Nikanor Teratologen - Assisted Living - A Novel

Benny humbly thanked Grandpa for the books, but begged him for his help.

— I’m so damned close to the edge … I can’t do it anymore … help me, Grandpa …

— Sorry, I’ve already got plans … we’re having company … Hilding Skivling has some things for me … you know how I getwhen I’ve got the chance to cum in an unkissed mouth! … And tomorrow Schönhuber and Le Pen are stopping by for coffee and cookies …

Benny shoved off after a few more buts and ifs, his face hanging like a hound’s. Then me and Grandpa went on a walk down to the river and then over the flatstones.

— My old Grandpa wasn’t much for talking, said Grandpa. But he wrote up a storm! … On deadleaves, fishscales, the loamy sand down by the troutstream … Yes, us Grandpas are handy with words, it comes from our homeland … But I want to hear them taken by the wind … scattered by echoes!!! eeechooo … eechooo …chooo …

The word rolled around, suffered, died, and vanished.

— True knowledge is powerlessness, mite … hotair is your legacy … First you play tricks with words, then it’s words playing tricks on you … Words are like barnodors, once they’ve taken root, they’re there forever … Then they make the rules, they drive you out of your mind …

He laid both hands on my shoulder.

— Promise me one thing, mite … Read as little as possible …

— I promise you, Grandpa!

— This is probably how my brain looks, Grandpa said, picking up a handful of lichens.

— Dry and airy … Das Gehirn ist ein Irrweg … Once thoughts and images are in your skull, it’s impossible to protect yourself against feelings … Feelings are like scarletfever and measles and mumps … a child can survive them, but once you’re a man, it’s your life on the line … I think I had feelings once, mite, even if

I can’t remember what it was like … They vanished, fell out like babyteeth, because when you grow up you need something else to bite with … When you’re grown, when you’re a Grandpa, for example, feelings just make you want to die … you want to laugh, puke, and hug someone, but there’s no doing any of that … It’s like being eaten up from the inside … a sorrow not even death can remove … and you know deep down you can’t tolerate it! nowaynohow! Then you’ll prefer living life freestyle!! You get along somehow! thoughtless! emotionless! careless!

We went home arm in arm, and I stifled my every passing fancy so zealously I got a stitch in my side. Two weeks later we learned that Benny had gone straight home and shot himself with an old Mauser. Instead of getting down to business, though, the bullet had just played ringaroundtherosy in his head, and now Benny was completely paralyzed. He still had his sharp wits, he just couldn’t talk.

— Pity, he was a honey of a man, Grandpa said and sent a “Get Well” card showing a coalblack nigger fucking a lilywhite virgins tender asshole. She looked like she was enjoying it.

__________

Bert Karlsson — Swedish entrepreneur, politician, and founder of the reality TV show Fame Factory

Kooperation — Swedish cooperative union and wholesale society

The Melody Festival — annual Swedish music competition

The Marleners slithered in. Hilding is nice and warm, he tastes like maranathasmegma. His son, Royal, though, is a little too good. He’ll do whatever you want if the price is right.

— Damn, you got all scrawny! Grandpa complained, putting his claws in front of his smokedried face.

— Take it for what it’s worth, but you turn me on, Hilding wheezed and frenchkissed my Grandpa. Then he gave him a smoke.

— Your tobacco is blasphemously good, darling, Grandpa twittered, taking a drag and moaning like a dollarstorewhore.

— You’ve got a nice head of hair, boy, Royal joked. But that’s one fat dick — what’s wrong, you got cancer?

— I think you’re starting to go soft, mousling! You want me to tame you?! Hilding shouted and hoolahooped with his lovehandles.

— Uh, thanks, I think, I babbled.

— You smoke like a girl, Royal bawled and fondled my crotch. Then he stuck a wad of burning Greve Hamilton between his fuckready lips.

Grandpa stared me down, eyes gone wild, what was going to happen next?

— You’re not scared of me, are you?

— What’s that you’ve got, Grandpa? I stammered.

— A guanobat to plug the ass of a nosybrat! Grandpa howled and forced me to asssmoke a cigar. Then he shoved it up wrong-ways, so the room smelled like burntintestine.

— That’ll teach you to get cute, you little nervousnelly.

— Damn, what I wouldn’t give for a fuckhungry toddler about now, Hilding chuckled. My old man, you know, seduced Abd Ur Rama when he was still a giggly young cockteaser and you know as well as I do that he was the devil himself. He was devilishly fond of ramming nails through our balls. < >f course, there wasn’t any point in crying to mommy or hanging on her apron strings. When that happened, the old man would just make a pitchhat from squirrelcunts and wrap it around the pissmakers of us whoresons. When he ripped it off, we’d be smooth as babes between the legs. But it made men of us.

— I remember how my old Grandpa did it, Grandpa said. If some little mama’s boy started bitching and moaning about this and that, he’d slice their belly open, wrap their intestines around their head and neck, and bite them like Satan himself until the little tyke had learned to keep his fretting to himself.

— You’re full of shit, you old geezers, Royal declared and took a flask from his partybriefs. This’ll put hair on your tits.

Grandpa threw his arms around our guests and showed them into the living room. They made themselves comfy on the sofa, and I crouched on the floor like a curdog.

— A shot of brandy is good for the loving, Grandpa told them, taking a slurp from our homemadedistillery’s mainhose. The Marleners guzzled turpentine and chainsawoil, and I sucked on a ragsoaked in paintthinner. No one said anything for a few minutes, and I started to feel goodlooking and goodforsomething.

— The boy should be guzzling mongoloidpiss! Royal suddenly shouted, and Grandpa kicked me down to the cellar for the pissbucket.

— This is premium grade piss, you know — only the best village idiots have been invited to make a contribution, Grandpa bragged. And then he hooted: Bad behavior will earn you a calfweaner!

I went down on my knees and drank piss until I choked. It tasted like a lovesick girl’s mouth. Then Grandpa took me on his lap and brought me back around.

— Everything is all good now, he cooed. You know how I hate it when you whine. But its all over.

He squeezed a gluetube onto my tongue and gave me some ethanol to wash it down with.

— That’s right, scrub that foul taste right out of your mouth, he said. Go ahead and cry me a river, while I ram your shithole with a candlestick.

He hummed “with lovely lips you’ll always have a baby in your arms.” Then Hilding struck up a Lappish tune, “The Song of Kuckumaffen,” and Royal whistled “you’ve got your red meat here, you’ve got your meathole there, your red meat, your meathole, right up the fucking asshole …”

— Now let’s have a bite to eat! Hilding shrieked in falsetto.

— It’s BYOB, kids, Grandpa declared, he’s always a real scrooge. So what have you brought?

— Grandpa, you know I’ve had it rough. When I was young, we came in a souppot to make dumplings. We’d bite slivers fromthe inside of our lips for bologna. It was a real feast when Daddy brought home some pubichair. Creepycrawlies made a banquet, indeed. We ate dandruff for desert.