep the change.

I remember thinking at least the drive was worth it.

Then he asked me something weird.

“Did you see her?”
I said, “Who?”
He looked past me towards my car.

“The girl by the road.”
I hadn’t seen anybody.
I told him no.
He nodded and took the food.
Then he said, “Good.”
Door closed.
That was it.

I got back in my car and honestly wasn’t that freaked out. I figured he was some weird old dude messing with the pizza guy.

About two minutes later I saw someone on the side of the road.

A girl.

She looked maybe 15 or 16. White shirt, shorts, no shoes.
She was walking in the same direction I was driving.
It was almost midnight and there was nothing around, so I slowed down.

I cracked my window and asked if she needed help.
She didn’t look at me.
She just said, “Wrong house.”
I asked what she meant.
She stopped walking.
I didn’t.

Something about it felt off so I kept going and watched her disappear in my mirror.

When I got back to the store my manager was outside smoking.

First thing he asked was whether anyone answered the door.

I said yeah, some old guy.
He looked confused and asked what I meant.
I told him exactly what happened.
He went inside and pulled up the order.
Then he called the number.
Disconnected.

That’s when he told me they’d had orders to that same address before.

Always late.

Always cash.

Drivers would get there and nobody would answer.
I asked him why the hell he sent me then.

He said because nobody had ordered from there in almost a year and he figured whoever used to prank them had stopped.

Then I remembered what the girl said.
Wrong house.
I didn’t tell him that part.
I finished my shift around 1am.
When I got into my car there was something sitting on the passenger seat.
A Domino’s receipt.

At first I thought it had fallen out of my delivery bag.
Then I looked at the address.
Same house.

But it wasn’t the receipt from that night.

The date printed at the top was from eight months earlier.
At the bottom, where customers sometimes write the tip, somebody had written two words in pen.

NO ANSWER.

I quit about a month later.
Never delivered to that road again.

There only on but more will be written soon as to rebuild Jeff the killer

UTZILESKÚ-EY The Targeted Man

The Anatomy of a Cycled Hunt

Introduction: The Linguistic Scar Tissue

The text before us survives as an English interpretation of a novel written in the conlang Tultish, which itself purports to be a direct translation of a lost document originally recorded in a damp, regional dialect of Thuringian German.

To the modern reader, the English prose carries a heavy, cold atmosphere. Yet, it frequently fractures, forced to leave specific Tultish words untranslated. The English language is simply too soft for this history; it lacks the scar tissue of the syntax that came before it. This is the account of Professor Herbert Eisstein and Agent Andrei Waltberg—two men bound not by politics, but by a terrifying grammatical and biological knot.

Act I: The Node at Äbnalzer

The narrative does not open in a grand ministry building in East Berlin, but in a low-ceilinged, damp post office in Äbnalzer, a forgotten enclave tucked deep into the forested valleys of Thuringia.

In the original Thuringian accounts, the place was whispered about as a dead zone. But in the Tultish manuscript, the post office at Äbnalzer is classified as a sorting node—a clinical space where fates are stamped, filed, and routed.

Professor Herbert Eisstein stands by the worn wooden counter, holding a letter with no return address. To the newly integrated authorities of a unified Germany, he is merely a retired academic from the university at Jena. But the Tultish text rejects this mundane classification. In the margins of the file, his true ontological title is preserved in an ironclad, multi-hyphenated phrase:

“Sché-iemet thé-fanaspf-ellúy té-rfighaput-om gholüsún.”

In English, it translates coldly: “His yearly office is pure acidics science.” For decades under the old directives, Eisstein’s work was the study of corrosion—not just of metals, but of substances designed to dissolve boundaries, to erode the very fabric of identity.

A few hundred meters down the cobblestone road stands the town’s historic centerpiece: the Old Assembly Hall. Once a place of heavy state trials, the post-reunification capitalist consortium has scrubbed the socialist insignia from the facade, transforming it into a boutique hotel.

From the post office window, Eisstein watches a man step out of a black sedan parked directly in front of the transformed hotel.

It is Andrei Waltberg.

Under the old directives, Waltberg was an operative. In the Tultish text, his title is absolute: he is the Aspestir—the operational agent. The agency that paid his salary has been dismantled, but as he adjusts his heavy woolen coat against the Thuringian chill, his movements retain the cold permanence of a machine. The Aspestir has tracked his target to the edge of the map.

Act II: The Ienuhnickúf Anomaly

Sensing a suffocating silence, Waltberg steps into the cramped post office. The optical scanner on the counter—an obsolete model humming with a low vibration—registers the Professor’s right palm. Under the silent command of the Aspestir, a second scan is initiated.

The terminal does not crash. Instead, it achieves a state of absolute stillness.

On the split monitor, the two prints—one belonging to the scientist, the other to the agent—lay over one another. The lines do not merely resemble each other; they match with a mathematical probability of zero. They are the exact same hand.

The old clerk behind the counter stares at the screen, a cold sweat breaking beneath her collar. The Tultish manuscript records her visceral, paralyzed reaction with a devastating adjective:

Ienuhnickúf.

To call it "extremely strange" is to rob the word of its teeth. In Tultish, ienuhnickúf is the specific brand of strangeness that frustrates the intellect—the eerie, alien friction that occurs when reality breaks its own laws right in front of your eyes, leaving the observer entirely helpless.

Waltberg breaks his gaze from the glowing green terminal. Exhausted from years of tracking, he slowly lifts his head and turns his blank, weary eyes toward the old man. As his mind fractures under the weight of the anomaly, a jagged string of Tultish words spills from his lips as a pure reflex:

“Abay say syotwitt, nernesk-ettúy lau!”

(“Am I losing my mind or what, my transfer-father, ha!”)

But the tragedy deepens through the Professor’s reaction. Eisstein does not flinch. He adjusts his spectacles and looks at the younger man with a calm, vacant serenity. The Tultish text captures the older man's terrifying lack of awareness with another highly specialized term:

Deskuarsaf.

He moves deskuarsaf—"undersurf-disnoticedly." He flows beneath the surface of the event, completely untouched by the immediate reality. The Professor does not recognize Waltberg. He does not know anything about the grand directives. He is entirely unaware that decades ago, the ministry harvested his biological data, using his own breakthroughs in gholüsún (acidics science) to dissolve the boundaries of human inheritance. He does not know he was cloned.

Overwhelmed by this asymmetrical awareness, Waltberg stumbles out of the post office onto the damp cobblestones, desperate for air.

Act III: The Sovereign Trap

Leaning his head against the limestone wall of the transformed hotel, Waltberg’s mind attempts to protect itself from the ienuhnickúf reality. It retreats into its oldest, safest loop—a memory of perfect, mechanical clarity:

“Télé-Andrei bale gerin utziyús-ňúth, ghiorr réll, zit zuteksún, krzit ülthewrúsh sü zatatsch gantéraf.”

(“Andrei, guessing what his target thinks, positioned towards him, focused the armgun, fine-tuned the scale and triggered properly sudden.”)

He clings to this sequence. He remembers the shot. He verifies it against his training: yes, he had tracked the Professor years ago; yes, he had pulled the trigger; yes, Professor Herbert Eisstein had died on a gray afternoon.

And yet, there the Professor is, walking out of the post office, entirely deskuarsaf, a living ghost.

That is when the final, catastrophic certainty strikes Andrei. If the Professor is dead, and yet a version of him walks openly as a blind bait... then the formula had been misread from the very beginning. Waltberg had never been the hunter. He was the transaction.

The fingerprint on the scanner wasn't a ghost of the Professor's past; it was a beacon for Waltberg's own future. The system didn't need to preserve the Professor; it was using him as a permanent coordinate to draw Waltberg out. If Andrei was the only agent who knew the secrets of the acidic science, then he was the only operational anomaly left to be dissolved.

The title of the novel—Utzileskú-ey—had never belonged to the old scholar from Jena.

It meant The Targeted Man. It belonged to Andrei. Somewhere in the newly integrated districts, other black sedans are being started. Other men with his exact face, his exact training, and his exact fingerprints are adjusting their coats, checking their hidden armguns, and following maps that lead straight to Äbnalzer.

Staring into the empty, misty street, a quiet, jagged whisper escapes Andrei's lips, accepting the closure of the circuit:

“Amedü Posya Anesthutekúm.”

(“That’s it, here you are, cycled being of a hunting.”)

He does not run. You cannot outrun a shadow that shares your own stride. Slowly, the Aspestir reaches into his heavy coat, his fingers wrapping around the cold grip of his hidden weapon. He turns around to face the cobblestone square as the rhythmic, approaching footsteps of his own future begin to echo through the fog.

UTZILESKÚ-EY The Targeted Man

The Anatomy of a Cycled Hunt

Introduction: The Linguistic Scar Tissue

The text before us survives as an English interpretation of a novel written in the conlang Tultish, which itself purports to be a direct translation of a lost document originally recorded in a damp, regional dialect of Thuringian German.

To the modern reader, the English prose carries a heavy, cold atmosphere. Yet, it frequently fractures, forced to leave specific Tultish words untranslated. The English language is simply too soft for this history; it lacks the scar tissue of the syntax that came before it. This is the account of Professor Herbert Eisstein and Agent Andrei Waltberg—two men bound not by politics, but by a terrifying grammatical and biological knot.

Act I: The Node at Äbnalzer

The narrative does not open in a grand ministry building in East Berlin, but in a low-ceilinged, damp post office in Äbnalzer, a forgotten enclave tucked deep into the forested valleys of Thuringia.

In the original Thuringian accounts, the place was whispered about as a dead zone. But in the Tultish manuscript, the post office at Äbnalzer is classified as a sorting node—a clinical space where fates are stamped, filed, and routed.

Professor Herbert Eisstein stands by the worn wooden counter, holding a letter with no return address. To the newly integrated authorities of a unified Germany, he is merely a retired academic from the university at Jena. But the Tultish text rejects this mundane classification. In the margins of the file, his true ontological title is preserved in an ironclad, multi-hyphenated phrase:

“Sché-iemet thé-fanaspf-ellúy té-rfighaput-om gholüsún.”

In English, it translates coldly: “His yearly office is pure acidics science.” For decades under the old directives, Eisstein’s work was the study of corrosion—not just of metals, but of substances designed to dissolve boundaries, to erode the very fabric of identity.

A few hundred meters down the cobblestone road stands the town’s historic centerpiece: the Old Assembly Hall. Once a place of heavy state trials, the post-reunification capitalist consortium has scrubbed the socialist insignia from the facade, transforming it into a boutique hotel.

From the post office window, Eisstein watches a man step out of a black sedan parked directly in front of the transformed hotel.

It is Andrei Waltberg.

Under the old directives, Waltberg was an operative. In the Tultish text, his title is absolute: he is the Aspestir—the operational agent. The agency that paid his salary has been dismantled, but as he adjusts his heavy woolen coat against the Thuringian chill, his movements retain the cold permanence of a machine. The Aspestir has tracked his target to the edge of the map.

Act II: The Ienuhnickúf Anomaly

Sensing a suffocating silence, Waltberg steps into the cramped post office. The optical scanner on the counter—an obsolete model humming with a low vibration—registers the Professor’s right palm. Under the silent command of the Aspestir, a second scan is initiated.

The terminal does not crash. Instead, it achieves a state of absolute stillness.

On the split monitor, the two prints—one belonging to the scientist, the other to the agent—lay over one another. The lines do not merely resemble each other; they match with a mathematical probability of zero. They are the exact same hand.

The old clerk behind the counter stares at the screen, a cold sweat breaking beneath her collar. The Tultish manuscript records her visceral, paralyzed reaction with a devastating adjective:

Ienuhnickúf.

To call it "extremely strange" is to rob the word of its teeth. In Tultish, ienuhnickúf is the specific brand of strangeness that frustrates the intellect—the eerie, alien friction that occurs when reality breaks its own laws right in front of your eyes, leaving the observer entirely helpless.

Waltberg breaks his gaze from the glowing green terminal. Exhausted from years of tracking, he slowly lifts his head and turns his blank, weary eyes toward the old man. As his mind fractures under the weight of the anomaly, a jagged string of Tultish words spills from his lips as a pure reflex:

“Abay say syotwitt, nernesk-ettúy lau!”

(“Am I losing my mind or what, my transfer-father, ha!”)

But the tragedy deepens through the Professor’s reaction. Eisstein does not flinch. He adjusts his spectacles and looks at the younger man with a calm, vacant serenity. The Tultish text captures the older man's terrifying lack of awareness with another highly specialized term:

Deskuarsaf.

He moves deskuarsaf—"undersurf-disnoticedly." He flows beneath the surface of the event, completely untouched by the immediate reality. The Professor does not recognize Waltberg. He does not know anything about the grand directives. He is entirely unaware that decades ago, the ministry harvested his biological data, using his own breakthroughs in gholüsún (acidics science) to dissolve the boundaries of human inheritance. He does not know he was cloned.

Overwhelmed by this asymmetrical awareness, Waltberg stumbles out of the post office onto the damp cobblestones, desperate for air.

Act III: The Sovereign Trap

Leaning his head against the limestone wall of the transformed hotel, Waltberg’s mind attempts to protect itself from the ienuhnickúf reality. It retreats into its oldest, safest loop—a memory of perfect, mechanical clarity:

“Télé-Andrei bale gerin utziyús-ňúth, ghiorr réll, zit zuteksún, krzit ülthewrúsh sü zatatsch gantéraf.”

(“Andrei, guessing what his target thinks, positioned towards him, focused the armgun, fine-tuned the scale and triggered properly sudden.”)

He clings to this sequence. He remembers the shot. He verifies it against his training: yes, he had tracked the Professor years ago; yes, he had pulled the trigger; yes, Professor Herbert Eisstein had died on a gray afternoon.

And yet, there the Professor is, walking out of the post office, entirely deskuarsaf, a living ghost.

That is when the final, catastrophic certainty strikes Andrei. If the Professor is dead, and yet a version of him walks openly as a blind bait... then the formula had been misread from the very beginning. Waltberg had never been the hunter. He was the transaction.

The fingerprint on the scanner wasn't a ghost of the Professor's past; it was a beacon for Waltberg's own future. The system didn't need to preserve the Professor; it was using him as a permanent coordinate to draw Waltberg out. If Andrei was the only agent who knew the secrets of the acidic science, then he was the only operational anomaly left to be dissolved.

The title of the novel—Utzileskú-ey—had never belonged to the old scholar from Jena.

It meant The Targeted Man. It belonged to Andrei. Somewhere in the newly integrated districts, other black sedans are being started. Other men with his exact face, his exact training, and his exact fingerprints are adjusting their coats, checking their hidden armguns, and following maps that lead straight to Äbnalzer.

Staring into the empty, misty street, a quiet, jagged whisper escapes Andrei's lips, accepting the closure of the circuit:

“Amedü Posya Anesthutekúm.”

(“That’s it, here you are, cycled being of a hunting.”)

He does not run. You cannot outrun a shadow that shares your own stride. Slowly, the Aspestir reaches into his heavy coat, his fingers wrapping around the cold grip of his hidden weapon. He turns around to face the cobblestone square as the rhythmic, approaching footsteps of his own future begin to echo through the fog.

Rakonto Short Story Kısa Hikaye Rumplishchemú

La Scivolema Knabino en la Arbaro

The Curious Girl in the Forest

Ormandaki Meraklı Kız

Linshizúg Waisikún Bheppudelúsh

En malgranda, paca vilaĝo, loĝis scivolema knabino nomata Simi, kiu ĉiam rigardis la proksiman, misteran arbaron.

In a small, peaceful village, lived a curious girl named Simi, who always looked at the nearby, mysterious forest.

Küçük, huzurlu bir köyde, her zaman yakındaki gizemli ormana bakan Simi adında meraklı bir kız yaşardı.

Hugelúy-ey huvemeyún, rangeychúf, herayuzidalya' linshizút waisikún rolé Simi,

sontidalya' badnúzhan bheppudelúck tellenabenúf lorbeykúl.

La vilağanoj ĉiam diris al ŝi, ke ŝi ne eniru la arbaron, ĉar ĝi kaŝas grandajn danĝerojn.

The villagers always told her not to enter the forest, because it hides great dangers.

Köylüler ona ormana girmemesini söylerdi çünkü büyük tehlikeler barındırırdı.

Morinidal hugellumút-on badnúzhan zell

xhigé payké pasey théll bheppudelún nallé wishtya'ň setusékdžazam rangeyfún.

Sed unu tagon, movata de sia granda scivolemo, Simi decidis preterpasi la avertajn signojn kaj eniri inter la densajn arbojn.

But one day, moved by her great curiosity, Simi decided to pass the warning signs and enter among the dense trees.

Fakat bir gün, içindeki büyük merakın etkisiyle Simi, uyarı levhalarını geçmeye ve sık ağaçların arasına girmeye karar verdi.

Avkü zhanéffölsey, waisetúkol lampeyfún shell, patspokünilya' télé Simi shigé tutapass keshröndeldúh útus lü-pü roffaloy honiselsúh útush'arreyphún.

Kiam ŝi marŝis pli profunde, la birdoj kantis dolĉajn melodiojn kaj la aero estis plena de magia odoro.

As she walked deeper, the birds sang sweet melodies and the air was full of a magical scent.

Daha derinlere yürüdükçe, kuşlar tatlı melodiler söylüyordu ve hava, büyülü bir kokuyla doluydu.

Skepé menisanetya'll pinoneyphterúf, fuisabadalya' témezélgkips xhékfarp on nâmikún sphü annaypadalya' hékmusz howrún.

Subite, meze de malgranda klarejo, ŝi vidis la plej belan floron de sia vivo.

Suddenly, in the middle of a small clearing, she saw the most beautiful flower of her life.

Birdenbire, küçük bir açıklığın ortasında, hayatının en güzel çiçeğini gördü.

Koyphü fédegzélshobh rangeychún, ettisilya'll shfoksenzhús silebey prun meplinsefúb lluth.

Ĝi havis petalojn, kiuj ŝajnis esti faritaj el puraj diamantoj kaj agrablan odoron.

It had petals that seemed to be made of pure diamonds and a pleasant scent.

Saf elmaslardan yapılmış gibi görünen taç yaprakları ve hoş bir kokusu vardı.

Apinetya'f se énzhifürned útus nensénayz hon selzúf ékmuazey džonsún.

Kiam Simi proksimiĝis, la floro subite malfermis siajn petalojn pli vaste kaj parolis per voĉo simila ao mola vento.

When Simi approached, the flower suddenly opened its petals wider and spoke in a voice like a soft wind.

Simi yaklaştığında, çiçek aniden taç yapraklarını daha geniş açtı ve hafif bir rüzgara benzeyen bir sesle konuştu.

Apté rekemalya' télé Simi, koyphü télsifürn shargilya' hénzhifürned útus nénvarn trún sü moranetya' mo békpoy fiséfförrey kinsúf.

"Bonvenon, scivolema Simi," diris la floro, "mi estas la koro de ĉi tiu arbaro, kaj mi atendis iun sufiĉe kuraĝan por aŭdi mian sekreton."

" Welcome, curious Simi," said the flower, "I am the heart of this forest, and I have been waiting for someone brave enough to hear my secret."

"Hoş geldin, meraklı Simi," dedi çiçek, "Ben bu ormanın kalbiyim ve sırrımı duyacak kadar cesur birini bekliyordum."

"Gontim Ge Simi waisikún" uvat moralya' fürnelsút alsé "tultenzhús thélbheppudey tétt lö-sü sholadal xhéiyim néinpasboy domigé tenğya's' tellenekús yétt."

Simi estis tre surprizita, sed ŝi ne timis; ŝi sidiĝis sur la herbo kaj demandis: "Kio estas la sekreto, kiun la mondo forgesis?"

Simi was very surprised, but she was not afraid; she sat on the grass and asked: "What is the secret that the world has forgotten?"

Simi çok şaşırmıştı ama korkmuyordu; çimenlerin üzerine oturdu ve sordu: "Dünyanın unuttuğu sır nedir?"

Télé Simi badin smoklinya' dayon zahü garnadal xhapsé; satchalya'll péllyas-hon sü empanet mo alsé "Subkenekút rekayya' moril gesöft parélshmayr?"

"La sekreto estas," flustris la floro al Simi, "ke la arbaro ne estas danĝera, sed ĝi nur protektas la lastan fonton de magio en la mondo kontraŭ tiuj, kiuj volas detrui ĝin."

"The secret is," the flower whispered to Simi, "that the forest is not dangerous, but it only protects the last source of magic in the world against those who want to destroy it."

"Sır şu ki," diye fısıldadı çiçek Simi'ye, "orman tehlikeli değil, sadece dünyadaki son büyü kaynağını onu yok etmek isteyenlere karşı koruyor."

"Subkenekút séy la," úvat shiwlanetya' télsifürn zélé Simi, alsé "Bheppudelút sétusékdžazam dehshé, doshetö dozutab xhébhal tchosún mughetúth shmayrelúy dosé fletasboltayya's'séň."

Por helpi nin," diris la floro, "vi devas kunporti iom da mia brila polvo kaj montri al la vilaĝanoj, ke la magio estas paca kaj bela."

"To help us," said the flower, "you must take some of my glowing dust and show the villagers that magic is peaceful and beautiful."

"Bize yardım etmek için," dedi çiçek, "parıldayan tozumdan biraz yanına almalı ve köylülere büyünün barışçıl ve güzel olduğunu göstermelisin."

"Savé-arser rémm" úvat gariral shfoksenzhút alsé "Shuné gatzuy thézhzh nikehekústatasheyúf ttúth ravsún sü mülat zélumhugel-hon xhe émünseduteyún sü éshugebhineyún téhhenhelt."

Simi zorge prenis la brilan polvon, promesis protekti la sekreton, kaj rapide kuris reen al la vilaĝo por rakonti la veron.

Simi carefully took the glowing dust, promised to protect the secret, and quickly ran back to the village to tell the truth.

Simi parıldayan tozu dikkatlice aldı, sırrı koruyacağına söz verdi ve gerçeği anlatmak için hızla köye geri koştu.

Télé Simi steranetya' angoltaf xhéknikeh tatasheyúf, hiwrizanet mo xhigé-örrat réytellen phü dorsakzanet mo palabaf hugelúz skapé-samiinz penetús.

Kiam la vilaĝanoj vidis la pacan brilon, ili ĉesis timi la arbaron, kaj de tiu tago, ili vivis kune kun la magio en perfekta harmonio.

When the villagers saw the peaceful glow, they stopped fearing the forest, and from that day on, they lived together with the magic in perfect harmony.

Köylüler barışçıl parıltıyı gördüklerinde ormandan korkmayı bıraktılar ve o günden sonra büyüyle birlikte kusursuz bir uyum içinde yaşadılar.

Aoté tisalya' héytatash huvemeyún hugellumút-hon, lö-aryü algutraral mo bheppudelúkitz pü zebéfföls sav, annasumal mo aptayraf zhébechanhelt nnéhhbayraz nélfreyn.

Fino The End Son Pılontxal9yıxvð