—Onguard with Perrudja for sure. Last I heard, he cannon-balled twenty-nine-and-a-half down the track and did it hoofless and with a drunk jockey.
—North Swede horses are fucking thickdicked, Petunia said suddenly, not bothering to open her eyes. Negritos in nigredo …
—They just insist on having their Filly Division, Eilert complained. At sixteen hundred and forty … It’s so fucked up, you wanna weep blood.
—Verily I say unto thee, Today shalt thou be with me in paradise.
I snickered to myself and oiled the boy up as if my life depended on it. I knew that Grandpa had never backed a winning horse. But he wastes ten thousand a week on it, sometimes much more.
—Messalina might be a possibility, but her form is as questionable as Celan’s.
—Jewdevil, snuffled Petunia.
—I prefer Céline, admitted Grandpa. And Petiot … Unfortunately, I think that Simian Cunt will overtake her on the inside, so Brazar might as well run himself off a cliff. He’s cooked … Pasiphae will do okay coming up the rear and Stig H’son’s Stig H’son, so Color Queen’s got a shot at the finish, despite her handicap. Semiramis has been in rut, so there’s no telling about her. Like as not, Shekhinah will turn out to be a thorn in everyone’s ass …
—You don’t like Steaming Snatch?
—Not a bit. Can’t hold out on the inside.
—Who would you put your money on, then?
—Fat Fuck from Gärdsmygsmark is riding Kolli, but his position’s terrible. It’s a fucking shitrace that ought to be totally covered with Dazed and Confused, Hog’s Dong, Lobotomy Lobell, and Freak Show.
—And Bronze? I’d pegged Katyn Forest myself.
—You’re on the right track! He flew from sixteenth position on the outside to get past Oradour at sixteen to one! The third track behind the starting car goes smooth as a nippercock into a lubed toiletpaperrole. If he flounders, Åke Svinstedt and Zyklon B. might do something. Of course, Sharpeville, Shatila, My Lai, and Kolyma Vacation all might have beginners’ luck.
—Class III against Class I then?
—Gamble on every horse you can afford and then some! Oracular Orifice has class, but he does his best work at the head, which he’ll never get to, so. Olle Boop will trounce the Gobbler, you mark my words. He’s been gone six weeks, though, and the fourth track’s the worst imaginable. Mau-Mau, Nice Rape, Chickens Bladder, Potlatch Poodle, and the Coroner have all got the same chance. You can’t dismiss the rest, either.
—All right, I took your advice, Granpageezer! We’ll see just how psychic you really are.
—Thanks to me, handsome, you’ll hit so hard, you’ll be able to buy all the love on the market.
For shits and grins I checked the results on Sunday:
Sec. I. Filly Div., nr. 2 Bum Pus.
Sec. II. Class II, nr. 6 Gangrene.
Sec. III. Coldblood., nr. 1 Hairybeaver.
Sec. IV. Gold Div., nr. 9 Package
Sec. V. Bronze Div., nr. 5 Jasenovac.
Sec. VI. Class III against Class 1, nr. 1 Aiwass.
Grandpa had done it again. V-6 paid out two hundred thousand, but Eilert never brought it up.
__________
KVASIR—God of poetry and wisdom in Norse mythology, created from the combined saliva of all the gods; his blood was used to make the Mead of Poetry
VERA RENCZI—A Romanian socialite, who in the 1920s seduced and murdered thirty-five men, and then stored them in zinc-lined coffins in her cellar
SHABBETAI TZVI AND NATHAN OF GAZA—Shabbetai Tzvi was a manic-depressive self-proclaimed Messiah who in the 1660s started large-scale uprisings among Jews the world over; it was through Nathan of Gaza’s preaching that Shabbetai first became convinced of his mission
GALUT—in Kabbalistic terms, the world in exile, deprived of God’s mercy
KELIPOT—the realms of darkness
EBENE—hallucogenic drug used by the Yanomamo Indians in the Amazon
TZIMTZUMMED—tzimzum: the idea that God contracted and withdrew Himself, in order to “make room” for creation
BOK GLOBULE—dark cloud of dust and gas where stars are formed Shub-Niggurath—read old H.P … .
KOKKOLA—town in Finland
PSILOCYBE CUBENSIS—a hallucinogenic mushroom, probably identical to the Indo-European Soma, the source of holy ecstasy
PETJOT—Marcel Petiot, Parisian doctor, three years younger than Céline; murdered by injection around seventy people who were trying to flee Nazi-occupied France; Petiot told them they would need to be vaccinated in order to emigrate, injected them with cyanide, and then took their belongings
IASENOVAC—World War II Croatian concentration camp
XIX
Today we went into Kåge and tried to prostitute ourselves at the foundry. But the proletarian bullocks wouldn’t play along.
—It’s the dogdays of summer. It makes them priggish, Grandpa said reassuringly.
—Doesn’t matter anyway, you fucking pricks! he hissed at the foreman, who was throwing us out.
Down in front of the foundry, goldbrown, frothtipped wavelets lapped at the river’s rough black boulders. Thistles and nettles lined our path, which led to the bridge. As we crossed the river, I looked between the boards at the black vortex that gurgled and churned away below us, a skinny, washedout kid, naked from the waist down, wearing an oversized cardigan patterned with vipers. Life’s a ghastly affair—I’d never make it without Grandpa. I only wish he’d say he liked me every now and then. The water at the bridge’s base was calmer. A newborn intestineshimmering Lapp baby in a birchbarkbasket was floating there. It’d probably made it all the way from the Kågeälven’s unknown source. A miracle. Not that it was much longer for this world. A hundred-kilo pike awkwardly glided up from the river’s muddy bottom and crunched basket and newborn between its divinely beautiful jaws. It was fucking hilarious, but Grandpa was in one of those moods. He punched me in the small of my back and started yelling.
—What the fuck are you looking at?! Keep moving, or I’ll give you something straight out of Brueghel and Bosch!
I kept moving, since I’d rather keep it like Bauer and Beskow. From the bridge, we could see the ravaged village square. Overhead the sun was blotchy, the sky was watery, the earth was the color of old skin. Summer was wheezing its last, and the soursweet dusk of a late summer day closed around this smokeeating town like an ulcered mouth around a cankersore. The sky was a chamberpot upended over an embonpoint landscape. The area around the church was overgrown with weeds, but the bush down by the river was tamer. Roots hung helterdeeskelter over the gouged-out, ratinfested bank. In Kåge, the grass is always yellower; the buildings look like they were built in the blink of a blind man’s eye. Every house is a different color, they’re built wherever people get the whim to build them. Kåges a boil on the butt of the Bay of Bothnia, and the folk in these parts are a homicidal bunch. They’ve got ostisch and fälisch strains in them, most of them think that the meaning of life’s in spreading garbage around and polluting as much as possible. They’re vultures, most wear kerchiefs to parties. They love dirtyjobs, and in their freetime, they like to lay back and gobble dicks. They begrudge everyone everything, they’re quick to anger and quicker in bed. Bigmouthed, but small between the legs. They’re coarse and mean. Rude and prude. In Kåge, existence is an open saltandpeppered wound, andthey kill joy wherever they find it, no one has the cowballs to do otherwise. The true Kågeborner is slackjawed and secondrate, content to go behind his neighbors back and talk trash. They fuck women, but never redheads. And their faith in bwana Namnam is highly adequate.
—Kåge is an udumucavern blessed by Satan, Grandpa said during the trip from Helvetesliden, and there’s something to that. The most remarkable thing Kåge ever produced is Margot Wallström, and that’s saying a helluva lot.
When we were approaching the rivers north bank, Grandpa pointed out one of the area’s main attractions, which was located about a hundred and fifty meters upstream fr
om where we were standing: over the years, around two hundred suicidecorpses had gotten stuck in the barbedwiretangle that borders Eelspit, and there they stew to this day.
—My old flame’s down there, Mauritz Hamilton, Grandpa reminisced. He went down into the river sometime in the mid thirties, thought he was going hetero. We had a honeysweet romance in old man Wonkowaara’s loo. You see, being laidback and easygoing is its own reward.
We strolled nonchalantly toward Sällbergs Meat and Gristle, hoping to run across Pulli and Nyllet. When we knocked, though, all we got was Vivo, wrinkled as a wet ballsack and with a ciggi dangling from each nostril.
—Wherethehell s Pulli and Nyllet? Grandpa demanded.
—Hooked up to respirators. Suicidepact. Tried to suffocate each other with their dicks.
—Ooh, that’s horrible! Grandpa screeched, lighting a ciggibutt, whatever could’ve gotten into them? Nyllet was so fucking sug-arysweet, he had peachfuzz inside of him! And Pulli, Godforbid! he was just made to suck you deep!
—Too true, Vivo smiled.
—How long have you two been married? Grandpa croaked, ashing in Vivos hair.
—Don’t really know. But now it looks like I’m all by my lonesome, she said, scratching her crotch.
—But Vivo, you old bonedry cowcunt, you wouldn’t happen to know if Ditti or Amos would be up for a little harmless flirtation, would you? said Grandpa, warbling like a fucking swingkid.
—I heard Ditti was shitting himself after he let himself be duped into some gang hankypanky with a group of Polacks down by the docks, all for a keg of beer. And Amos just moved in with Björn-motherhexer. As of now, he’s only got eyes for one.
—What about Gammsagge Ahlgren, the organgrinding queer?
—All he wants to do nowadays is pretty up young Mormon boys, cackled Vivo. But you can try it with Tattar-Torsten up in Högsen, I hear he’s like a cat in heat.
—Hell no, I’d rather diddle a woman, Grandpa blasphemed.
—You sweet man, I’ve always said there’s no finer gent in all of Kågedell than old Grandpageezer, Vivo lisped and licked her lips. That got Grandpa shaking in his boots. Just to be safe, he beat her with his cane until she swayed, lost her wig, and collapsed. Then we hauled ass back across the bridge.
—Hell, that Vivo’s nasty as Old Nick, I squeaked.
Grandpa was trembling so bad he’d pissed his snowboots.
—I thought it was all over, mite, he finally stammered. Did you see her eyefucking me? I never thought I’d live to see the day when it was so hard to drum up a little action around here.
—We can hide in the bushes around the kindergarten and snap up a boy or two to fondle, I suggested.
—Nah, I’ve lost the urge, Grandpa sighed. Women—they just make me limp. But pull up a chair and listen here. What say you go and nab us some bacon and old Swissrolls and then we’ll surprise Hilding Dahlgren at the old folk’s home. Oh, and if they’ve got issue twenty-nine of My Life’s Novel, grab it. Meet me at the church afterward, I like to shit in peace! He was still yelling as I made my way to the supermarket to nab what we needed.
I watched out for the girls making faces at me, but then I almost got lost. Behind the parish house a tobaccopug was tonguing a kidneystone buyer from Istermyrliden. At that same moment, a tbs. of people came dripping out of Kågebadets gates and shrieked and laughed at me. A few of them picked up rocks and gave chase. When they caught me, they punched me in the stomach and kicked me in the head.
When I woke up, they were gone. Luckily, the church was close by. I went inside and immediately got hot. Grandpa was sitting on the altar chainsmoking. His pants were down around his knees, those long legs of his were hanging loose, and God’s house was chockfull of his uncleanness. But he was pissy and kept his distance.
—You took your time! he exclaimed, coughing a Dzerzhinsky cough and boxing my ear.
—I had to suck J.O. at the hardware store to get some of this paint thinner, I said defensively.
—Is that right? Grandpa asked, clearing his throat. Now clean me.
I tonguescrubbed his sweetspot until he started to protest.
—Okay, cowboy, enough with the fine tuning!
He pulled up his pants and snuffed his ciggi out on Jesus’s left nipple.
—Now well see what Hilding’s good for, Grandpa declared and spit in a churchwarden’s eye on his way out.
The river murmured in heat. Kåges center spread itself out. There’s no library anymore, instead there’s a video store. They also have a paint store and a newskiosk. We passed a reservebarracks where the future of the town had left weekendengravings and spatterpaintings. . “Luge sucks shit” … “Kåge by night, full of fight, Kåge by day, girlie and gay” …
People Against the Missionary Position had set up a snuff-and splatterfilm booth directly in front of the Belial office of the local Demonsbureau. Homo-Lage and Wanker-Helge were working the counter. We joined the group of inbred apemen listening openmouthed to the pompous bullshit spouted by the lot from Skellefteå. I recognized “Cowberry,” “Wolfman,” “The Quack,” “Chewe,” and “Moans a lot” in the crowd.
—Raoul Wallenberg’s alive, his death’s a conspiracy, Lage was grandstanding. He lives! I know it! Sure as Jesus Christ shot his wad on the cross! As he babbled, he lit a licorice ciggarette. Me and Helge met him in Finlandferry on Pentecost. He was calling himself Inez and making a living blowing pens through a straw with his ass, and telling fortunes by consulting balls.
—But Lage, Bjuuv interrupted, with a becoming hint of feeblemindedness in his voice, how the hell can you be sure it was Raoul?
—Because he was him! shouted Lage, starting to get riled up.
—I’ve been with tons of guys who claimed they were Raoul Wallenberg, old tumor-for-a-toupee bragged.
—You’re way too pretty for that, Helge said mockingly, screwing up his chloasmically blotched face. By the devil, you AIDS-riddled swine, if you sucked cock as well as you lied, what more would we need? That doxy we met was the Grauballe Man, though, you can believe Lage the Lip when he says that it was Raoul. And you know what Wallenberg told me, just between us four balls: Nothing can match a foul, fleshy Finn feeling peckish for a good old slaughtertango. Then he taught me gutter Finnish and got Lage and me to like lappwaltzing with our lappcocks. He was so sweet I felt like a little girl all over again!
—Aw, you’ve got so much love in you, Wanker-Helge, said Frusse. But what was he like? How did he look?
—Well, Raoul’s scrawny and nervous, but he’s got motherofpearl skin and eyes like amber. He has bite marks on his chin and forehead. He doesn’t have any feelings, but he cries at the drop of a hat.
—And the guy has tried everything, continued Homo-Lage. One day he was a mongoloid, then an absentminded professor, and after that he really needed to take a shit.
—Limpcocks and dryfucks! Grandpa said in a halfwhisper. Come on, mite, let’s leave the whores to their filthy jabbering.
We walked past the supermarket with hate beating down the back of our necks. As we passed, I read some of the headlines.
“Queen Bee Silvia: Fuck it all!”
“New Hope for Bisected Seamstress”
“Ingemar Stenmark and Björn Borg Having Love Child”
“Ibrahim, the Centipede, Dead”
“Shocking pictures: Loffe Breastfeeding Hagge!”
“Oldsberg and Melander No Longer in the Running”
“Tumba Refuses to Jerk off King!”
“Dalai Lama Has Great Faith in Stig H. and Nasty Faggot”
“The 100 Poorest Swedes: Pictures and Facts”
“Barbro of Surahammar: I’ve tried to commit suicide 110 times”
“Bengt Westerberg Single Again: I love loving to the sound of a heartsick, squalling babe.”
Our brains were buzzing like bees in a macramé pie when we finally snuck into the old age home and knocked on Hildings door.
—Who’s there? he rattled.
&nbs
p; —Erik O., grunted Grandpa, disguising his voice.
—And someone else who wants to talk to you, I said, playing along.
—Whatdoyouwantwithme, you demons? Hilding whimpered, cracking the door and peering out with bloodshot eyes. I didn’t order no meatwagon.
—Just Mengele and Streicher here to play a little game of two on three.
—Nonononono, grimaced the ravaged face, not gonna happen!
—God Hilding, you poor scoundrel, don’t you recognize me, Grandpa cackled and forced his way in.
—We used to be joined at the hip, he continued coaxingly. When we entered the room, Hilding Dahlgren, who was stark naked, wobbled and staggared around in a wet, oozing morass of shit and vomit.
—But what on earth, he clamored, rubbing his pupasack, his nipples going stiff with fear.
—Get a hold of yourself, have you gone schizo? Grandpa asked, embracing him. Hey there, Grandpa soothed, don’t you remember me?
—But is it possible that you’ve really come to visit after all these years, Hilding snuffled. It just makes me want to cry, he went on in a smokeychokey voice. God bless you, Grandpa, for thinking of a poor old man! he moaned and grabbed Grandpas chainlinksus-penders so hard he pulled him over.
—You’ve become kinda chubby, but otherwise you haven’t changed a bit, Grandpa choked out.
—And you’re a consumptive, wasted fuck, just like you always were, cackled Hilding. But plop yourself down, welcome to my rathole, make youself at home, he said and pulled himself off the floor. Black coffees all I’ve got, if that’ll do.
—Don’t bother about coffee! I said politely.
—And who’s this little shit? Hilding glared, suddenly enraged.
Assisted Living: A Novel Page 8
