Nikanor Teratologen - Assisted Living - A Novel

When she died, I didn’t know what had happened … All I know is that Grandpa came and got me, and it started to tingle down there, and my heart started to pound … That’s where it started, the thing that will soon be ending. I decided to ask Grandpa if he remembered what it was like to be little.

— Not a damned thing! Lucky me!

— Can’t you remember anything?

— My old Grandpa ordered me not to remember … He was stout and proper … Carnap and Frege, they were his poison! He was stylish and popular! down to earth as you could get! strict with all and sundry! it wasn’t worth it!

— But how did you have it?

— My life was sunny! rosy! huddlycuddly! What a childhood … Fondled and coddled by all and sundry! If I didn’t have time to play, my friends would off themselves assemblyline style. Everything was grand, I was so fucking happy I don’t even want to think about it!

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Carnap — Rudolf: German-born philosopher who embraced logical positivism

Frege — Gottlob: German mathmatician and philospher, hes considered to be a founder of modern logic and analytic philosophy

I woke up to Grandpa emptying his balls on my face. He made me slurp the trickle from his head, and then he lay back down and read a Bamse story, the one where Little Hop meets Gut Twister. Grandpa cackled, struck a match on my eyelid and lit a ciggi. When he finished with the paper, he snubbed out his ciggi, shut his eyes, and stopped breathing for a few minutes. A gradufly crept into Grandpas cocainepitted nose, drawn by the soursweet scent of brainrot. I felt weak and wobbly, all I’d had to eat for the last few days had been a Saintpaulia.

Mumbleslumbering, Grandpa dug up a lecture about Henry the Fowlers winter campaign against the Hungarians in the year 920—according to the criminalchristiancalendar, that is. I let him talk, but I didn’t listen. Then he hummed a Grandpa original, a hymn to Basil II, the famous Bulgar-Slayer: “The Lord gave me thirty-thousand eyes to put out …”

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Bamse — in this case, a reference to “the world’s strongest bear,” a Swedish cartoon character

Henry the Fowler — German king from 919–936

gradufly — an insect drawn to curious or questionable smells

We were in Skellefteå on our way to Etage, a nightclub, but the townies there were all worked up.

— Fallrot makes them anxious, Grandpa said reassuringly.

So here’s what happened next … We went down to Bastuliden and stole an old Opel coupe. The owner came rushing out and grabbed hold of the bumper. He managed to stay with us a good long while. Then we drove up to Kågedalen again to see if Eilert and Signar could hang out, but they bailed on us. Fall was going strong, there was a riot of color wherever you looked. Just the right time for having a little fun. As usual, the old Kåge road-torturous curves paved with gravel — was too hard for Grandpa to take. He was all excited to try it anyway, though, so he put the pedal to the metal right where the road begins. At Twelve Meter Basin, we went into a ditch doing a good hundred-and-thirty. The car flew into a copse of trees, rolled once, and burst into flames, but we weren’t hurt. No, I just went through the windshield and bit clean through my lip. It only goes to show that even when were taking a falsestep, we’ve got fallenangels watching over us.

— Now you don’t need lipstick to pull a good pout.

We had to walk the last few kilometers. On the way, Grandpa speared some hedgehogroadkill with a stick and began to munch. Two cars tried to run us down; they honked and gave us the finger. We saw a bullelk with bloody antlers crushing a toddler in its jaws. He disappeared into a copse of young, white birchtrees that — slender and attractive — were being stroked brusquely by the east wind. Out toward Torp Road, we spied a nice ride parked off in the trees. It was a winered Saab Turbo. It was bumping and jumping, so we knew something funny was happening. We crept forward and Grandpa quietly opened the passenger door. The scene that greeted our eyes was enough to make a midwife blush: the shirted back of a man no longer in his prime, and pimpled asses moving like they had minds of their own … heaving and bucking … His tie was slung over his shoulder and he had on wrinkled, damp socks … his feet jerked when the door opened … Beneath him was some kind of animal … red, bloated, and panting … it looked like a caughtrabbit … whimpering and moaning in fearful ecstasy …

— What the fuck, the guy managed to say, but it was too late for prayers … too late for tears …

Grandpa put his knee against the guy’s back and mechanically wrapped a pianowire noose around his throat. After ten seconds the guy was ripe … he choked … drummed his feet … his dick jerked and spurted cream onto the stomach of whatever was beneath him … he shuddered and went still … It turned out the survivor was a woman. During the fuck, she’d been looking back over her shoulder … she looked tired and annoyed … didn’t know shitwas going down … just thought he’d cum too soon again … Then she saw Grandpa … who’d dared to disturb the great sacrament … she drew a breath to spew a bunch of filth … Grandpa wasn’t fazed … he just knelt on her whalebelly … seized her dirtyblonde, cheapoperm curls and fastened the noose behind her head. She didn’t put up a fight … that was smart … she was a fat cow … rolypoly … pigglywiggly … Hissing, Grandpa tightened the noose and she strangled herself trying to ease the tension … She was married, had long nails, a short lifeline … Her eyes had seen their share … her tongue was unbelievably long … bluish red … in between her chalkwhite teeth and fuckmered lips … she tried to claw at Grandpa, but couldn’t do much … so she just struggled … Grandpa’s grip wasn’t that strong … he asked her if she’d read Bram Dijkstra’s Idols of Perversity … she shook her head … slowly suffocated … her eyelids fluttered … the pianowire cut through her flesh … sliced her larynx … she finally twitched and went limp … her last breath was a pussyfart … Grandpa climbed out, wiped the sweat from his forehead with a piece of rubberfoam, and then washed his hands in a puddle. He lit a Dunhill and took a few swigs from a half Ballantyne’s.

— Holy Sebastian’s martyrium, I hope you didn’t see too much of that, kid … What they were doing reeks in God’s hairy nostrils. It’s every macho/maso-man’s duty to slaughter every copulating-couple he comes across.

— I hardly saw anything, Grandpa.

— Then we’re sitting pretty! You know, Montaigne says that nature gave us pain to honor and serve pleasure … Someone who’s got three or more fuckable openings just isn’t human … Remember, we’re Norrländers, not fucking Westerners! Didn’t gaunt Tacitus say in his Germania that even back then blond beasts had a hard time tolerating impudent whores? — “The pale and darkly dressed Harierna force their immoral women to shove vipers, burningbranches, and mouldymazarines up their diseaseinfestedswamps. Then they hang them by the ankles from the stiff branches of deadtrees and militaryrecruits get to use them for punchingbags. Publicatae enim pudicitiae nulla venia” … Also keep in mind that in his festive History of the Franks, Gregory of Tours tells the story of a synod in Macon in 585, where the declaration that “mulierem hominem vocitari non posse”—that is, “cunts ain’t human”—was met by a deafening roar of applause. Furthermore, Friedrich the Great says at the end of Ecco Homo that “All creative Dionysians are tough and live for destruction.” Even Jesus Christ shouted out: “I’ve come to destroy the work of women … As long as they exist, conception rules deaths dominion …”