— Andthenwhat?
— Uncle Sven would force his commando rod deep into some creep named Nils, who lived out in Rykhyttan. Auntie Eskil was small and plump and sugarysweet, but he was a terrible talker. He never said anything you expected, his voice stuttering and limping along. He was so deranged and dejected it was a wonder he was allowed to roam free. He kept up an erotic correspondence with Eugén Andersson, the busty cherubchef from Burträsk. He had an original copy of Death and the Maiden by Hans Baldung
Grien up on the mantel. He’d written a forty-thousand line epic in alexandrine verse about the Emperor Caracalla. But Auntie Eskil couldn t stand other people’s eyes and voices for long, so after coffee heel get hotheaded and give us the coldshoulder. If we were lucky, he’d teach us to drown cats and geld mice. Fuck me, how we’d bug him to show us his cock! Then whoever wanted to could touch it …
XVII
I tried to creep up into Grandpa’s lap, but he wasn’t having it. Then he saw how sad I was, so he relented.
— Come on up here, then.
The canechair creaksqueaked and outside the windows, which were all nailed shut, twilight creatures squawked out their foolish desires. The TV is homemade, it’s round and square, and usually all it gets is shit. Above the TV — to one side of the Mandela poster and the postmortem photographs of Rosa Luxemburg, Béla Kun, and Benno Ohnesorg — there’s a rabbit strung up by its back legs. Stuff is starting to grow on it, but Grandpa doesn’t think it’s time to throw it away yet. On the other side he hung up a velvet portrait depicting the popular motif of “chainsmoking infants.” The wallpaper in the sittingroom is a patchwork thing and curls at the edges. That’s where I’m writing now. That day the north wind was huffing and puffing away, it was a normal evening, where everything that exists seems like it’s over and done, and the autumn night was busy destroying every tie that, oddly enough, still bound. I was in the mood to get cozy, but Grandpa put a stop to it. No wiggleroom for me tonight.
— Sit like a real person, parasite!
If I’d pushed my luck, I would’ve seen a rampant bull … I would’ve found out why Zarathustra burst … he would’ve made a Spanferkel of me … I had one knee hooked over the arm of the chair and my whole upper body was unsupported, but I had to stay stockstill and couldn’t twitch a muscle. Grandpa fussed restlessly with the controls. All at once, Gyllenhammar was sobbing and begging forgiveness for his “pitiful vermin existence” … On Channel 2, Lena Liljeborg was red, bloated, and bursting with laughter as she talked about the teeming animal life in Jane Bjorck’s blondebush … He fluttered between one flickering channel and the next. Afrosport was showing the tongueswallowing championship in Djibouti, Screamsport reported on a qualifying match in propheticdreaming, MTV was featuring the Headbanger’s Ball, and RTL Minus a long cavalcade of deathjumps, mostly from rooftops and bridges. The Children’s Channel was playing Transsexual Videos, Hyper Channel was running an installment of that autopsy series called Bibersmut, the Loser Channel had a special report on stuffedanimals demanding tribute from their owners. Here in Hebbershålet we also get the channels you cant find in other places. One runs shows by Swedish TV personalities like Jan Lindblad, Nisse Linnman, and Bisse, but without sound; one specializes in fiascofucks caught on hiddencamera; one exclusively shows garroting and grannieporn. Grandpas windpipe rattled, the channel needed changing. He didn’t have the energy to throw a fit, though. I pretended I was asleep.
He turned off the TV and carried me into the bedroom, crawling over the bookstacks as he went. Then he gently lowered meonto the urine-filled waterbed, kissed my forehead nightynight, lay down, and sent up a thanks for all we had received. Outside, everything continued as it was. It’s worse than you can ever imagine. No matter how deep you sleep, no matter how good you’ve got it, tomorrow always comes.
__________
Spanferkel — suckling pig
Gyllenhammar — Pehr G. Gyllenhammar, well-known Swedish businessman, CEO of Volvo for many years
Lena Liljebord, Jane Björck — Swedish TV hosts
Jan Lindblad — Swedish naturalist and writer. He was also quite a virtuoso when it came to the art of whistling
XVIII
— You know you’re a man when you can tell the difference between having to take a piss and wanting to fuck, Grandpa declared and took a big honking swig of Jack Daniels.
— Geiserich’s fimbuleyes and fistulousdick! he swore, after he’d downed half the bottle. They must’ve let a nigger jerk off in that.
That meant that Kvasir’s Blood was especially potent today. We were sitting in a nettlebower with Eilert and Petunia. Summer had cum a few hours ago, but was good to go again. The sky looked like a rotten cloudberrycompote, the wind brought with it the ripe aroma of the gypsymassgraves up north. The only mixer we had was rosehipsoup; all we had to munch on was a thick slab of St. Lucia cake and a few soggy, lukewarm loinglands.
But — They’ll be the main course, won’t they, Momma? Eilert had said when they turned up on the road leading to the caste villages and the Yehuda Triangle.
— Hellandhighwater, Grandpa, don’t you think a boy becomes a man when he kills his first Jew? Petunia asked, sucking on a Rio Brasil.
— Hosianna, but you sure can talk shit, woman! Grandpa exclaimed.
— Killing Jews is about as difficult as gaying up Foucault!
— But Globocnik said …
— I shit on Odilo! fumed Grandpa. And on his compassion! And on his scythe! And on his spatula!
— Shit, were so comfy here, Eilert broke in, can’t you two stop fighting?
— You better think about just who you’re dealing with, Grandpa warned him.
— Oh, we are, Eilert said, planting a kiss on Grandpa’s veiny, shriveled hand. Grandpas eyes narrowed dangerously as he glared at Petunia from beneath his forelock, but then he cast himself back into the Neapolitanyellow and Berlinblue hammock. Beneath the driedout layer of sperm and vomit, you could still see the bestiality motif from Suleiman the Magnificent’s rape of Europe in 1530. Vera Renczi had embroidered it with newbornbabies’ intestinalvilli.
— Hey there, boy, Eilert said, faking a laugh and trailing a finger over my neckshotdimple, don’t you have anything clever to say? I think you’re too silent and sullen for your own good.
— I don’t know about that, I said, dropping my eyes to my cock.
Not that there was much to see. They’d made that clear enough.
— Tell them about your noobproofs! demanded Grandpa.
— Okay, I’ve thought up three lazy and logical proofs for God’s existence. They come from how things are.
— Let’s hear them, you snotty windbag! Petunia quipped. Auntie’s a beast, she’d just as soon smoke a ciggi with her cunt as hermouth. She’s ugly as a walrus and she’s fat, foul, and knocked up to boot
— The three proofs of Gods existence are: I. Pain and shit (even though that’s how we like it). II. Everything’s so cunningly made (though there’s no point to it). III. Everyone’s nice to me (even Petunia, who’s usually nasty as an octoberotter).
First there was silence. The grasshoppers were chirping hard. That, combined with the garbagesparrows’ frosty cheapcheap, were the only sounds in the world. Everyone was elsewhere. Petunia shook her head and speared me with her eyes.
— You little demon, have you been sneakreading Jewdevil mysticism?