Philipp Winkler - Hooligan

That was probably plenty for my grandparents, and they yelled, “That’ll be enough now!”

And then my grandpa pointed toward the street and said, “Axel, you leave right now,” and his fleshy toad’s throat wobbled under his chin, and Axel spat on the ground and went past them and called for Sabine. They drove off, and we didn’t see them for a long time, and there was no more playing football with Grandpa that day, but he turned on the television for Manuela and me in the sitting room, and he and Grandma and Mom and my father sat in the kitchen for a long time that day and we kids weren’t allowed to get anything to drink and had to keep on watching television even when there wasn’t anything on that would interest kids.

The only thing I took along from home was the pair of shoes that I have on now. Everything else seemed like unnecessary ballast or things I could buy new. Either way. I’ll never set another foot on Arnim’s farm.

The rain started up again as I drove through Wunstorf’s industrial area. By now it’s turned into hail that pounds on the hood of the hatchback and rolls down or collects in long piles along the wipers. It’s already dark. There’s no light on at my parents’ place. There’s no car in the driveway. Everyone’s gone. I hope that’s also true for the pigeons. I leave the car there without locking it. It’ll only take a couple minutes. I open the trunk and remove the canister I bought on the way to the gas station and filled with super at the pump. In long strides, I push through the overgrown path along the shed. Stomp down on stinging nettles and thistles. My feet have become blocks of ice. I should have put on fresh socks too. My pants are soaked and covered with mud, and I ruined the fresh pair of shoes with the dirty socks. With swinging steps, I wade through the tall grass that bends heavily under the weight of the weather. A fine sleet pounding down stings my face like needle tips. I bet I’ll be knocked out of commission with a fucking cold next week. But that’s okay. When tomorrow’s come and gone, I think I’ll want to sleep a month anyway. After that, in the new year, life can go on. Refreshed and cleansed.

The pigeon coop stands before the garden like a dark, musty mausoleum out of a horror flick. I grab the handle of the canister tighter and reach into my jacket pocket with my free hand. I briefly put the canister down and bang against the coop. I managed to get here in time, before the pigeons have returned. I open the door. Inside it’s relatively dry and almost cozily warm, so I feel an overwhelming urge to just lie down in the middle of the coop on the hay. I grab the bright orange gas canister and unscrew the cap. It dangles down the side on a plastic string. I grab the cap, rip it off, and toss it behind me in the grass. Then I place one foot inside the coop and shake out the gas vigorously, so it goes everywhere. Till the canister is three-quarters empty. I don’t know if it’ll do any good, but I pour the last quarter over the steel roof and let it run down the side walls. I toss the canister back behind me. It produces a whistling noise as it flies through the air, then lands with a thump, softened by the grass. I bend over again. The gas fumes smell fucking great. I take a deep breath. They make my head very light and give my stomach a pleasant nausea that I need right now for some reason. As long as something changes. To notice again that a body exists around myself that reacts to the outside environment. I pull my Zippo out of my jacket pocket and light it. I hold it in front of my eyes for a moment and expect a flame to shoot up, followed by an explosion coming toward me out of the gas-drenched coop and catapulting me into the air. I’m forced to note with disappointment that nothing like that happens. I fling the Zippo into the middle of the coop and watch as the floor immediately catches fire. It looks like the almost transparent flames are floating over the gas. As if it wasn’t the gas itself that burns. Within a couple seconds, the circle of fire spreads in all directions and reaches the walls, the shit-covered perches. The straw spread everywhere does its part. At some point, it’s so hot my body reacts by itself. My head jerks back. I close the door to the coop and sit down on the patio. It crackles. Reminds me of fires the five of us always used to light in the field behind the Seidels’ property. While Jojo, Kai, Ulf, and I fell asleep between our empty cans, Joel preferred to go inside and sleep in his bed. Then he woke us the next morning and brought us a thermos of coffee that Mrs. Seidel had brewed for us. I want to light a cig and pat down my pockets till I realize my lighter is in the middle of the flames. This makes me laugh and I can’t stop. I sit there a couple minutes, watch the gigantic torch that used to be the pigeon coop as its blaze successfully fends off the sleet, and laugh my head off like a fucking psycho. Till I tell myself, That’s enough! Then I flip the cig into the fire. The steel roof is already drooping and falling away. I leave the garden the way I came. Before I climb into my hatchback, I listen out into the night. Still no sirens to be heard. And I slip away before that changes. I drive to Wotan Gym. Maybe I can find some sleeping pills somewhere there. Not too many. Just enough to knock me out till tomorrow morning and I’m fit. ’Cause tomorrow’s a big day.

My eyes literally pop open. I frantically search for my phone and look at the time and date, firmly believing I’ve dozed for days and slept through everything. It’s December 18th. Ten after nine. I’ve got such a dry mouth, as if I’d dissolved a fizzy tablet in my oral cavity. I undress and take a shower, motionless. Use one hand against the tiled wall to support myself and let the stream of water wash down from my head over my body. The previous day seems unreal and more like a dream the tranquilizer made me imagine. But the sight of my wrecked clothes is enough confirmation that yesterday really happened. I wad them together, throw them into the trash can, and pull my athletic clothes out of my locker: T-shirt, jogging pants, and tracksuit top. The knees on the pants are grass green. Old, brownish blood stains on the T-shirt. The stuff I was wearing a couple of months ago against Cologne. I take a stroll down the street to the nearest bakery and choke down a Coke and two rolls with meat spread on them. No idea when the last time was I really felt hungry.

An hour and a half later, Axel comes into the gym. He’s clean-shaven and smells freshly showered, making his boxy jaw and asshole chin stick out even more.

“Ready?” he asks. “Want to see a straight-A performance from you today.” Then he places his hand on my shoulder and turns me like a water faucet, so I have to look at him. “Once everything’s gone down to my satisfaction, we’ll sit down together, okay?”

“Hmm,” I mumble and stare straight through him.

Deep inside, I feel the urge to swat away his hand and slam the heel of mine under his nose. He presses his lips together and makes a fatherly sound. Then he pats me on the cheek and goes into his office.

The others slowly dribble in during the next few hours. All of them are talkative. Like kids before a field trip. Can’t keep their traps shut anymore. Töller comes through the door and immediately starts to loudly proclaim that the central train station is full as fuck with police in riot gear. Fences and barriers everywhere, and you could see cops with binoculars and walkie-talkies on the towers across from the station. After he’s finished his monologue and joined the other rowdies who were chattering away like the worst gossip girls, I slip back into the locker-room, stick the earbuds of my MP3 player into my ears, and crank up Grime to the max till the battery quits and it stops. The inner circle of fifteen men divides up into the cars. My uncle says the rest of them will join us at the Ihme complex. People from the fringes of our “operation,” friends and acquaintances, former members who wanted to prove their mettle again on this occasion, a couple from the security scene at Steintor, and a handful of guys from Hannover’s Angels chapter. As we climb in, Axel says there won’t be a dress code today, that “everyone has to make sure he doesn’t go off on one of our own.” Then we drive off, staggered a couple minutes apart.