Nonono, that's it, these two men have specialized in death. And the assets of death are a department store's worth of things that no longer need to be bought because they're part of the inheritance. And something like that happens right in front of our eyes, in the countryside, not far from a small town buzzing with excitement and risk and possibilities for sport and play, where everyone knows everyone else from the tennis court or the law court, if after a game, as so often, an argument has started, coarse, and with lots of words of abuse, where one belongs with one's acquaintances. Until one finds better ones. The district is bounded by its abrupt end. After that there's only the highway left and the highway right. The small town is like a pond, with water flowing in at one end and out at the other again. To leave this district behind is an achievement like crossing a river without horsepower. Curtains are lit up punctually, glances are exchanged, one gets worse glances for better ones or the other way round, that's business too, and no one does anything about it. The locals can certainly take, but only rarely do they take it any further.
Sooner or later all human beings are dead, that is their common fate. On the other hand it's not like in the city, where sometimes one doesn't notice right away when someone has died. More often than you would think, the doctor writing out the certificate is the only one still to get a look at you, so why make yourself pretty?, and in a city apartment block who would tell you what's happened to a traveling salesman, whose post is piled up to the top of the letter box? What has happened to a gentleman like that, where is his keeper and where on earth is there a keeper, who would protect one? Policemen always know where something's become vacant, their jobs didn't fall into their laps, they had a talent for it and like to set themselves down in a ready-made nest from which like the cuckoo they expel others whoosh, now we're all tied together and have to loosen a bond again and undo a knot. Death is man's fate, sadly there are all too many men before that. You can always rely on the police! But who really knows something about these barking keepers of the law, whose behavior amounts to impudence and at whom one is nevertheless not allowed to laugh out loud, otherwise one's in for it, and can reckon on a clip round the ears at least? One only has to step in as overbearingly as possible with one's inquiries, the Country Police Force, which knows everything, knows that; and in almost every second house there's a woman all alone, longing to let in anyone at all, if he only did come at last, then there would be two of us at least, and death perhaps comes along later, too. Then it gets really cozy. Before one can even promise the woman something (inspection of wiring, unblocking the drain, looking for the missing pet, etc.), something nestles youdidntseeathing into the hollow of one's hand, a head with soft hair, and you shoot out with, whether she would like to be taken from the front or back. The chatting rushes down the wires, it's not called foreplay yet, but that's still to come, and it's irksome because the neighborhood might hear. Then one looks at the woman, candidate for intercourse, everything all right? Is the hole closing up again or is it still wide open like a screaming mouth, because it's no longer used to being nailed, thrown down carelessly and not even decently stopped up? The head only learns to think to whom the apartment and the furniture actually belong when it's been almost cracked open. You belong to me now, says the country policeman in an ear, not quite in his right mind when he said it, but only one person hears it, you can always deny it. Do you have any objection? No heart is heartfelt when it has broken into a guarded house, and then one wishes for another body part that can stand up to more. Women are so ruled by their physical urges, you can't believe it. The things that occur to them and all the places they want to do it, you would have to have a map in your head like a cruise missile to have ideas like that; in the bath tub or on the kitchen table, that's still OK, but on the floor in the crucifix corner, good Lord, but it's cramped and dusty, God didn't want us to fuck around at his feet like worms, which he formed, like all of us, out of the dust, and he can't even get a good look, because he's nailed so tight up there! And how you get rid of it all again, that's a problem, too. Paper towel is the solution, but there's some who use sponges stiff with dirt or scraps of cloth from the kitchen sink. Sometimes, as soon as one comes in, the cleaning things are already looking invitingly at one from the place where the woman would like to be forced open, doctors sometimes cover up the instruments, women always display them brazenly and without embarrassment. Everything. They've got. Death succeeds in making us dumbfounded. That's only where the women start, because their mounting is unlimited, best of all they would like a golden ring. Love allows them to take in so much. But for the time being death is still stronger. Let's wait and see how things turn out.
Hair everywhere, even sticking to the palm of the dead woman's hand with traces of blood, I would say, these are the remains, steeped in synthetic hair dyes and permanent waves, of a human being of the female gender, and this female was allowed to see and experience a great deal before she died. Perhaps the telephone expert and his policeman father have a built-in war vent, well, I think they both like to get into fights but have to restrain themselves a bit in public, one as a servant of the state, the other as a salaried employee. But it has to come out somewhere, the beast, and in a woman it usually has too little space to run around. Afterwards one puts in an extra run. There are some with whom one is even hungrier afterwards, you embrace, you give each other a good licking, but the pupils are already flickering restlessly over a head, which is practicing inexcusable behavior and is perhaps even a little embarrassed about what it's doing, glances after all precede a human being. They're already wagging their tail before anyone can pull out the appropriate white stick. By the way. Am I looking too serious now? Oh no, that's the last thing I wanted! Good and hard into the woolly hair every time, which can't really check the blows. Take a look, quick, at the past, there you could see a serious man, likewise the head of a family, bellowing without any inhibition at living people who would now have been almost dead, had their way of driving had consequences, because they did something wrong in traffic, wellwell, car drivers in the days when they were still somebody and films were made about them, always the car drivers! Sometimes the cyclists, too, who, however, are already kicked enough by merely existing. Lonely women, well-groomed, but no longer young, they snatch at everything that moves and wears trousers, which after all they do themselves. But that's not enough for them, and they sometimes get given an extra titbit, meat, which they had given up reckoning on, and which now draws them into its reckoning. Hmm, is the apartment completely paid off? A very well groomed woman is already going to the hairdresser for the second time this week and having her nails painted fine as silk, something like that gets noticed; better than a poet could say it, her body says with these signs, that it is full of longing and at last knows, who for.