Assisted Living: A Novel (13 page)

—What are you doing, you garbagegrub? he screamed and punched me where it counts.

In the meantime, Grandpa had knocked Royal out with a piece of firewood. Marlene was what you might call a hardened fighter, but I grabbed his dick and squeezed until he laid down his weapon.

—Leave off, mite, Grandpa said, clutching his heart, you’ll be the death of me! You know, Hilding Marlene, you’re the worst thing I’ve seen since Olga Korbut and Ida Nudel sang “Dancing in the Streets” in Babi Yar! plus you’re a real balltwiddler when it comes to the old pushandshove!

—And you’re fucking sick in the head, snapped Hilding.

—Nah, I just got a foul mouth, but I want you to do something for me, Grandpa told him. I want you to clean my hiney. And then I want you to take it all back.

—Tell your funboy to drop my rod first, Hilding sulked.

—As if you’d get off so easy. No, it’s Holmträsk justice for you.

Hilding proved to be a good asskisser, and Grandpa began to purr with enjoyment. But Marlene was tired and hot and got into trouble when he burst Grandpas favorite boil. It was the one he’d got the Pekka Langer Medal from PRO(c) for.

—Go get him!

I went to town on Hilding’s nuts like there was no tomorrow and that stopped him in his tracks. He was too drunk to really feel pain, though. Without a word he dragged Royal out the door, through the empty hall, out the front door, past the trashpile, through the sewerpit, and into their car. Then they wobbled and jerked away.

—Byebye now, and if more like you turn up, we’ll say byebye to them, too! I yelled after the Marleners.

—Now, I knew Hilding was a bastard, but I never thought he’d go and make such a fool of himself. He can’t fuck, he can’t fight, what a fucking buggerbeast! But you did good, boy, he told me, giving me a thumb’s up in just the right spot.

—Let’s kill the kids, I said, mainly because I wanted Grandpa to myself.

We went in, leaving the starry sky to cast its spell over the ashgray landscape. One kid was already dead, but the other tried to fight back. Grandpa knifed him and let him bleed out.

—Tomorrow we’ll put them in the trashbag and toss them out with Hilding’s gun.

Grandpa went around and turned off the lights and then we went to bed. Grandpa washed up with jewfatsoap and gypsyshampoo. I gurgled with ammonia. After that, we were almost ready for bed.

—Say a prayer to my old Grandpa in hell, Grandpa ordered, pulling a poliosweater over his head.

—He who knows what a child is, fuck me because I’m small, wherever I go in this world, fill my hands with shit, Satan comes, Satan goes, he loves sheepdick, that’s all, I recited.

—I don’t have any energy for flirting and fondling, mite, Grandpa said after we’d crept under the pigskin. Stick a cherry-bomb up your ass and light it.

I had to do what he asked, because he’s a hard man. Afterward, he licked my sweetspot.

—Fall nights are like a kid’s ass, always wet, he mumbled before he slept.

He snored like a hornytoad. Softly, I stroked his beautiful head and dried the tears off his dry, cracked chin. Then I crept as near him as I could, pressed my body close and shook with silent sobs. I hadn’t been this horny since my dad’s mom died.

__________

Greve Hamilton
—Swedish pipe tobacco

Abd Ur Rama
—a fakir who turned up in Skellefteå in the 1930s and liked to stick long, coarse nails through diverse body parts

pitchhat
—a gummy leather cap that sticks fast to a child’s scurfy, lice infested skull; when it’s pulled away, it takes both hair and dandruff with it

weaner
—anti-suckling device used on calves

metho
—denatured alcohol

epileptric …
—literally “prince sausage,” a small Swedish sausage

Bukuttingi
—literally “high hill,” one of the largest cities in West Sumatra

Rascher
—Sigmund: Nazi doctor who carried out altitude and cold experiements with deadly results in the concentration camps

Gundestrup cauldron
—Celtic archeological find

Gosta “Snoddas” Nordgren
—Swedish singer and actor

Olga Korbut
—Belarusian gymnast

Ida Nudel
—Soviet-born Israeli activist

Holmträsk justice
—the way of the fist

Medal from PRO(c)
—an award instituted by the breakaway faction of the Public Retiree Organization, PRO-cocksuckers; given to the cock-sucking fogy with the fattest and ripest assboil

The one thing I remember about living with my dads mom is that she liked to keep an even tone. She had a habit of suppressing laughter … I think Grandma was obese … complex … addicted to smokes … she knew what people were about, gave them all they could stand … she never talked to me, what would be the point of that … not that it made any difference … she took me in so she’d have someone to blame … she was enough and more than enough … she knew a thing or two … folded up toward the finish … she’d have had plenty left to take out on other people, if she hadn’t been so goddamned horny … everyone said so … they were right, though it sounds strange … we had it good, though … I and she … she and I … we just shut each other out … nothing was ever planned in advance … she wrung each day by the neck … sometimes she was sick … nothing to do then but starve … she’d sit with her head under the faucet … running cold water for hours … for days … she never told anyone what was wrong … she had a nose for slaughtersites … good grub to be had there … it was enough … since I received, I kept my mouth shut … she was a midwife once … when people got all upset at her, she just stonewalled them … she didn’t give a fuck … no point in getting your dander up … let them keep on keeping on, if that’s how they wanted to play it … that’s just how she was … I was safe … nothing ever changed … day and night, summer and winter … there was just a kitchen and a Grandma … a silence like outerspace … she did the best she could … it was the way she was made … it was all she’d ever known … she wouldn’t tolerate baloney and hogwash … if things weren’t normal, she made them that way … order and manners never killed anyone … she didn’t want to be a bother … didn’t want to make a fuss … just wanted to keep an even tone …

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!

__________

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 …”

__________

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 …”

—Amen.

—Now, my little cuddlemuffin, let’s go find the Grail! or at least Sampo!

We dragged the pair out of the backseat … they’d both shit themselves … Grandpa took out half a dozen goldfillings with a pair of pliers … the man had bitten his tongue off … We climbed in, buckled up, and burned rubber. Before we came to Dalkarsliden and the outskirts of town, we’d already run a Volvo off the road and squashed a racoondog flat.

—This is called The Sinking Valley …

I understood why. Grandpa tossed an empty bottle out of the window at a hundred and ten MPH, and pinged a small child’sdad right in the head. A sign warned us to beware of “Living Dead Children.” Skellefteås a huge disappointment … All roads lead to black decay. Its not a real city by any means … just barracks and bivouacs … if you have too much zest for life, thats the place for you … People who stop in Skellefteå have nowhere else to go … the descendents of a worthless race … Suffering from the Skellefteå Blight … a deadly disease that saps the muscles, nerves, and will … the nasty Västerbotten Syndrome … a slight mentalretardation and skinrash … More people die in Skellefteå every year than in the rest of Sweden combined … The death struggle is longer and more painful … Skellefteårs are mean, when they get their courage up … sheltered … ingrown … Good at keeping things quiet … holding themselves aloof … making things easy for themselves … Pigs in men’s clothing … the legendary nineteenth century townies “B. C.,” “Lord Grogg,” and “Hin Håles Juvel” used to live here … Now the town is just a mishmash of debris … apemen … A Skellefteår knows everything in advance … understands how everything works … carries a big stick … is quick on the draw … He’s got conviction … everything he touches and sees shrivels and turns gray … one hand washes the other … industry and information … money and sex … pollution and trash … Skellefteårs are zombies in limbo … freezedried … frostbitten …

The biggest thing to happen in Skellefteå was when AIF won the hockeybockey gold in ’78 … They’re still high off it … going on and on about their smackdown … slapdown … uprising … Skellefteå is Sweden Sports Central … everything else is lower on the totempole, there … sometimes the Sunnanå tribaders even make it up here … there’s no baseball, because there’s no competition … Sports are useful and important … they don’t wear out your brain … Skellefteå has hatched two world-class balltalents … Jocko Nyström and Erika Norberg … that’s something to be proud of … not everyone has seen Wilander and Malmsteen dangle balls … People are shorter in Skellefteå than in Kågedalen … they’re quicker, even though they’re fatter … they’re good with the analphabet … In Skaeliptom, which was the old name for the place, most people are welfare cases and minimumwageworking socialautocrats … Though there are a few mongotheists who own their own shops and eat their meals with a knife and a fork … they’re considered highclass … They go to the theater … they’re experts in selfdeception … the hollow pillars of society … if you cover your eyes, you don’t have to see how things are … In Skellefteå, it always pays off to stay poor in spirit … people are mean and soulless … It’s always good to be around and about yourself alone … to gossip about others … People here have narrow eyes and forgettable faces that are hard to get used to …

“Furthermore, since they did not think it worthwhile to retain the knowledge of God, He gave them over to a depraved mind, to do what ought not to be done. They have become filled with every kind of wickedness, evil, greed and depravity. They are full of envy, murder, strife, deceit and malice. They are gossips, slanderers, God-haters, insolent, arrogant and boastful; they invent ways of doing evil; they disobey their parents; they are senseless, faithless, heartless, ruthless …”

—Time they realized Jarry and Vaché have come to town! Grandpa exclaimed and screeched to a halt before a climacteric-crossing.

—Molloy and Malone! Caiaphas and Judas! I shouted.

—Hooboy! Trying on Grandpas shoes, eh!

When the pedestrians thought they were safe, Grandpa did a burnout and hit two old women. They arced through the air, clutching their handbags … Then Grandpa drove up on the sidewalk and hit a carriage. Mother Cluck threw herself into the street. “Crazed Driver” is what the headline will say, but what’s wrong with having a little fun so long as you’re only hurting other people? We were doing ninety when we passed the Kaplan School and made our way down to Kyrkholmen.

—Hophophop! shouted Grandpa and we threw ourselves out of the car.

The car was thundering toward the river while we were rolling in the grass. Grandpa laughed until he choked and I had to thump him on the back. Then we trotted up toward Bonnstan, where the farmers used to hold booze-and slaughterfests during church holidays. Gray and dullred sheds made of leaky wood.

—This summer we’ll burn the whole stinking shithole down!

Two girlygirls dressed in pastels came cycling along. They were about my age and ohsosweet. Grandpa whipped out some scissors and attacked one. She had long, wheatgold pigtails, which he hacked off at the roots. When she yelped, he cut a hunk of rosyflesh from her cheek and popped it in his mouth. She was so shocked she fainted. Dolly number two shrieked and peddled away, but I hopped on the second bike and chased her down. We both fell, and I punched her hard enough that she sprang a leak and shut up. About time. I went back to Grandpa … he read me a eulogy … Then we went down to Nordanå … publicpark … historichouse … museum … playground … There are huge trees there, lindens and I-don’t-know-what-the-fuck else … Thrushes and sparrows lead doomed lives … They’ve got the Swannery … a few ponds with ducks, geese, and swans … we wandered around … Grandpa chuckled … Satan’s cruel as a child … It was a Sunday, so families with small children were showing their faces … who are they trying to fool … birds are icebound in winter … then they thaw out again … old railbirds and young-scamps threw half loaves of bread into the gasbubbling water … creampuffs … busschedules … the birds ate it all … I adjusted my snuffwad … even my fingernails had frostbite … We stopped at a fence … ducks waddled and quacked … I heard voices … A swan glided forward … it was knobby and huge … Grandpa picked up a sharp rock and took aim … He threw it as hard as he could and hit the swan in the head … The bird screamed, flinched, forgot itself … tried to fly though its wings were clipped … blood ran down its neckfeathers … people gasped … looked at each other and started whispering.

—What the hell did you do that for? some nappyhaired family-man asked.

—He looked at me funny, Grandpa said and slouched away.

At the next pond, unsupervised kids were hanging out … a mess and a fuss, nothing to do but get pissed off … Grandpa grabbed a little kid in pink rompers, slurped down its juicyjuice, and tossed the kid into the water.

—Sorry, kinky cherry …

Several mammalian lifeforms rushed at Grandpa, hooting and hollering … Grandpa shyly defended himself with knifedrawn … The kid floated on its stomach … splashing listlessly … woolcap bobbing … One of those big crocodiles Grandpa had planted there in the seventies, graygreen and grinning broadly, took the kid in its jaws and rolled him down to the sewers … Meanwhile, the old bitches weren’t playing nice … they’d decided to teach us a lesson … fucking PMSers … screeching to high-heaven … Grandpa cut a couple down to size … Then we hauled ass toward what passed for a downtown.

—We’ll have to visit the museum and alter history some other day!

We ran … they were still chasing us … Grandpa isn’t exactly Bikila … they were gaining on us … snapping at our heels … breathing down our necks … three sturdy boys in real bluejeans … Grandpa couldn’t catch his breath … he was wheezing like babyhamsters sucked up a vacuum … He stopped … laughed at fear … they started in on him … knocked him down … taunted and threatened him … scrapped in the gravel … the devils … it wasn’t going well … they didn’t give a fuck about me … I found a weapon … a cracked baseballbat … I struck without thinking … crushed the skulls of the two who were holding Grandpa … the third kicked out at me … the bat was useless … I rushed him … butted his crotch with my head … he folded … I headbutted him hard and heavy … when he lay curled on the ground, I started kicking him with my Doc Martens … until he cut the bullshit out … Grandpa finally got to his feet … his suit was definitely ruined … I dusted him off as well as I could …

—That was just mean … what a fuss, just because I took his juicyjuice … he didn’t even want it … But now we definitely need a real drink!

We headed downtown as charliehorses ran races up and down Grandpa’s legs.

—Everything’s closed, Grandpa!

—Calm down, boy … Trust me …

Most of what I’ve written about Skellefteå is stuff Grandpa’s told me. I asked him how he knew so much about the town.

—I had a little lover here … once upon a time, before I was a Grandpa … He was beautiful both above and below … but his ass would get so tender, one time I couldn’t even get my ringfinger up it … If he were still living here, we might arrange an introduction. There are too many dead souls here … evilspirits … more than I can stand, now that I’m sobering up …