— I’m shitsober! I swear! I just had a beer with my sausage, that’s all!
— No point in arguing … we’ve got our rules …
Grandpa paused a moment …
— Can’t we just come in and get warm … See, I look just like Twiggy! and the boy here is a carboncopy of Genet! I know that gay hairdresser, Moshe Bindefeld! I participated in “Glaube und Schönheit”! We aren’t sybarites, if that’s what you thought! I’ve got pubelocks from both Ulyanov and Jughashvili!
When the bouncer was least expecting it, Grandpa stuck a knife in his belly.
— One side, seacalf!
Grandpa sliced a cyclist across the face, flung himself up on his bike, and peddled away … He made the sign of the cross, so I understood we’d meet at the nearest church … I raced past the Canal School, alongside Nygatan … they were after me … two big boors … Kodiak bears … their legs pumped like pistons … their shoes slapped the pavement … I knew it was a matter of life or death … if they caught me, it was all over … they Parted panting … lagged behind … I picked up the pace … they gave up … I kept running … came to my senses … found my way back to St. Olaf … Grandpa was waiting for me in the dark … I saw his ciggiglow …
— I just knew it, mite … You’re a little Aouita in the rough … now if you could just get rid of those lovehandles …
He pulled me under the streetlight.
— Before we go into Etage, I need to have a look at you …
Sincerely feigned dismay lit his eyes …
— What a sight! The worst I’ve ever seen! It’d make anyone sick just looking at you!
— What is it, Grandpa?
— You probably look like this all the time! But I never look at you this closely! No wonder they wouldn’t let us in! … you’re Elephant Man in the flesh … or maybe the sexhungry monster in Tobe Hooper’s Funhouse … we’ve got to do something about this …
We hid behind the churchyard wall … after a little while two blond, nineteen-year-old shebeasts came strolling along … infuckme outfits … chatting like naughty kiddos on the way to a Christmastreeplundering … Grandpa blocked their path …
— Greetings, Judith and Salome …
They stepped into the street, to hell with Grandpa … Resolutely, he grabbed their manes and cracked their skulls together … a few times … there was a squishypopping sound … their eyebrows and lips split open … they fainted … Grandpa drew out his Game Skinner and began to scalp one expertly … with conquistadorian flair he held up a blooddripping blonde wig …
— When you put it on, make sure the blood soaks your hair … that way it’ll stick …
While I did that, he rooted around in the little floozy’s purse for her makeupcase …
— Let’s see, a bit of red and black on your humdrum face and you might reel in a little MS-cock, if you’re lucky …
He fixed me up under the streetlamp’s deadwhite light, and then I caught a glimpse of myself in the case’s little round mirror … I looked damned … in a different way than usual, I mean … I changed into the girl’s black eelskindress, put on her suedejacket, hose, and pumps …
— There you go, now you’re a fullfledged whore …
We made our way into the city … humanity babbled around us … A Sunday evening makes you want to trashtalk your country more than St. Bernhard and St. Goytisolo combined … Grandpa sang “Der Tod sei unser Kampfgenoss, wir sind die schwarzen Scharen!” We passed a fat, ugly statue … stores … Kid and Nervefiber … Blast-Furnace Bazaar … Salamander Optics … Inside a doorway, Lars “Humpy” Holmgren was on his knees, trying to give a pal a blowjob … Rönnmarks … Thylins … Dåmus … around the corner past the Sparkbanken … Etage … Malmia … Into the lobby, which stank of dirty living … ropes formed barriers … we took the lefthand path, as we always do … the bouncers nodded their understanding … Grandpa shelled out two hundred kroner … they let us in … I left my jacket with a humanoid behind the counter … got a little plastic ticket as a reminder … We went downstairs … afrojudaic rhythms were pounding … the light was glaring … people were playing roulette … the room looked promising, it was packed with boys … G andpa recognized a few initiates and winked … he’d brought me to the temple of pleasure and love … It was dark, smoky, warm, and fleshpacked … rotten and raw … idols and progeny … Jungle rhythms thumped … waking vulgar desires … a shething was singing like she was in pain … why don’t you touch me … waa-a-oa-a-a-aaa … A maze of stairs led up and down to the dance floor … We formed a Boar Snout and shouldered our way to the central bar … scooted in next to Tomas Sandström and UfFe Samuelsson, who robustly caressed each others hardused cocks through their stonewashed jeans … Judge Stäglich was in a heated discussion with Mailer, Ärkesnärt was looking on, three Greenlanders, Kennet, Rolf, and Kjell tried to outdo each other in piggishness … Grandpa ordered a drink …
— A Fanfarlo and a Horla, please! Those are absinthes!
They didn’t have any …
— A Mafarka and an Uomo finito then!
They didn’t have those either …
— Two beers on the house! Just joking!
A skinny, stuckup redhaired primadonna poured the beer …
— Ninety-six kroner.
— Couldn’t you give Zebulon and Bombi Bitt a break …
— No …
Grandpa sipped the foam and then took a couple of gulps … bared his goldteeth …
— Tonight will make the Battle of Catalaunian Fields look like Sunday school!
He had to shout to be heard over the music …
— I haven’t felt this pumped since they shot Kennedy and MLK!
Grandpa bent toward a shy, sweet boy with a deshimaric expression, the kid looked like he was trying to become a part of the mineral kingdom … Grandpa recited Mallarmes “The Afternoon of a Faun,” toasted him, and turned back to me …
— I’m going make the rounds … Wait here …
He forced his way up the stairs to another bar … doling out punches and benedictions … mockeries and hypocrisies … parodies and repartees … people eyed him askance … I leaned on the rail overlooking the dance floor … It was jampacked … flooded with bodies … they jerked and twitched spasmodically … they looked like they were doing jumping jacks … it thumped and throbbed … some poor bastard was singing: “she has sperm in her hair that only I can see” … While I was standing there, a tall, balding man in wirerimmed glasses and a jetblack outfit came up and touched my breasts … he didn’t have a prayer … He smelled like Absolut Citron, insisted he was Ignatius of Loyola, a member of the Leibstandarte, and a necrology student in Uppsala …
— Can I give you an enema …
— No, thank you …
— Abdominal abominations! he shouted. Back off, bitch! Can I at least take your temperature?
— I said no …
He folded his hands in a parody of prayer … Then he slurred out “lord of silence, supreme god of desolation,” wrote “Make love, don’t fuck! The soul of a woman was created below Jesus Christ I beg your pardon you indescribable tramp …” on a napkin and stumbled on, looking for a woman to love him to death …
Grandpa came back from his adventure, elbowed aside some little windbag …
— What a drag! I had to lace some glasses with cyanide up there, this place is just crawling with heteros!
Despondently, he examined the rocking and writhing clumps of flesh lit by the flashing lights way up on the ceiling … the song ended … the next number was a slow one … Steers hit cows up for a dance … it was disgusting … it’s only Gere and Swayze who respected gender boundaries … they danced hip-to-hip, mouth-to-mouth … If I could only find words, to tell you I’m sorry … A big, bushybearded, greeneyed man of indeterminate age shoved his way to the railing … He smiled a shy, miserly, unpleasant smile at Grandpa … he had on a black shirt with a big silver Thor’s Hammer around his neck … Levi’s 503. fucking jew-jeans … still, he had a nice ass … hard to say if he was sad or mad … Grandpa went up to him … laughed condescendingly … kissed him tyrannically … they got to talking … two of Satan’s own … they seemed mighty friendly … their conversation lasteda while … I gave a couple of guys high up on the permillascale the brush off … tossed my hair and smoked like a girl …