I'm simply tired. I have no power to deal with these kinds of things. I’m of a certain age now, and after all this time in the same job, I’ve come to the conclusion that what is enough – is enough. I'm Baton Nightstick, and I resign today. 

I know when one has done the same job for a long time, as I did, a point comes when it all becomes routine. Same as walking, brushing your teeth, or arguing with your wife.

Don’t misunderstand me. There have been adventures. There were moments of pure adrenaline. Oh, how many heads I’ve broken, how many brains I’ve scattered across the asphalt, how many backs I’ve soften... Oh, those days of my youth, when I indiscriminately beat up factory workers and teachers, peasants and students, merchants and doctors...

I remember when I was still a new and unused stick. I had just left the factory, and they still hadn’t had time to remove my plastic wrap, when I urgently had to serve the regime.

I remember the veterans of that era, almost all were made of wood. They all had chipped paint from all the use, and splinters that were shooting out from the sides. I still remember how they looked at me with disdain and incredibility. As you can imagine, rubber sticks were still a novelty at that time. Maybe my shininess made them doubt my abilities, or maybe it was the smoothness and the softness of my rubber body; it doesn’t matter.

If only you were there during my first assignment, and if you saw the expressions of those old wooden sticks. Their bodies broke when they hit the backs and heads of the crowd, they watched me dancing in my flexibility, while I hammered the protesters one by one.

Since that first action, I was the first in line to hit the terrorists that were sitting cross-legged and raising two fingers. I was the one who made those irredentist students scatter with their red flags. I was the first to discover the most efficient way to stage an accident of breaking someone’s teeth. I was also the one who perfected the manner of beating up someone without leaving any marks on the body (maybe this is general knowledge now, but at that time not everyone knew that the best way to beat one to death, without leaving any trace, is to hit the “fatty” parts).

You have no idea how many happy times I’ve had in my career. I remember my relationship with my close colleague: the plastic shield. While she absorbed the hits from the eggs, yogurt, and stones, I spilled brains and shed blood. We were inseparable together, always in the front line. When the whole group got together, with the helmet and the tear gas, and sometimes with the pistol and the rifle, then we became unstoppable.

We’ve spent such a good time serving the regime. And for me to complain at this age is like "biting the hand that feeds me." But to tell you the truth, I'm tired of softening Albanian backs, braking Albanian bones, and scattering Albanian brains and teeth. Even at this age I maintain the same elasticity I had the first day when I was still wrapped in a plastic bag. But my color has changed now, having been washed throughout the years in Albanian blood. My body is no longer smooth as it was in the beginning, and it has become "lumpy" from all those Albanian limbs that I’ve broken.

This is not a great philosophy. As they say: "if a person eats meatballs all his life, he’ll crave burek sometimes!" I'm tired of beating Albanians. What is enough – is enough. I'm Baton Nightstick. And I resign today.

Editor's Note: Vetevendosje will protest again tomorrow in Merdare and Dheu i Bardhe.

The article was originally written in Albanian.  

Illustration (thumbnail): Banksy
Illustration: Quinn Anya

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