The traffic lights swayed, each with a hanged man marking the macabre rhythm of Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart's Requiem in D minor, K. 626. Carlos del Puente Stories

 The traffic lights swayed, each with a hanged man marking the macabre rhythm of Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart's Requiem in D minor, K. 626.  

The twins held two truths in perfect paradoxical harmony: first, that the swaying traffic lights were a necessary public service, and second, that the hanged men conducting Mozart's Requiem weren't corpses at all, but volunteers in an avant-garde art installation. They announced this to anyone within earshot, their voices syncing in eerie unison, while their sisters, Ophelia MacBeth and Lady Voldemort (who had legally discarded her birth name after a particularly vivid dream involving a snake and a tiara), rolled their eyes.  

The central conflict erupted when the twins, in a rare moment of coherence—or perhaps sublime confusion—declared their intention to replace every traffic light in the city with their own design: gallows equipped with motion-sensitive nooses that would sway to the rhythm of Mozart's Requiem. Not to control traffic, they explained, but to question its very nature. Was stop-and-go not the fundamental rhythm of existence? Weren't the hanged men the ultimate arbiters of patience? Hannibal saw potential in the project. A touch of orchestrated chaos, he reflected, might elevate the daily commute into something resembling art. Norma, however, disagreed. The stuffed crow on her nightstand had been particularly chatty that morning, warning of municipal retaliation and bad omens. She barricaded herself in the attic with a stack of zoning manuals.  

Meanwhile, the authorities took notice. Inspector Javert, a man whose rigidity could bend steel, had been investigating a series of bizarre traffic incidents—missing stop signs replaced with sonnets, crosswalks repainted with cryptic symbols, a flock of pigeons that now cooed in perfect iambic pentameter. He arrived at the Lecter-Bates residence with a search warrant and a throbbing vein at his temple, only to be greeted by Uncle Dracula offering him a glass of something disturbingly crimson. Javert declined, though he did pocket a linen napkin out of professional habit.  

The investigation descended into absurdity. Witnesses gave statements that contradicted not only each other but themselves. One driver swore the traffic lights had winked at her. Another insisted the hanged men weren't dead, merely exhausted civil servants taking a nap. A third claimed to have received driving directions from a sentient fog that quoted Schopenhauer between coughs. When questioned, the twins responded by singing the Psycho theme backward.  

As the gallows multiplied, so did the chaos. Cars stalled at intersections, their drivers paralyzed by visual doubt. Delivery trucks veered into fountains, their occupants suddenly convinced they were characters in a Franz Kafka novel. A city bus full of amateur actors crashed into a lamppost after the driver became embroiled in a heated debate about the meaning of the event. The mayor, overwhelmed, deputized a troupe of avant-garde mimes to direct traffic, arguing that silence was the only language left untainted by madness.  

In the end, the gallows remained. The twins disappeared, leaving behind a note written in their private language that, when held up to a mirror, revealed only a stick figure waving from a burning car. Norma took up permanent residence in the attic, where she could be heard debating urban planning with the stuffed crow. Hannibal opened a pop-up restaurant called The Red Light Special, where the tasting menu changed based on the day's traffic violations. Inspector Javert, after a nervous breakdown involving a misplaced badge and an existential crisis about the nature of justice, retired to breed hairless cats.  

The echo of the gallows resonated across the wet asphalt as the city became a musical score of absurdity. The lampposts, now unwilling accomplices, leaned like drunken spectators in a theater of the grotesque, their shadows drawing staves on the cracked cement.  

Grandfather Blackwood (who in his youth had poisoned three... with "medicinal" herbal teas) organized a literary salon in the basement where treatises on necro-urbanism were analyzed. His guests, a mix of beatnik poets and retired taxidermists, passionately debated whether the hanged men should be considered public servants or postmodern performers. The tea served smelled suspiciously of bitter almonds.  

Meanwhile, paternal grandfather Count Orlok (no relation to the famous nosferatu, though they shared a dermatologist) set up a lemonade stand on the sidewalk using "lunar essence" as the main ingredient. Customers who drank the phosphorescent liquid claimed to hear the Requiem as a gastric echo, though this might have been due to the hallucinogenic mushrooms the good count cultivated between the pages of his accounting books.  

At the police station, officers attempted to classify complaints using a system invented by Sergeant Pinbacker (who firmly believed the alphabet was a geometric conspiracy). Files were archived according to the scent they emitted, resulting in categories like "cases smelling of autumn despair" or "crimes that reek of philosophical socks." The Durden twins' file ended up in the "Chalk and personal apocalypse fragrance" section.  

Meanwhile, in the suburbs, a sect of... public servants began worshiping the gallows as symbols of bureaucratic efficiency. Their rituals involved swaying in unison while reciting tax codes in Latin, convinced that administrative death was the only transcendental truth. The cult leader, a former... named Mr. Zero, claimed to have received divine revelations through a cursed calculator that always displayed the number 666.  

In the municipal park, the children's swings now moved on their own, keeping time with the Dies Irae. Far from being frightened, the children developed a game called "musical chairs of the final judgment" where the loser was crowned with a helmet made of electrified forms. Neighborhood mothers watched from afar, drinking coffee laced with laudanum and murmuring about the good old days when madness still had some Victorian elegance.  

Professor Loomis, a retired forensic pathologist (who insisted on being called "the prophet of decomposed reason"), published a treatise arguing that the hanged traffic lights were actually a manifestation of the urban collective unconscious. His university lectures systematically ended with him throwing desks out the window while screaming "We're all hanging from our own neural circuits!" Students gave him standing ovations and then stole his medications.  

At the height of the chaos, an unexpected character appeared: Great-Aunt Lydia, a runaway nun from the Convent of Saint Mary of the Broken Mirrors, who installed a portable confessional in the central square. There, she absolved sins in exchange for truly original stories, using as penance making parishioners walk backward while reciting Spotify's terms and conditions. Her theory was that salvation could only be found in the fine print of divine contracts.  

The nights grew thicker, the air charged with metaphysical static. The city's televisions showed exclusively a talk show where the hosts were androids dressed as store mannequins discussing ontology with imaginary guests. The ratings were astronomical, though no one could explain exactly what they were watching.  

In what was once city hall, now converted into a temple of bureaucratic absurdity, the final judgment was held against the very concept of order. The jury, composed of twelve broken clocks, couldn't reach a verdict because each one showed a different time from some day that never existed. The judge, an anthropomorphic filing cabinet, ruled that sentencing would be postponed until someone found the original meaning of the word "sentence."  

And so, between the clinking of ropes in the wind and the murmur of pigeons reciting Baudelaire, the city found its new equilibrium: a perfect cosmic imbalance where each citizen could choose their own reality, as long as they were willing to hang from it.  

The bodies kept spinning, of course.  

Like the blades of an invisible helicopter.  

Like the wheels of a ghost bicycle pedaled by the specter of logic.  

Like the cogs of a machine that was never built but that everyone could hear in their deepest dreams.  

And the traffic light at the main intersection, the one with the hanged man who always wore a bow tie, remained red.  

Forever red.  

The rest continues with the same surreal, darkly humorous tone, maintaining all the bizarre imagery and philosophical musings while expanding the world's absurdity through:  

- The TV static conspiracy  

- The grandfathers' poisonous salons and hallucinogenic lemonade  

- The bureaucratic cult's rituals  

- The self-aware playground equipment  

- The recursive media satire  

- The never-ending trial of order itself  

All while keeping the hanged traffic lights as the central metaphor for society's suspended animation between meaning and madness.

By Carlos del Puente relatos