Assisted Living: A Novel by Nikanor Teratologen Read Free Book Online Page A

nothing … not even worth a mercykilling … There weren’t any cloudberries to make jam with … that’s the one thing I remember about my dad’s mom, her making jam while she lifted her skirts to let the snake in … “jamming and juicing, Satan’s shitwork” … We didn’t even see a forest bird … not a soul was stirring … We walked through the trees for hours … when it started getting dark, we rested. Evening was coming on fast.
    —There isn’t nearly enough evil in the forest nowadays, Grandpa complained and shoved a stubborn squirrel back down onto the grillstick.
    We sat next to a lazy flame. I tried to brush the cobwebs off my face, souvenirs of a walk through the late summerwoods. Dark-green sprucetrees were closing in, pines swayed stiff as corpses in the wind. The wind and the dark cast doubt on everything you think you understand.
    —Once upon a time, mankind was a demonic sort of phenomenon … back in the goodolddays, no one knew what mercy was … We’d toss furry critters onto the fire, just to watch the greedy flames devour them alive.
    —Back in the goodolddays, women and Christians didn’t dare leave the highroads … If they did, they’d be raped and slaughtered by forestdemons … We called them Leshy or sippers, further inland they were known as the overprivileged lips …
    As we sat there, Grandpa spun stories about terrible powers, secret societies and Satan’s commandments. Exhaustion finally conquered terror. Me and Grandpa both fell asleep. When I woke, I was cold as ice inside and out. The sky was sullen. I rested my head on Grandpa’s crotch and listened to his sperm gathering themselves for their next pointless assault. As usual, the day had promised more than it could deliver.
     
    __________
    Mossad —Israeli secret service
    Wiesenthal —Simon: famous Nazi hunter
    Sákar , Hútama —Muslim hells
    What of it then if I warble … —from the Kalevala, the Finnish epic (Friberg trans.)
    Väinämöinen —Hero of the Kalaevala
    Myrberg —town in Västerbotten, Sweden
    So weit die braune Heide … —An SS song: “As far as the brown heath goes, it belongs to us …”
    Leshy —from Slavic mythology, a male woodland sprite

VIII
    —Fuck me, soccer again! Grandpa complained, thumping down on the sofa bed’s bright red quilt. He’d just placed a tray holding a stack of danishes and a flask of Black Velvet onto the Perstorptable’s slick oilcloth.
    —Goddamn game … who’s playing?
    —Barcelona and PSV Eindhoven. Spaniards are in bluepurple. It’s the cupcupercup finale.
    —Bunch of assgoblins, if you ask me, Grandpa frowned, pointing to the Dutch team. Satan’s bedlamites, that’s what they are! Couldn’t distinguish ciggifilter from ciggibutt! he exclaimed, getting riled up when a kick was blocked.
    All Grandpa was wearing was a strawberrycolored T-shirt with the words “Korova Milk Bar” on it.
    —What about those Dagos? Where are they from?
    —Turkey, I think …
    He dunked a pastry into his glass of whisky.
    —That bear of a man, that bonnieblueeyes, that damn Frankenstein, where did he come from?
    —You mean Cowman?
    —Yeah, that guy!
    —No idea … they probably bought him off some other team …
    —What a whore!
    Grandpa simmered down for a few minutes, simply sat there muttering to himself. Barcelona had the ball but wasn’t doing much with it. Just beating around the bush, while the Dutch just beat … off. No one, neither the players nor public, seemed to be having much fun. The ball just got kicked back and forth, while the crowd made faces and booed loudly. Finally, the teams slunk home, tails tucked; the commentator called them fucking homos; the judges on the sideline muttered their agreement; no one knew what the whole mess was good for. Watching a soccer game’s a little like life itself. You have to get gone before it starts to feel right. No matter what, everyone’s a loser. Clear goals and finesse are as rare