Nikanor Teratologen - Assisted Living - A Novel

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AROM — Artificial Rupture of Memuranes

stressgut — lit. translation of Swedish stresstarm : Irritable Bowel Syndrome

LO and SAF — the Swedish Trade Union Confederation ( Landsorganisationen ) and the Swedish Employers Association ( Svenska Arbetsgivareförening )

stresshunt — lit. translation of Swedish stressjakt : when the hunter gives his prey no respite and so wears it out

kal-lukä—dear-cut

Kharlamov — Valeri: great Soviet hockey player

Oskar Ernst Bernhardt — an imprisoned merchant in Weimar Germany who founded the Grail Movement and claimed he was the Messiah

Gazin or Aristov — see The House of the Dead by Fyodor …

Holmér — Hans: Swedish police chief responsible for the (botched) investigation after the murder of prime minister Olof Palme

Lönnå—Kjell: Christian choir leader and TV host

Moomins Run Amok —Moomintrolls, characters in various comic strips and books by Tove Jansson

Gavrilo Princip — assassinated Franz Ferdinand in Sarajevo and started WWI

Paul Tibbets — dropped the Hiroshima bomb

— As I live and breathe! Hugo Silvergran exclaimed, gawking through a crack in the door, whos this illustrious person standing on my doorstep? Is it Grandpa out trolling for quarry?

— Ah, Hugo, Grandpa coughed, by the Goat Lord, how I’ve missed you!

— Listen, friend, I thought it was just the opposite, Silver-gran smiled coquettishly. You weren’t so eager the last time you stopped by.

— Can you ever forgive me? Grandpa sobbed and lit a purpleciggi in a hipgirdleholder, I’d give anything to undo the past.

— That all depends, Hugo declared. In my heart of hearts I know you’re gooey as a baby’s ass, Grandpageezer, but dear Lord you’ve got a mouth on you.

— I’m begging you on my knees, Grandpa blubbered and folded up like a prayingmantis. You know it hurts me, he wailed, we know each other inside and out and we’ve had so many beautiful times together!

— Yeah yeah, so we might as well make up, Hugo laughed dryly. Quit your groveling, you’ll ruin your fancy clothes.

Grandpa had on a sulphurcolored smokingjacket, a nice shock-pink pullover, his pissyellow, flared gabardinepants, and a pair of saffron pumps. His SS-cap was set at a jaunty angle. I was dressed for going out in my comfy leather and rubber getup. It was elkmatingseason and the hunters were out in fullforce. Volleys of bullets echoed through the marshes of Drängsmark. A cow with leadpeppered flanks drug herself into a bramblesnarl only to be met by a flamethrower. Since cock-, cunt-, and bellyshots give hunters the most prestige, a swarm gathered around the wounded animal, which bellowed in pain and heat.

— I’ve got something on the stove, you might as well come in and have a bite, Silvergran offered. The boy can come too, he added graciously, arranging his moldy features in what was meant to be a smile. It just looked like he’d swilled some sperm and lost all his money, though.

— Thanks for the offer, I’m just overwhelmed, Grandpa gushed, cuddletousling his hairwisps.

Then he strutted into the peatwalled entrancehall and pushed his way through a thicket of homespun paraphernalia. Finally, he shouldered his way into Hugos kitchen. I followed with a lump of oldcum in my throat, and last came Hugo, waddling along on gangrenous legs. Grandpa swept off his coat and hat elegantly and threw himself down at the kitchentable. He spit in my face and made me climb into the gynechair normally reserved for Hugos clientele. Silvergran wasn’t looking too good. He wrapped a spermflecked angorasweater around his bumblebee waist and adjusted his Lovikkasuspenders. His varicoseveiny legs were bare and thick socks swallowed his feet. He had some nasty suckscarson his tits and turquoise curlers in what was left of his hair. His skull was carrionyellow, his hairlipped mouth was an angryred, and those frogspawn eyes of his were cataractwhite. As soon as he got into the kitchen, he stuck a sheet of newborn babyheads into the gas oven.

— You know, it fucking sucks, he complained; to get these right, you have to grease the sheet with cuntjuice from gigglygirls.

— The hell you say, Grandpa exclaimed and injected his temple with a cannula of heroine. How do you come by it, and how in the name of Mary Mother of God’s gnarly anus can you handle that stuff?

— I know this Afrochap, who’s bi. And, you know, that crazyass mofo fucks so many of the lesserbreed that he’s getting sway-backed. So when the cows are grimacing and writhing, he’s usually able to milk them for a couple of deciliters. I trade him some cartilageporridge for it and then I suck his salami.

— That just makes me want to puke, Grandpa moaned sybaritically. Still, I don’t begrudge you your babyheads, Hugoito. What do you use to stuff them?

— A homemade mixture of boogerstew, steelwool, conductoreyeballs, carbuncles, and sulfuricacid.

— Have you ever thought about using luespurée?

— Nah, that’s way too hoitytoity, Hugo said defensively.

Grandpa took dainty girlypuffs from his ciggi. Then he cleaned his Ahnenerbe glasses and stared illnaturedly at Silvergran’s plumpass. Hugo was tinkering at the stove, brushing a sauce made from syrup, ketchup, and sawdust over some tumoraspic. Grandpa began to flip through an issue of the Svensk Damtidning , absentmindedly dribbling a spitblob on Princess Victoria and, sansanima, playing with my stiff little cock.

— So how are things with you, he finally said, mostly to break the silence, which was starting to writhe in agony. Are you just wasting time and jacking off or do you see a little cock every now and then?

— Ah, you know how it is: you have to be around and about to get something on and in yourself, he joked, swallowing a snotcube.

— I’m just so goddamned happy to see you again, Uno, Grandpa gushed. Fuck me, but I think I’ll just whip it out and go.

— God, you’re making me blush, Hugo said, going red and digging out a handful of dingleberries to garnish the aspic with.

— You know, I never thought fornication was a waste of time. In fact you might say its been my life’s calling, Grandpa declared. If I do say so myself, Master Hämmerlein has been good to me. The fact is, I’m the fairest one in all of Kågedalen. My cock was forged in martyrs blood and it’s never forsaken its lord and master! Not once!

— You’re about as fair as an outfucked old pigfart’s gut, Grandpa, and your cock’s stiff as a maggot! a gruff voice bellowed from the door.

Two giants pushed themselves into the kitchen. The one who had spoken was clearly the leader, on account of his age and hard-headedness. He was none other than Kågeträsks firechief, Johan Westermark. He sank heavily onto the pigskinsofa, fixed Grandpa with a malignant stare, and pressed the barrel of his moosehunting rifle against Grandpa’s forehead.

— How should we do this, he asked arrogantly, swelling with selfsatisfaction and twisting his pigbristle mustache with legendary, agile lips.

— But Johan, whimpered Grandpa, who was really beginning to sweat now, why are you being so nasty? Are you just trying to make yourself unhappy?

— You’re so fucking smart, you old devil! the other man cackled in schadenfreude.

He was Ralf “Slurpykiss” Markland of Norrlångträsk, a hard MBD-geezer in a gray persianhat, a cottonsweater, and rainpants. His great passion was dynamitehunting burrowinganimals. However, he’d happily toss handgrenades at anything from ungulates to handitards on wheels. He had a stooped figure and his eyes were like snuffedout ciggibutts.

— Just tell me what I did to you, boss, Grandpa whined, twisting slender hands encased in blackvelvet, onanists gloves.