Nikanor Teratologen - Assisted Living - A Novel

— 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.

— 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.

— I brought my calf with me, Grandpa explained and pinched my ass. In case you’re in the mood. You still got sauce in that old bag?

— Don’t take this the wrong way, Grandpageezer, but these days they ring the churchbells for a miracle if I happen to get blood in my cock. Now that I’m old, I shrivel up when some tyke grabs my fly and puckers on up. And that’s the truth.

— I know just what you mean, the same thing’s happened to me, Grandpa lied and started telling him what we’d been up to.

— Hell, you need a drink! Hilding exclaimed. And I could use a nip myself, he said. You know, I was sure it was the crimcram coming to take away my nearest and dearest. I thank God for the day that He gave me Leatherbeaver here, Hilding proclaimed sanctimoniously and fingerfucked the pulsing mooseass that had been his only sexpartner for countless years. I hit him over by Twelve Meter Basin, and no devil alive’s going to take him from me. Over my dead body! Anyway, get ready for a smoker, he said, rooting around in the mountain of bottles in the living room.

— You know, Kosken and Explorer are for old aunties. Give me Hormoslyr and antifreeze any day, Hilding babbled. But you’ll see! Drink your fill, don’t be shy, he called out.

The two old men took swigs that made their bodies shudder and thrash. Me — I dipped my blanky in paint thinner and enjoyed the sweet, sweet aroma.

— Hilding, my friend, Grandpa said, as he stretched, we brought along some snacks we’d be willing to share.

— Show me what you’ve got, Hilding hiccupped, staring glassyeyed, as I opened the basket and displayed the goodies. Rotten vealbrawn and pickled pigdick! And an old Swissroll! All this tasty stuffy for me? Thanks, thankyouthankyou, he stammered. But for the life of me, I don’t know how I’m going to keep these treats down, since I can’t even stomach dumplings, he complained and pointed to some enormous throatpuslumps, which had gone right through him. Each of them was as big as two clenched fists, had been swallowed whole, and were smeared with grease.

— Once a wackjob, always a wackjob, Grandpa sighed.

— Yeah, you are what you are, you can’t fart freely and be anal-retentive all at once, Hilding agreed and scratched at his head of German hair.

— Que será será, sweety, Grandpa muttered, taking a long drag from his ciggi and flicking ash on my fontanelle.

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.