Senor Dahlgren set the table and Grandpa blessed our meal.
— Hold up, boy, you’re like a magpie over entrails, Hilding yelped, when he saw my mouth start to water.
— Big eyes, small gullet, Grandpa said sarcastically and rammed a fork into the roof of my mouth.
— The eyes say yes, the shithole no, Hilding declared, joining the fun.
Grandpa went at it like he was starving, but Hildings rotten piehole played it delicate.
— I have to take it slow, he admitted shamefully. Back in the day, oldfarts didn’t even have the heart to eat when food was actually plentiful. They’d have rather seen it go bad.
— The higher and mightier you get, the harder you fall, Grandpa chirped and wiped his mouth with the same rag Hilding’s guests used to dry their diarreacunts. You got anything stronger than this damned babypiss? he snorted, sending Hilding back to the pile of bottles.
— How about a schnapps, you old devil, Hilding coughed, wrapping a shitsmeared fist around his limp cock. Landrucognac, Kürtenvodka, and Druittgin!
— What the fuck? Have you gotten yourself saved? Grandpa asked in astonishment.
— Yessiree.
— God’s a man with marrow in his bones and sunshine in his eyes, Grandpa testified. He’s got bad breath, worse skin, superior manners, a delicate voice, and glasses. He’s ugly in a cute way, insanely funny, and pretty old for his age.
— Half of what you say excites me, the other half scares me, Hilding said, sweettalking his guest.
— You choking up, you old codger? Grandpa asked and mixed himself a misogynistdrink. We’re sworn bloodbrothers, remember? How about that time we spread ourselves open for Tore Hedin?
— I remember it well, Grandpa, and I bet you remember how pretty I was back then!
— You were sweet as a dead girl, Grandpa lied sourly and sipped at his drink.
— Right you are, Hilding proudly declared, smearing his infected ballsack with a salve of mashed pissants. But Tore Hedin was a real wackjob, he continued. He wanted me to do stupid, perverse stuff to his junk, so I put a stop to it.
— Tore was a queer one, easy to piss off, Grandpa reminisced.
— But when he hooked up with that old cow, that was just too much. But apples and oranges, different strokes and all that, he nodded sagaciously, inflated by his own wisdom. Then his tone turned maudlin. I told my boy, though, that no matter what life throws at you, don’t you take up with any girlypigs, because by Satan that’ll be the death of me!
— Too fucking perverted! Not a word more! shrieked Hilding in drunken terror, covering his ratgnawed earflaps with shaking hands.
Grandpa took him on his knee, hushing and cooing until everything was good again. Hilding crawled across the compostfloor and took a swig of something or other.
— Too bad daddy’s not alive today, he flung out. He was so fucking horny he brought home the village idiot. And one time he fucked Palo Spanish-style and pretended she was a he.
— Old Hilding was too much, chuckled Grandpa in nostalgic appreciation. “How long, how wide?” he nagged like the devil’s own idiot. He was like a broken record: your member should be short, thin, white, knotty, and supple, that’s what he’d say every time someone admired his own huge, redeyed donkeyballs.
— Papa’s back was always straight as a board, Hilding said, plopping down on a messy taboret. Poor guy always had the worst luck, he gasped. But by all the possessed wretches who sucked Jesus Christ’s bigone, do you remember the time we decided to rape Miller-Olle?!
— Oh, you! cackled Grandpa, getting goosebumps. You should know, you little shedevil, he smiled spitefully and caressed my ass, that even when I was a girlylad licking the cream from my own Grandpa’s cock, sex without violence was like thumbing a numb lappdick. So you can believe that I was all ohsweetLordhavemercy when whatthefuckshisname Hilding said: lets go and get our claws in old Mill-Olle. That was back in the good old days, when we were still nubile and sly.
— You’re fine the way you are now, Grandpa, I piped up tactfully.
— Go suck cunt! snapped Grandpa, mostly for the sake of appearances.
— It was a Sunday evening in a morbidly obese summer and I was perky and Hilding was all dolled up. We were crawling on all fours through Brylle’s yamfields, deadly afraid of aging dancing-slags. We had blueballs that ached like the nails through Christ’s hands getting nailed to the cross. By Satan, old Olle was going to get a shot in the rathole! When we got to the mill, we heard him humming and acting busy, and that was his mistake. I knocked on the mill door and, suddenly, it went quiet for a long time. He wasprobably hiding his dirty magazines, he liked Donkey Love and Daisy Chain, near as I remember. But the coward was cunning and he put on airs.
—“Who are you?” he squeaked. “The three little pigs!” Hilding rumbled. “Are not! You’re just teasing me. Say who you are!” “The good Samaritan,” I giggled and then Hilding broke into the flour-sack room. I followed him, prancing pony that I was. I was already loosening my belt and old Olle looked like he was about to cry.
— He hadn’t been such a fraidycat since Folke Bernadotte came to town, Hilding cut in with a slippery grin.
—“Who are you? I gotta get my hair cut!” the miller boy gasped, eyes like ashtrays, Grandpa continuined. “Don’t get your panties in a wad,” I said and that was it for the pleasantries. Hilding kicked him in the stomach so hard he puked up a waterrat and a catechism. Then Hilding dragged off his hopinbed jersey and pinioned him, while I pulled out his teeth with a pair of pliers. We threw him in a seedtrough and started loving him up. Hilding fucked him in the mouth and I took him in the ass and then we switched holes.
— Mother Teresa, you dryteated sow, we sure whored it up in Olles virginflesh, Hilding gushed, laying his arms around Grandpa’s neck. We sure raised the roof! And I think it was good for old Olle, too! Because, Lord bless me, how he howled!
— That’s what we came for, all right, Grandpa said, and that’s why, after a smokebreak, we decided to torture him. “A sour stab follows a sweet scratch,” as I used to tell Grandma when she was alive. But Olle’s squealing and groaning was starting to give me a headache. But since he was a real classact, he got the beating he deserved.
— Is there anything sweeter than forcing someone, who’s begging to die, to go ahead and live? sneered Hilding and put Grandpa’s right hand on his Jewscrew.
— We crowned him with a Tyrolese hat, just for shits and grins, laughed Grandpa. Then we fried his dick in a pot of boiling syrup. Hilding frenched him and bit off his tongue, right in the middle of a leechkiss, surely you remember that?
— Mmmhmm, Hilding said, amused. Suddenly he vomited up a meter of his intestines and had to push them back down his throat, bubbling blood.
— He got a broken bottle up his asshole, and then we fucked him in the eye until he died, Grandpa said. Miller-Olle was a repulsive devil all right, he jeered and lit a Rönnskärsciggi. The spitting image of Mikhaylov. People said his own Grandpa’s ass was an open invitation for Schuvaloff when the Russians played army with the Kåge boys during the old war, Grandpa continued, talking trash with an epicurian glint in his deadeyes. The Satancunt probably had Ruskyblood in him.
Hilding snorted blood and rubbed his rotten cock with an alcoholsoaked strip of bacon. He was bitter that neither Grandpas dirtytalk nor his spotted hand could make his kidbeater stand up straight. Grandpa saw how it was and knew that pretty soon Hilding was going to lose it. He put his arms around the upchucked skunkboas skinny shoulders and began buttoning up his crowhued blazer. Finally, he brushed the ash off his pink linen pants and fastened on his SS cap.