dramma, horror, odd, prose

The Bitch

The Bitch

Miss, I know it’s none of my business that you’re by yourself on this bench, in the park, your face all wrinkled. You’re moving away.


Nice doggy. Poodle? It is looking at me lovingly and growling. It knows me from somewhere, here I am assailed by a new thought.


– Fifi, I will kick you, Fifi tear her apart, down to her tendons, veins and arteries, we must reach her heart. The bite of your Fifi, so generous…Miss Ana, may I call you Ana, mmm?…you’re stepping away. Don.t  Listen to me speak so unfortunate, alone, thankful for Your ear, don’t toss me away so easily. Might we get a bit more informal? Per tu… Flee, if you think me insane. You turn your head. Lemme sit down. One cigarette stub, nothing more. I want to embrace it with my teeth, tell you something and leave. You no longer resist, Ana. You are finally responding to my words by turning your head. I am an ungrateful dog. Ah well. At least I feel full now that I can sit next to you without obtrusion, even lie down and be with you in this way. Whenever so I desire.

You don’t think that we started this off in the best way possible? You, me, an abandoned bench and Fifi. Only solitude can make you put up with an insane person. Solitude and insanity.For I am insane. This is not mere circumstance, a particular one, of insanity. Many a bench puts up with an insane person, the streetcar bars hang the retards that hang themselves atop them and brush their sweat against the travelers. We are the rapists of our life pillars. Where do I start now? In what order should I tell you of myself? Of you? When there are so many topics you would like to hear? Well, let’s start somewhere…



If you put yourself in my position, you will see that all of this is quite a normal reaction. I link things up in the moment. You are to me the only woman on all of these benches where various Fifis are lined up to whom I want to entrust my case. The brain would think that I am the only one for you too. Why is it frightening then to have trust in a stranger? I beg the Stranger to listen to me. He is our representative when troubles ensue. Why is it frightening to sit still on a bench next to a man, who…who…




You must be under pressure too and have a lot of suitors on the bench. It is hard to keep all that plastic and those boards under control. Imagine them shoving close to each other, one, two, three. The bench would crack. I hope we settled this now.


I do not want to approach to other girls, on other benches. I am not polyamorous nor do I want to get into three-or-four benches, and then not know where to go first. You can change the bench, if you still had some prejudices. You are always the same to me. Perfect. No objections.


Let me bug you about myself a bit. Let me explain a bit, about how I wound up on the park bench.


I got a divorce six or seven minutes ago. Don’t look at me funnily, don’t bite that hand of yours, angel. For I am no longer aware of what the minute is, let alone the date. It isn’t something I really need to etch into my memory. I don’t complain, I had a harmonious marriage. No kids. A fireplace. The mother-in-law was a good knitter, I had a printstore and a gift shop. Still, one day, with everything between being a perfect system, the talking in the house simply died. Each to their own wall, grabbing a piece and warming their hands. The eyes of my mother-in-law were observing the needlepoint and got stuck there forever. I no longer drank coffee with my wife, and I won’t even go into dinner.


Nobody was commenting on the movie anymore!



If you were to ask my ex wife, we never argued once even during madness, or ovulation, or upon arrival of bills, let alone gifts and the packaging of the morning coffee, if you were to ask…who is to be blamed for the divorce, she would probably say: Him. He is to blame. Peter. You asking me?You asking?

-I’m asking.

-Thank you, Ana.I will say: Pipi is to blame…



That is how it came to pass.Fate? Possibly.

‘How so?’

A SIGH LATER, NEARLY A SECOND LONG She feels how a tear rolls down his face which, again, leaves the female listener across from them in a seemingly emotionally moved state. It appeared as if both the lady and the dog were listening carefully, while he struggled with his breath which he caught again in order to continue the tale, struggling with evidently lived pain and fear.

– It was all but smoke. Ash.Dark powder. Kind of like when you breathe in something indescribably nasty. The word Divorce has its own life, its own pulse. It has a cold air about it. Like if you were mid-Siberia. Nobody around.


– Okay, let me be brief, miss, because I could go on like this like Dostoyevski, meaning, unendingly.

He turned towards her in confidentiality and hopeful, but came to realize that the bench was empty. He nodded in acknowledging the realization. Still, her departure cannot prevent him continuing the story. A female conspiracy was put into action against him which culminated in a divorce, so the pile of dames and Fifi that are running from some singles’ benches out there in parks around town was nothing to him. Still it was getting dark, and the cold wind was slapping his cheeks. Glum, he was silent, for a man who’s alone does not speak, he merely lifts his hands in the air to drive a nail or two in his own coffin of solitude. We sink into silence as if it were the ocean. Only after we give ourselves up to dark thoughts does salvation come, a new chance which slides and stumbles amid the benches and park trees. A broad or two slide next to it, sailing along in the dim night, thick-thighs and scantily clad torsos all around. The pieces made up a woman spotting a cheap, bleached hair who held in her hand a worn-out knife and a cracked mirror.

– I shall tell you, I shall tell you all…utter it, my head bowed, as a perjurer and a profligate, the wrecker of the idyllic – the woman was looking at him in wonderment, and her eyes, cold and uncompromising, slid off of the glassy catafalque of the mirror which gave with its shine shadow to all of her wrinkles hidden by the night. She is telling a tale, giving birth to subplots, plots, her face moistened by cottony tears which wet the silent paper upon which he somehow writes and is getting angry before the cheat of life that she took his home, with a sudden, inappropriate silence.

– It all died, dear Lady. The shifty woman shrunk the man to the size of Tom Thumb. What she did to me, I am not too clear on even today. – The woman with bleached hair bowed her head towards him a bit, barely controlling the laughter concealed behind two rows of her overly huge teeth, snug and tightened into her corset which leaves nothing to the imagination, feeling that some sort of evil blood is flowing through this mad man’s veins, mad man who could be a killer, a kidnapper or merely a simple worn-out and pathetic basic life form without a penny to his name.

He continues his story, observing the soil at his feet not providing him with answers. He stomped on the broken bottle glass which was suddenly there, he gets even darker and retreats into the coat which reminded him of the coldness of the moment, as he spoke, as he was complaining to the mistress of the Night, the vampiress with eyeshadow on her lips and rouge round her eyes. He grabbed her bare forearm and squeezing her nickel, he looked at her as if he will growl at her at any moment. This is how he won her over to listen to him, his face was strengthened with peace, and his eyes shined and lips moved in tiny tremors, as if he were sucking on a succulent udders of an overly giving (generous, in the mood) cow.

– After the conversation died down, I would remain all by myself with the king size bed and the fridge, a television set partway to death and nothing else besides all that! The mother-in-law, of course, picked up her needlepoints with swearing and mewling and departed the three-roomed home demonstrably, she even denounced the kitchen. A hundred square meters, my fair lady, and all of THAT in the house.

– That?

– Oil sketches, San Vincenzo and Nature Morta done in needlepoint. She left it all there.

– And the wife?

– Left on a short trip, with Pipi, of course. Her animal mask.A bitch twin. Actually, I have this notion that this is all Pipi’s fault.

– It cannot be!


artist: Sofia Bonati

I know the nature of doubt. The whirlwind of trickery contains an endless number of smaller whirlpools of seemingly irrelevant events. Upon it all, I was willing and able to face her mother’s will who suggested that I was the worst man, one of devastating actions. Seemingly unnoticeably, she used potatoes instead of a fan. She stuck she-butterflies in slight potatoes in order to wave their wings in front of her shifty face. And my Anna, she was a sort of she-Oedipus…whatever the term for women is for that.

She is, for instance, bothered by doubt of me having an affair, and suddenly she would stop with the doubt and look at the mother-in-law. She would chew on her mouthfuls and smirking on the other side, the swollen side. In her own home she put on the mask of vengeance, since the marriage of her daughter to an older printer was a motive born out of pure lust of her naïve little Annie.

– Annie, you need a powerful man of Antique build. Just like the one whose muscles I stabbed here on my needlepoint.

However, she and her doubt became one. A stone of crude profile rolling and gathering various bits and bobs. But this was far before…before…


She went silent on one particular day in May, the 14th to be exact, after I have been outside of the house, for I have complicated my own life with freelance work, the earnings of which I wanted to use to buy her that piano she so desperately wanted. And more oil paintings, that Vincenzo for instance. That morning, hung over from work and sunken from the anguish, with sunken cheekbones from leaning them on the wrist of my weary hand, with my head like a lid of a burnt saucepan, I called her in my love for that phenomenon of a woman we love, a phenomenon for she has a hold of us by the coziest place in our heads where crushed husbands separated from their needs due to her more and more prominent headaches, and also faithful and honest, are collecting all sorts of cockroaches and ossicles…

– You killed our marriage – she explained and then it was all over with.

If I did in fact kill it, it was due to vast and enormous love.

– Oh, pish-posh!

The harlot rises and drags the cracked mirror along with her. She leaves the divorced man be. He is yelling at her, interrupted in his story yet again.

– Of course, all you want is money. More money, and then you will understand. You’re not going anywhere, because I have to finish what I started. Only the Harlot of the night can understand me. Want an ax in your head? No, that would be too violent, right?

She was flailing with the night where her butchery voice pierced the heavens. She escaped under the sight of an ax which was looking at her inquisitively, seeking for a spot where it could drive its blade and lay bare any hidden molars under her hair.

– Yes… – he sighed. – Still, I need no one. I will listen to myself.

He sat this way as if he were waiting for someone or something ,surrounded by thick foliage which loomed over him like threatening Titans, baroque rhetoric which cut open the silence of the night in the form of a whisper, he was sad, but talkative and clever .

However, he did not remain all by himself. He felt the presence of a young poodle which, with its bloodshot eyes and presence, lit up to him the entire bench scene along with its gigantic trees that stretched its tentacles from the windy side of the park above the head of the divorced man. Before him she growled angrily, with a sound created by lightning which gives shade to the stormy sky using its flashes of rage and wrath. The bark of the tiny Fifi, a multiple cloned poodle, was swallowing the silence, and its mane was lined with silvery lines of the aristocratic litter that was her skin. Oh how beautiful this Dame is.

The wooly hat on her head was undergoing piloerection and took on the shape of a well-coiffed hairstyle that Anna loved. Fifi’s eyes, painfully empathetic, gave away the female Dandy which was assessing the sufferer, only to jump into his lap and take off another chunk of meat. She growled silently, but pleased.

download (4)

– A bit slim, but still gracious. You will understand, little Fifi. You, oh pleasant comfort, wife with the bark of consolation, temperamental slicker with a button-nose. Coquette of humans, warm, come to my lap, Fifi, you realized, unlike your Mistress, that I did not poison her dog which was a present from her mother, her little Pipi. I did not, and even if I did, it was not out of jealousy, but the flesh, it was the toxic flesh, and she could not control her hunger. She bit me and poisoned herself.

I am full of cyanide, for I am alone and unloved. Pipi did, however, have some of your facial features, oh you coquette bitch. I laughed aloud after I had entered the apartment, as if I were entering a batcave, but it was not laughter that a happy being stretched out due to joy, it was desperation, it was torture. Even now I grin, but bareheaded and alone, I keep hiccoughing and do vomit on occasion, right here in this tiny nylon bag. Fifi, want some? No? She has criteria.

The dog jumped onto the bench and climbed into the divorcee’s lap.

– My sweet little poisoned Pipi. After Annie left, I went downhill completely. I lost my job, my printing shop. I closed my little store even before that. I lost my car. My Fiat Punto bought four months before the divorce for ninethousandandfivehundred Deutsch marks. Everything, everything went down following her leaving, everything except Vincenzo. Oh how I remember it, Pipi! It was me who was carrying sacks of cement on my back, setting up wardrobes, because I swore that I would set wardrobes up on our wedding day. I swore on the ring and my sound mind. Why did she leave me? Did love irrelevant to our wedding vows not burn within her? She was as steady as the wind, and as passionate as Aphrodite. Without a doubt, she found a better handyman…for her wardrobes.

– You killed our marriage the moment you poisoned Pipi. You could nto stand me loving her more than you.


Hearing this word, I realized that the time for pleasantries was up. Her face was the face of an offended lover, her face was wild, red, measured only in her lip movement. – You killed my Pipi. – Her face was however as sensitive as a plank, a she-avenger of her sweetheart which…and this keeps me in turmoil. For I had wanted a Fifi of my own, I wanted her gentleness and mercy. Thus they declared me an abuser of female canines and the poisoner motivated by jealousy and unreturned canine love.

When the car goes downhill, the thread we hold in our hand cannot stop it.

The words Shipwreck of a Marriage, or perhaps Catastrophe are getting closer with a steady gallop, the broken cart is oftentimes covered with FREEDOM inscribed on it, you could definitely see in that pile of worm-eaten boards a few that were intact and that could be saved as compensation and consolation that pushes us to the surface. The horizon of new hope is banging widely against the rubble and darkness and stopping somewhere on the doorstep of the golden stars which dive into the heavens readying new surprises, well known to Cupid. Lovely, broken down cart squealing in pain, derelict in the muck where the vipers squirm, let them!

This is when Annie undertook that type of tyranny which spiteful souls wear like a vein ulcer, and it is the tyranny of silence. ‘Intolerance’ – I spoke with my own tongue.

Upon poisoning Pipi, she got the idea of her own poisoning, which she would use as a tool against me. In vain were all of my reassurances that Pipi and I did not cross over to that other side of respect which would break down the relationships we have barked up carefully over the years, all for Annie. The fact that I did not have a dog of my own, as an antipode, or a cat, was speaking for itself. It is possible that my flaunting before her cutesy barking at times caused revolt and doubt that I am doing something underhanded or at least plotting revenge, for our eyes (Pipi’s and mine) often clashed in oolivegreen shines which spoke: The time will come… I was pretending so well. I hated Pipi the same way I loved my Annie.

Why did I hate her? That mutt was whom she kept in her lap, that mutt in her bed, fidgeting against her comb working on her locks – that mutt, smug and arrogant it fumbled around with its fur turning its ass to me in the process and shaking off the bug powder onto me, with the dignity of the household pet, it would shake its hips spitefully entering the Mistress of the house’s bedroom. I had never seen a haughtier creature than that bitch, self-absorbed, self-sufficient, subordinating everything and everyone to her will. If I were to step into Annie’s room, she would growl at me, and that tongue, that smooth tongue would be lolled out in my face and I could clearly hear her say: Get lost. I had never heard her say this out loud, because I am not insane…but her thoughts were telling me this, her eyes… within those pupils where wickedness spread, those were but tiny telltale signs sent by her eyes where a laughter of pleasure was splashing about, then tears of joy would trickle along with saliva and drool onto my trouser legs which she tore off with her teeth.

One lovely day, in the hallway, in front of my wife’s bedroom, I found Pipi’s corpse. I shrugged apathetically and muttered ‘At last’, like a ventriloquist. I wanted, with my own two hands, both firm and husbandly, those of the man of the house, to rashly burry the poodle’s locks of hair sprayed with Chanel into the treetop and to throw her away in a trashcan.


Annie found Pipi dead (‘she was scratching all night, using hope, faith and her love to me, her unconscious savior, to revive the stimuli which would keep her alive’) getting out of bed and opening the door with a smile on her pale grey face welcoming the morning, when she was met by an extended red tongue and rolled up eyes. The rug on the floor and the soft meat intensify the memory of Lili, her previous dog that was poisoned (by pure accident and the fault of the cat called Lilith, which was confirmed without a doubt). Looking at her Lil Pipi, her eyes bore both madness and glow. At first a time to rise, and now a time to descend.

She ordered Pipi’s corpse brought to her with a coarse voice. She observed the dead rug with its red tongue out and kept silent. Pipi’s body had an entire carpet of dust on it. That arrogant little beast, that dirtied bride was now at long last effortlessly observing the world. Her eyes were dim plates enveloped in cortex. Her whites were gone in the darkness, extinguished, never to be resurrected. Her corpse was covered in crusty boils of unknown origin. Annie lifted her up with her satin gloved hands and screamed into the darkness of the open maw of her dead poodle.

– No, this isn’t true, you cannot be dead!

I laughed and gave myself away. The laughter of a monster on the other side of the glass which was separating us clashed with the past of all the sorrows of Annie. Namely, for Pipi’s death (as claimed by the cook as a witness) a cat-like beast with her eye out was responsible, a beast that was advancing towards the window glass where Pipi stood with her ass out observing the world. I don’t have to tell you that this window was in my wife’s bedroom.


After the mysterious death of Pipi (so, the one completely confirmed by eyewitness reports, the cat that looked like it belonged to Poe, one eye, furious to the core, offered Pipi her plate, and Pipi licked it clean) Annie did not eat for days, bed-ridden, with eyes that stared dully in the distance… and when she got up, she said:

– I want to have a coffee with my husband.

I squealed in pure joy, to which she gave me an intense stare. Still, I could not even fathom what kind of marital problems awaited me upon Pipi’s unexpected demise, may she rest in peace.

– She was bad for you anyway… – I consoled her. – She looked like all of those popular starlets with their fucked up heads. Except she was a bitch, of course.

The door to our home suddenly became heavier. Far too heavy. So did the table, and the doors, and windows, and the coffee which was getting cold. The fear that she would think I had anything to do with the…with the poisoning…you know? No, you most certainly would not even think that, see I’m not some jealous husband, and jealous of dogs no less, those little bitches? No, I knew Annie’s temperament and fear of her accusing me was overtaking me and had its tongue out like a snake when twisting itself around a tree.

Everything was still peaceful, cozy around us. At the coffee drinking table there was fruit in a miniature flowerpot, flowers of padded red hair, a tiny Cupid framed in glass, photos of Pipi. Taken by the glee with which she posed with Pipi on the photos and the aforementioned Cupid, she took small sips of coffee and shot me a few times with tiny flashes of her tinier eyes, like a hard-working questioner, with an indifferent face.

– They should all be killed.

– Who, honey? – I asked mercifully.

– Those cats with rabies.

– Oh, yes.

– Beat them to paste.

– Ah yes. – I could barely utter any words, as if I were not drinking coffee, but eating a heavy porridge of glue.

– Pipi gave my life sense, and now I need something to put me down and to sleep when the sense is gone – Annie said this and took a few chill pills.

– A shame that I don’t have a sniffer. Eh, what do I need it for, oral use is better. Twice oral, before and after coffee. Give me that silver teaspoon on the table. Those bloody cooks steal silverware. Ah well. I will crush it next time. I don’t like to swallow them whole. I always had the fear that they will get lodged into my esophagus.


Tai Shan Schierenberg : 2008 Alter Ego

I was listening to her, pale, holding the teaspoon, obedient as a dog. What does she need it for? Annie is sucking on the pill and through her tongue rolls it somewhere down to the stomach where powder and blood will face off.

Every morning since then, since Pipi’s death, whether crushing the pill with teaspoons or not, a sad image kept repeating words or the word through the image carved the gradual druggedness of Annie deeper. Blessed, ready for family life and relaxing conversations we used to have – those of water, power, the vacuum cleaner, the gift store and the fiscal cash register – she was resting on a cloud of sorts known only to her where she was with her Pipi, where anger and rage and lust were nowhere around her. The Pillmania spirit had taken his hold of her.

As she closed her eyes, while I spoke of the public utility, they appeared as two female lovers glued together, one to another. She had little eyes like two sickles. Thus the two sickles are looking somewhere on the inside, like a moon in its crescent phase enjoying itself, silent as it sails across the night sky. A little arc is sailing across the sea which is getting tangled below him and takes on its reflection which is swimming in the dim light of our cafeteria, whose walls already took on the hue of the upcoming sunset.

The pillmania made me feel sick. Unnoticeably sick, though, and the feeling of abandonment, as if I were a weak calf on some distant field, was too strong for the calf so forcefully weaned, grasping for breath and grazing somewhere far away where it will grow old and die. All in all, the coffee now tasted like bile, and I felt what it was like living in darkness by yourself, like a creature of the deep what has bright, electric lights for eyes.

Still, if only it remained like this, but she was quickly overtaken by insanity and rage. She left the pills, threw a coffee cup at me once while I was entering, telling me to go on then and get lost. This place was clearly one person too many now.

– But, I love you – I tried to play the dog love card which she appreciated so.

Annie put her hand where her heart should be.

– There is nothing here, do you understand? – her eyes glimmered, became frozen and emotionless. The neurotic laughter repelled and attracted doubt.

– What is happening to you, Annie, my Venus? Where did this come from? What does it all mean? How come you have no heart? Should I call the doctor?

– What doctor, fool? No doctor can re-heart me, for I do not feel. I do not love you. Do you understand me now? You simply annoy me because you suck.

– Why do you do this? What did I do wrong? – I flailed my hands while talking. – I will get you a new dog. Just don’t… My Venus. Will you not?

– A new dog? – her hands went over my face and she stared me directly into my eyes. I felt the coursing and the warmth.

– Besides, even if you did not love me, Annie… Screw love, right? We are after all merely husband and wife. We’re not lovers of Verona. Friendship is what matters.

– I’ll show you a new dog, Poisoner! – Ah, you really do keep spiting me. Would a pointer not calm you down?

The spite was really strong. No words, no sound, no letter. I waited. As Simonov says, wait for me, and I’ll come back! Wait in patience yet.

Suddenly, from her throat where it felt as if a ghost of late Pipi dwelled the little bitch growled, shoving her snout through her esophagus squeezing out a barrage of hysterical punches at me.

– Dear, your coffee is getting cold. – My metamorphosis as an act of reconciliation and bravery was brimming with elegance, contrasted to her squeal and her arms which wrapped around my neck like two dark serpents twisted into a ball. Her arms, I noticed, were lengthy and long, mixed with air which drained matter, bone and blood from them. She was warming up, a vicious disease of fire had beaten her, and the roots of her arm hairs stank of burn. She slowly started turning into molten gold, her hair caught fire – in short, she was burning in rage right in front of me, and this is plausible, I’ve read about self-immolation as a reaction to extensive stress.

This is how I killed my wife, fried off the wings of a butterfly, because of the sin that was her oversized and somewhat impure love for Pipi. Her loves were kept safe, more accurately her touches of love only knew of that mane, that gray mane of Lady Pipi, Her highborn highness whose bones are now drying up in the shadowy wind. But, despite spontaneous combustion, other than the experts I could reference, I had no evidence that it was indeed me who did not kill her. A petrol canister in the shed, a few matches and a motive: poisoning the bitch. I was picturing it: fire comes with the poisoner, the lousy potion is smoking in the ashes, mixed in with it and the bones of the beloved animal. I fried her with my jealousy, she was all smoking and smoking away at long last, she was extinguishing herself, turning into ash and all ashen and powdery like that she dissolved right there, in front of my eyes. I went up and down the room with an unlit cigar in hand, frantically thinking – Should I tell them she fell asleep with her cigar lit? It used to happen to her. These things happen, inspector, my friend, ha haha.

– I did not burn my wife yesterday, because when I went home at five (during the self-immolation), my salesman asked me this. – Peter, how are you handling all of this? These people are nuts. Forgive them, for they do not know what they are doing… – This I said somewhat dragging it out, all sticky-like, as if I hadn’t eaten in a while and there was a potential bread piece stuck to the inside of my esophagus. This reptile of a salesman, this schemer, could testify that at the moment of Annie’s death I was not only absent, but also filled with kindly thoughts. I was still thinking of this possibility, and then I scooped up all of the ashes into one ashtray with two fish-lipped buds and with the pedantry of a concentrated actor I laid Annie’s remains onto the canopy bed. Here is where she lay prostrate with Pipi, the two of them, inseparable lovers, feeding each other caviar pate.

I went to work by train. It was cold, but not too cold, although not too warm either. I asked myself what keeps the people warm under this gale which caresses the skin as gently as a skeletal hand would, eternally un-warm, the icy liberators of the esophagus. Confused and pondering, exactly like a man whose wife had just spontaneously combusted before his eyes, I was trudging along the street covered in snow. At least I seemed to think so. I was late getting my alibi, because I wanted to be late (ah let them get me, I confess to everything, other than poisoning Pipi, that I did not do), bearing but one thought into oblivion akin to an Unfinished Fantasy. I wasn’t skillful enough to burn her completely, and then, as we know, feelings of the loved, burned being race. Annie could talk of the consequences of an earthquake in South America and, of course, the Great Pyramid.


The pyramid is aligned exactly according to the cardinal directions of the planet.

Annie, this thing is like coffee, muck on the mouth and teeth as it seems to me, that sweet residue, and it is never wrong. It gets between my fangs, making my front row teeth look like a black star.

Stop it, you moron! What residue, what coffee?! Science stuck its fingers into the eyes of the great mystery and is digging away at it. When I was young, I noticed mysteries all around us. Hand me the third eye. Here is what the PhD MA PR Thehell says about it…

– The pyramid is in the center of the aggregate mass of the Earth.

And coffee..

– Unbelievable!

She would then take her coffee in her (right) hand, and the UFO stories in her left, while she would put the Legendary Times Magazine pledgets on her moist forehead.

– I was wrong to marry you. Now I know. Pipi, bark, damn it. Pipi is laughing at the confusion of charlatans and astral readers, those imprisoned by common sense. Pipi has no sense, hence why she makes sense of everything. I think she is aware of the mystery and its resolution. These days I feel like she is trying to learn our language. But you could not understand this. Read on, Pipi:

Dead, and once alive Pipette: bow wow wowwoooowwooow!

PIPI – The angles of the pyramid divide the Nile delta region into two identical halves.

In the cup of coffee there are the male and the female side. The river in the coffee is the sludge of Nile.

PIPI – The pyramid is the perfect geodetic swivel and directional point.


Our marriage was going really well while there was coffee on the table. That’s it, perhaps, perhaps. You know the reason was also you buying plastic cups, and the sludge and residue lost on weight. In order for you not to think that my theories are completely wrong, understand that if the pyramid is a myth, our marriage is an anti-myth.

– If the basis of the pyramid’s surface is divided by twice the half of this monument, you get Pi=3.1416



– The sum of the surface area of all four sides of the pyramid is equal to the square of its height.

To this I had no response.

PIPI (victoriously) – bow wow wow

ANNIE –That’s it. Tell him. Long live Pipi. Bow wow wow

PIPI – Bow wow

ANNIE – Bow wow

The barking stopped.

I sat on a bench of the platform housing a decommissioned train (thus I knew that I’d missed at least one) and gleefully came to a conclusion that the snow wasn’t melting for a while, which meant that leaving tracks in the snow was an inevitability. I observed the railroad before me and thought how numerous children must have died during the South American earthquake. In the distance I heard male voices, from what I could tell it might’ve been an argument regarding some unsold candlesticks.

– They argue so much, and they aren’t even married. Nothing is guaranteed to us nowadays, not-a-thing.

Gazing at the floating snowflakes, for a second, that very second I covered my face with the warm palm of my hand taken out of my coat pocket mere moments before. I did so because I wanted to feel warmth right then and there, I wanted to prevent another memory of the spontaneously combusted Annie leak from out my eyes and, most certainly, the memory of the divorce gained with a single thunder strike. With no paperwork nor complications. Under agreement – with fire. The sound announcing the train’s arrival was heard in the distance. The wind started blowing harder.

I got up and moved towards the coming train, towards the known silence. After a couple of steps I stood, hands in pockets, unruly gaze, I was looking at the train in the distance, yet closer every subsequent second. The howl of the locomotive cast me, yet again, for but a mere moment, into the memory of that one hour when Pipi was poisoned, and Annie caught fire, an hour where I decided to abandon my life, and after I had found an alibi, a proper replacement, to walk away from it. I felt dizzy.

The train was stopping at the platform. I turned back for a second, noticing people rushing with bags in hands and realized that mine were in my pockets. Everything I ever needed could fit within the contents of a coat pocket. I entered the train with an unnaturally clear desire, I wanted to stop feeling. Did that inevitably include me no longer existing as well?

This is how I found myself here. You can accurately guess that I did not board that train. I am waiting for them, to pick me up, to arrest me, toss me in the slammer and feed me pipi pates.



My hungry little snorting sweety, shall we give in? Go back to them? Pipi, you had your vengeance. See. I underestimated you. I thought you were no more than an ordinary… mutt.  I forgot that you were a bitch. I mean, it’s no familiarity, nor title. Titles are for those who moil, and also for vain monarchs. We will be desensitized, dear Pipi, towards everything from now on. You might help me better understand Annie, as well as the mystery of the pyramids, therefore I beg of you, Fifi, to do me the honor of becoming my wife, there. I will get you both a dress and a little hat. You see, Pipi, it’s not that bad being a lady with such a bitch around like you. We would be like the perfect pair of gloves. How did I miss that? I missed my wife, I missed the marriage, and here there is a glorious, clever bitch that knows how to listen. Yes, I am he who speaks, because everyone around me fell silent. All is dead. Other than the well-known spots, they never die.


My wicked thing. Let’s go home, Annie is in that ashtray waiting. I might light a cigarette, with a cup of coffee. One would say I didn’t love her, but over her ashes I will repent for all that I did, with marriage vows and the coffee-ritual. Who knows, maybe she went somewhere, I am ready for questioning, hell let them burry me even. I deserved it.


I feel a bit tired, a bit virus-stricken too yeah…I didn’t bring my hat…Annie will love seeing you alive and not killed by me, She might rematerialize and revive our marriage out of sheer happiness and in all her thickness compared to the clay pigeons walking in the parks. Maybe I’m Annie? Hehe. My left arm hurts (the muscles of both the forearm and the upper ar,), it always hurt Annie…Now her spasms are at my disposal. New life, Pipi. I have enough willpower. I fear no God, let alone those lazy-asses the cops and paramedics, hehe. Mere mortals, the lot of them. Perhaps you could help him realize…like you did with me and the pyramid thing. There. Homeward…no rush. With one break the length of a short eternity…What do you say, Pipi? You don’t care? Huh? Thank you so much. And here I missed the Champion’s league to take you for a walk. I’m not complaining. I prefer this and want nothing in return. Maybe a kiss, if we get home anytime soon. At least to make it worth something…

Horror-Wallpapers-38 (www.darkwallz.com)

Peroratio: Marco


More? There will be more when we get home and I tell you what’s on my mind. Go on and grin. He who laughs last…Not talking? Angry? I had no attention to anger nor offend you. Not my thing. Not my MO. Of all feelings I only know those that are nice and bring joy. If I went overboard or made a mistake somewhere, tell me and then gnaw me to death. How? Put your mouth to mine and don’t let me breathe. Then cast me to the cats to be eaten. Fin. No more Peter. And seek another companion, Perhaps you will find one if an old-timer is still walking this planet. Though, it will be tough.

POODLE: Bow wow wow

PETER: Bow wow wow



BERNARD”S HOURS, The story of a schismatic misanthrope, Leila Samarrai


image found here


The story of a schismatic misanthrope

“The basis of hatred is fear” – Friedrich Nietzsche

Part I

I have always hated people. Always or after one woman stabbed my heart with a knife? I have no excuse, because hatred is a gift we receive upon birth and not some acquired imagination.
They hated me too. But, I was exceeded by the persistence of my disbelief and my hatred which was, contradicting even their own, pulsed stronger. Petty illusions were bringing short term relief, so I would, at times, mercifully get carried away to awaken love in some woman. When you are a dark hero, you are not pure in your soul and the demons pursue you. You see evil in everything, or something special in which evil lays (perhaps the handsomeness of evil) When there is no longer any tenderness within you, it is a feeling of a constant thwack. You are cold, and some mute perpetrators are ripping the clothes off your body, again and again. While they are doing that, hatred and disgust is clearly visible on their faces. In the imagined laboratory of my mind, heavily lit and full of rats, there is plenty of poison and weapons, and you, the common humans which I hate, are the main experiment of the Great Scientist. Like a dead drummer, I yawningly hit the little drums while walking the streets of some dark city. You are present in it, and I am like a hollow tree trunk among blossoming trees bearing exotic fruits. I am not saying that an occasional exchanging of warm words or touch does not feel good. A cold coffee is just as drinkable as the hot one. Sometimes, a woman with an hourglass body makes me feel like a man, like everybody else does, directing herself in waves towards my genitalia. But, you cannot believe the same lie twice. It is a black sun that only glows partially. At times it manages to replace the suns of other people and the ways in which that luminous trickster shines to them. Those moments last short, therefore I am my own sun, at the same time a shadow, I – the used puppet who observes the remains of the humorous theater play from which he was removed, by having his legs and arms torn away from his limbs. He is angry at the actors of the play. By the course of time, a lot of water gathered between me and other people.

Maybe my hatred was born 23 years earlier when I have met a boy with curly hair, near a murky body of water, during a very dark time of my childhood. It was warm and dry. The sun fried with its whips. Like the golden mask of Medusa, it grinned above the forest of my childhood.
– You are the one whose father hung himself? – said the little leader of the gang, whom they called Dirty Josh, and touched me with a stick.
– You are already five minutes late. I hope you brought them.

I did not answer. I offered him the lead soldiers.
– Here is the replacement for life.
He took them and lined them up on the wooden bench, surrounded by trees the color of ebony. His hands were sweating while he was arranging them into the little battalion.
– This is my battalion and that one is yours. Since you were late, the punishment for defeat will be death. Don’t ever forget it. Let us see who is stronger.

With the best of my strength, I would charge his figurines with mine. Perhaps you think I shouldn’t have shown so much zeal? I would act differently now. I would spit on him or cut him with a knife. From this other thing, I always feel a tingling in my stomach and realize it is disgust, mixed with fear. From MY soldiers he picked all the strongest and prettiest ones (my father carved them before his death, but not all of them were equally pretty). Some of them were really badly made, but it would depend from how much did he drink that day. When a soldier was done, my father would stick him into the ground and say:
– Son, this is your army. And your strength for life..

When he was making Achilles and Spartacus, he was drinking moderately. So they were, even thought Josh’s soldiers were prettier and greater, my Achilles and Spartacus, successfully protecting the flank, so I won the fight for an equal battle with my effort (or perhaps hatred). I could only imagine how much agitated was the evil boy because of it. Seeing he wanted to show himself in front of his gang, and that he chose the strongest soldiers, he could not lose. His were, in tense expectation, drenched in sweat. That is when I realized that human greed, hatred (and sometimes lust as well) smell like salt, a salty bath in which a woman lays with her open legs and the smell of her sex, like with animals, merges with the stench of fear and salt. All hatred begins in childhood. You have not been lied to. Innocence can only produce crime, because within what lies the vanity of the crime if there is not some nostalgia in it due to innocence lost. I am convinced that the man does get born clean. People become evil in time. And all are, with no exception, evil. Crooked and evil.
I showed Achilles to the small man:
– Yesterday his tooth got chipped, so he is not well, otherwise he would slaughter your entire battalion . Just HIM ALONE. If he was well, he would’ve done it already. If only his tooth was not hurting so much. It still hurts him. You see. He is great, strong, powerful.
– Ah, like that! Ah, like that!
Dirty Josh wrenched it out of my hand, and while giggling, threw him onto the loam next to the bench, because he thinks he is powerful. And he stepped on him accompanied by the laughter of the play actors, until, with his torn limbs, sweaty and satisfied, he pardoned him. That is when the evil boy threw Achilles in the dirt, into the murky water, far away from himself. Dirty Josh laughed. That is when I saw he was also missing a tooth. His corpse was found three days later, in the murky water, wormy from piss, dirty from blood and mud, with the lead stick figure stabbed into the center of his forehead. The wound hole was too big, almost grotesque. The spike, once corded inside, had layers of the brain mass stuck to it upon being pulled out.
I still keep Spartacus, and I never made a new Achilles. All hatred starts in the childhood. You have not been lied to.
Sometimes I hear tapping on the door. I first thought it was the rain. But no, it is Achilles. In the robes of a strong, Greek hero with bare, hairy feet, slowly stepping into my home. He looks at me and I look at him. We are cold, we do not speak and we eat fish.

I am never late. I posses an enormous collection of antique clocks. A pile of beige boxes full of the second hands, some pocket watches with monocles, huddled into order, peeks from a Victorian jacket. My hours is what defines me. No moment is worth more than that bare notion. The tick of the clock industriously warns that I am already five minutes late to the opening of my own store. Then, with the speed of a rabbit who heard a hum and trembled and leaped, I exit for the street with a smile. My antique shop is located in the trade area of the K. city, in one solidly built house with walls out of brick.
On the board, hanged upon a fir door, a headline reads “RARE BOOKS” (photographs, postcards, old charts, maps and musical instruments). Modern electrical heating under the porcelain panels and economical stoves are in the kitchen compartment. Vis-à-vis to the kitchen and the small bathroom (actually, it is composed of a single lavatory and a soap selvage) is my work desk with a computer. The work room has a low ceiling, and the sockets are on the Spanish wall, for phone and the satellite dish. The work room exit leads straight into the room for welcoming customers in which there is a big stall behind which I show antiques to customers and receive money.

7:23 AM.

Today somebody wished me death. Like a dog’s grimace in the corner of a yard that’s not his own. A short shriek over the phone and wheezing:
– Die!
It was an open invitation, a desire for neck breaking. What should I answer? How should I defend myself, so it never crosses their minds to call again? I stop before the gate, then open it indecisively and enter a narrow field that surrounds the hovel. I kicked the dog, but gently. The dog moved away, and then fixated on me with his eyes. Right next to the window frame, I sneak a peek inside. A darling character used to be huddled in the bed, covered over his head, and the sheets above him swollen from breathing. A naked void is under the covers now. The sheet does not give away someone still breathing and thinking under it. Like a corpse. I imagine how the sheet stands upright, the corpse fills with semen, pullulates and sprouts, grows up to the muscles, tissue, blush, luxury of cheeks, an eyeful glow. A young girl, with her face dirty and yellow from some hidden melancholy, gets up from the bed, takes the full laundry basket, and then beats him with a stick. That there is a mother! I extended my hands to her. My hands miss and touch the icy cold air. She passes through me and claps her hands, spins and dances while observing the miniature paintings lined next to the barrels in the yard. I sit on a stool and with smooth moves of my fingertips I touch the masonite. Then only a whisper is heard and that wheezing, the crying, wailing. The dog begins to howl.
– Who are you? What are you doing there? – the old man from the house next door points his slim finger at me. Then he recognizes me, spits on the side, opens the bottle which he uses to refresh his face. He refreshes himself on top of the empty snow. Then looks around, at least it seems so to me, the endless sky, stretched into nothingness. That infinity can never be remembered and neither could SHE ever paint it fully. The snow sticks to the inner part of my suit. Sticks to the skin. I entered the cold shanty of my once home, and observing the paintings mother painted, I knowledgably distinguish patterns and colors. I notice some of them were done rather badly, or perhaps are not so close to me anymore. The old man and I light our cigarettes and look at each other. He watches me through the window. While he watches me, he murmurs into his own beard and raises his head to the sky again. Then, like a defeated peacock, he bends his head into the wet snow, where the peace of death reigns. I hear some kind of a people buzz, but it is too far away from me. I am amid the cold, vacant garden, surrounded by paintings, wet laundry, dirty glasses and broken mirrors. I flip everything that is dirty, touch it gently with my hand, move the dust and put a few miniatures into my bag.
– How will you clean this?
– What?
– How will you clean all of this, now that all of your kin has died? – the old man asks.
I am completely close to the wall, and then, leaning through the low window, I throw the dirty glass over the fence, directly to the old man’s wall. It shattered, and dark, greasy liquid sprayed out onto the wall. The old man ran away frightened. After the old man leaves me alone, I become concentrated enough to spot the gramophone which I came to pick up. It was, certainly, very old, with a handle. The mechanism is completely upstanding, and it has a special record compartment as well, I will tell to a customer on the same day. I wash my face with cold water over the dirty lavatory and I play Beethoven’s violin concert in d minor, which spills through the room through the whirl of Poe-like terror. I pick books. I flip pages of each of them and rip them one by one. Not for sale. Can a man be more alone?

I see myself among skyscrapers; they grow me like I am a plant. I was ripped from the surrounding smoke, but I am sprayed by it. I stagger around like the poisoned sewer water. The asphalt is hit in the middle. Cloven. Like on the clavier, my feet mingle the sidewalk. Eyes are gripped into the darkness of the glasses. Here and there, I hear a bat of footsteps behind me. The head of the people orchestra is the Kapellmeister whose massive truncheon, like thunder, hits the naked, pissed on concrete. The world can be horrible, but not dirty. In all that disgust, I kept my good taste. During all this time, the sun was, wanting to fulfill its primate at any cost, trying to pierce through the curtain of smoke. Devouring, intoxicating sun pierces into the softness of the morning, whitened sun, a powdered ball. I noticed the way it twirls, how it rises and powers the sky like a giant, yellow bug on batteries. Like some clock, the sun measures the hours with ancient precision and swallows the passerby with immeasurable fever of eternal existence. You are nobody and nothing, and the yellow bug crawls over you, and each of her prong points a finger to you, accusing you of transience, of tardiness. It often exists like counterweight, but also a help to the grayness of the clouds who are like bulletproof vests. One selvage of metal pulses with a glow and illuminates the parts of the overcast architectonics of the city. Sometime later, the city is filled with moonlight and the light lasts deep into the night. Arctic star, as enormous as a plate with two curious eyes, will soon crack in the sky. Eternal light, the eternal peace that bothers me, for I demand the darkness that brings me joy.

This story will envelop further….


THE FEAR, by Leila Samarrai

By Leila Samarai

Healthy urban man, one of the numerous tenants of the New Building, decided to lose a certain number of kilograms, for it was known that in the newer buildings there was only a certain number of kilograms allowed per floor. The calculator was deciding the correlation with height, to prevent occurrences of dislocation, deviation, turning into men-frogs or spider crabs.

The calculator was clearly showing that he needs to lose 5 kilograms, 2 grams and 10 milligrams. But, in order to lose that alarming number it was necessary to leave the New Building every night exactly at nine o’clock and run the route of five of stations of the forty-two bus then stop in the street which leads to the station of the bus number fifty-nine.

All of these numbers made sense, especially for Pythagoras.

Just as he left the building, Healthy urban man realized that the New Building, even though overpopulated, is flawlessly clean. After he thought about it he realized that he saw the tenants, who lived peaceful and quiet lives, very rarely, except in front of the buildings entry, while they were unlocking the door and after that disappearing down the ghastly empty hallway into unknown directions.

He thought about all of this, Healthy urban man, while he was returning from his jog and unlocking the entry door of the building. The light turned on automatically, welcoming him.

“My life is perfect,” he thought. “Everything slides like down the light…” this one thought, like well-oiled, while caressing the key and gently tracing the lettering on the metal relief.

“Permil by permil.” He thought while climbing step by step.
“Permil then a stair, a stair then the door, key then lock.” he was thinking while inserting the key into the lock.

Then, however, something unexpected happened. He shivered, while his hands shook from fear. The key was stubbornly refusing to open the lock. He was agonized, he tried and tried and finally realized he will have to ask help from his neighbors. He checked the display of his cell-phone. “No, it is far too late.” Besides, they will think he is crazy. They will cuss at him, perhaps even hit him. With fear he looked into the spyhole on the next door.

He was relieved after seeing the number 9.

“That means, that means I’m healthy. “he thought . “And that I merely wandered off in my thoughts, missed my floor. Ha ha ha ,” he laughed with relief. “I was just confused.”
But his brain worked and steamed with a speed of the comet which whipped the dinosaurs: “It looks like I was trying to break in into an apartment. By mistake, ofcourse, but they can accuse me in court. They can move me into the Old Building, with those misfortunates, the hunchbacks of the Silicon valley.” He turned around and smiled like a lucky thief.
When he entered the lucky apartment 13, he went to bed, content.

A few days later, in the apartment number 8, a corpse was found, of an old lady, standing upright. She lived alone, without any kin. It was told that she did not leave her apartment for years , nor received any visitors. Maybe she escaped the Old Buildings and was by mistake given an apartment in the Newbuild. Her stiff mouth was forming the letter ‘O’, as though she is calling someone for help. She was gripping the lock, like she was fighting someone from the other side of the door, a burglar most probably. That is how she died. From fear.


TELEPHONE, Leila Samarrai

I always loved to be on the phone.
The telephone and the cable wire are like curtains that hide someone’s enormous eyes, a covert that splits the worlds like an old canopy splitting someone’s room. At times the voice from the other side is like song that started suddenly, or perhaps with a pleasant whisper of a ghastly-sweet taste, and sometimes the voice simply trembles. During the conversation, while I am embracing the headphone, comfortably laid on the sofa, relaxed, tucked inside my work cabinet, I find dear those moments when silence shortly breaks through the syllables. Like the interlocutor, the masked actor, hid behind the covert, searching for the text, the lines, by flipping the pages of an invisible script. Voices meander through the wire like the winds scream and rage during the storm. To people like me, who like to be on the phone, a little amount of things remains undiscovered in our daily lives – when the five hours long conversation ends (to which I was prone and for which I was considered a freak) there was little left to be told. . .
I especially loved old phones, those used little, even those half functional. How can I explain it? If I was, with my imagination, discerning through the voice the kind or the monstrous spirit in every living being with whom I would converse, that same imagination discerned me the existence, figuratively speaking, of the unused prints of such melodious, and yet so unloving, parallel world which I felt was hiding behind the clusters of wires. Voices not yet revived, which are yet to rush, buzz, roar and call, which make each nerve in the body shiver. I was attracted by the dark, unexplored worlds in which the strong current of darkness threatens to suck in and pull all of humanity towards the corpses of eons, worlds from within which would breach towards me, protected by the telephone wire, the polyphony of murmurs, screams, roars from the purple mouth of the Dark, the seed that erodes the bowel of life. Did they have faces? Even if they did, those would be dark curves of circles in Nothingness itself.
Those would be screaming, maddened medusas with horse necks and with bodies of the bull. . .
I studied the biographies of those who scratched the disc of Dark, who flipped the pages of the atlas of Death by painting the titans of madness who, hungry for red meat, search and grab, swallow, storm, crush with their feet. Among them were Dario Argento, H. P. Lovecraft, Clive Barker, Salvador Dali, Alexander Graham Bell. . . All, without exception, loved to telephone.
Perhaps all these thoughts were swarming my mind because I was an established painter, always treated with respect and kindness. I did not appreciate it much, because I have, through the dark art of Ernest Sabato, the blind hater, like Huan Pablo Castle, despised the various “professional” painter societies, as well as the words “Eminent” and other academic plagues, events attended by academic monsters. Same was for exhibitions, music festivals. Even for camera concerts. . . The fear unclear, mixed with loathing, was crumbling me, while I, seemingly in one piece, sleek and socially acceptable, was squeezed inside one of those crowds, because there is something inconceivably disgusting in the way the human beings cling, jostle and intimately mingle their voices while attending an exhibition or a book signing, at the same time swallowing the headlines of the hanged paintings with wide eyes, in the ambient of some “in” gallery in town.
Once, during the ceremonial opening of my exhibition The feast at Sipil, where I exhibited at least fifty paintings of a dismembered Pelop, like conspirators, taking both floors of the gallery, all of them the same, ape-like babblers, vermin like rats who gnaw the flesh of their petty interest and plump up, cheerful and hastily, seemingly cultural walking integrals made of blood, meat and malice, were standing before the paintings of the spilled intestines of Tantalus son, with small wrinkles on the foreheads made by being tucked within the depth of meaning, whispering between themselves, while a vivid pain ripped my guts:
„Splendid…“, „A work of mainstream…“or „He hit the form so well on the vein of the pecked liver”.
Tantalus of realism!
Followed by phrases like: bodies dismembered in artistic ways and the transcript of antique nostalgia, I abandoned my own exhibition, called a cab and went home.
Suddenly peaceful, I enter the filled space of the room. My view lands on the telephone over whose dial I softly fly with my eyes. I undress and cover myself with a moss colored blanket. I put the telephone atop my stomach, I close my purple lids, the dream presses me and I fall into the abyss of oblivion free, while a malicious shadow flies out of me.
But, let me say a word or two about myself before that. . . before . . .
Ah, is it even possible something like that even happened?!
It is not widely known that I am a descendent of the knight Ambrose Takach, prince of Budapest, the commander of the austro-hungarian war fleet who was my grandfather’s father, famous for the mass liquidation of Serbs and Jews, after joining of Hungary to Hitler’s regime. His son, and my grandfather, was one of the chetniks of the Nazi regime in Hungary, as well responsible for mass slaughters. Only my father, a Hungarian composer and pianist Frantz Ianosh of Esztergom, a man of visible nobleness of the spirit, cut with that virtue the thread of curse which stretched all the way to Arpadovac, joining the forces of SSSR after the Second World War, entering the coalition government. After the revolution in the year 1956, when after the student demonstrations in front the government building he met my mother, he abandoned politics completely and as one of the 200.000 refuges left Hungary. The remaining part of his life he spent teaching harmony at the Musical conservatorium in Novi Sad, where he himself was born, under the same name as my father.
About the other two, all the documents have been destroyed, as a sign of respect towards my father for his credits earned in Magyar Dolgozók Pártja.
The fact that they have caught my great-grandfather with a girl in his arms under whose throat he held a knife and after which he was treacherously murdered, was also hidden.
My grandfather was caught stealing valuable jewels from a German tank officer and he was executed in 1944. It was said it was a desperate move to pay of his gambling debt. . .
The hid with uttermost care the horrible, dark rituals performed by my family since the times of Arpadovci in the impassable Hungarian forests copulating with ghosts of the Forest and who they were naming Great Elders and for who was told they could summon the Lord of Darkness. With dancing and singing in the name of ghosts, dressed in the fur of the leopard , they would stare into the face of the Forest Colossus offering him a rare specie of an alpinist mammal which reminisced a clumsy rat when he was walking the ground, by biting strongly into the living flesh of the mammal until the blood would shower the face of Gods.
About my father, his penchant for introspection, clumsy perfection, as the body so as the mind, raciness, sharp mindedness and knowledge of the piano skills in that amount that he could perform godly tones on the most rustiest piano, contributed towards him staying a favorite among people until the end of his life. If fame can be passed on through generations, my father certainly made it so, Even though I was perceived as a freak, while I would walk by, they would murmur with respect and heads nodding, leaving behind them an echo:” It is Frantz’s son. Of that famous man.”. My art exhibitions were one of the most visited in the city, and I would often be stopped in the street or the coffee shop where I was often drinking coffee alone (I have always feared people discovering my true origin and I have also been a shy and withdrawn man), and encouraged to go out with them and attend with them some fun nights and entertaining dinners (this was about women and what they can do to a man), to which I would answer with wearing my hat and leaving abruptly with an excuse, leaving them wondering with an open mouth.
Perhaps I was a little bit alike by two ancestors. And the ancestors who danced under the reflection of the dark fire that illuminated the darkness of the historical Forests for which they claimed vanished centuries behind. . . In the ghastly forests the pagan gods lived tho whom my ancestors bowed to during their bloody historical voyage. Their meetings were woven with horrible rituals performed in magnificent temples built on the outskirts of the mysterious oak forests of the Hungarian mountains. Dedicated to the wiccans and the undead, on the slopes the pierced the grounds, like forks into soft meat, with bronze statues dedicated to the God Cernnunos and other mystical deities, statues chiseled like phoenixes outstretching far above the tips of malicious temples.
But, the nobleness and the horror were connected by, inconceivably, one thing. Absolutely and unchangeable, like time. Perhaps the primal vein through which a seed of cursed blood passed, vein as fat as the cable of my telephone, through which perhaps flows blood, and not the electrical signals – I thought suddenly. It was a vintage, black phone, as lonely as the creature of the past ages in his final destination of the morgue, lasting as a dream of a dead man, for it was in the family collection for at least two centuries since the moment in which, dear readers, I am writing this to you and unskillfully transmit, while words persecute me. Passed on through generations, it has traveled, from the table of my evil great-grandfather to my even worse grandfather, so my father, the hero of SSSR who finally confronted the patrons of the same in the famous revolution and who died by losing his both legs while fishing with explosives, given it to his son who carried the heritage of his demonic ancestors in his genes.
I was not dong anything out of the ordinary on that day. I was painting. Nearly arranged canvases to which I would toss my view on occasion were decorating the corner of my room. They were painted with various motives: the Iron Man, the cog of the science fiction machine of the future, falling out of his cockpit of the mighty starship of civilization 4 that circled the galaxy until it crashed for inexplicable reasons into the Kalahari desert. Among them was the used Medusa, as well as the satirical painting Belobog proposes to the Boogey, with her scary face and open jaws with no teeth. Even though Belobog is in love with her, knowing is not vile, she frightens him by making him believe she wishes to be cheated on. Hercules, of strong chest and muscled arms, embracing his lover Jolaj, Hercules searching for Persephone, Hercules versus the giants, even a portrait of Julius Cesar, the brilliant roman commander to whom I have unusually admired – besides that I could not resist paining my vision of the battle at Farsala, where undoubtedly on Cesar’s side I shown Pompey’s troops to ride donkeys. Pompey had the head of a mule which came to be by crossing the Pompey optimate, who once led the main word in the Senate, and Pompey, a simple plebe by birth.
I worked with devotion, tossing the colors to the canvas, adjusting the beret which I, a little bit out of joke, a little bit out of respect for Mone, wore alongside the assemble of colors I used to decorate the canvas. This painting I envisioned as the crown of my work. History, mythology, astro-science, merged together by unique archetypal expression, with striking color schemes about which the others only dreamed. I was immodest and irritably officious! I was mostly officious to myself.
After I finish Black Fairies, how I titled the painting, I decided I shall lay low, paint for my own soul. . . When, the phone rang. I put off the peg unwillingly. I have just captured the moment in which the shy Dryad , after discovering a mighty spaceship in the gorge habited by the Black Fairies, she sees one of them, completely naked, while her face is drenched in water because an erotic desire spread through them. Sister Dryads desperatel extend their hands towards her, begging her to return, while the cruel Fairy, with sensual lips and heavy moaning, a voice as sweet as honey, invites her to her cosmic ship to try the fruits of forbidden passion. . . Should I be interrupted now while I pour her face on the canvas PR Dokovic must have already explained to the Corveta museums director why I have so abruptly left the exhibition. Like crazed! Well, he must have had to make an urgent call!- I could hear the witty explanations of Dokovic in the sense of skillfully passing the ball into the opponent’s yard, the eternal undefeatable forehand, in which he was more skilled than the famous tennis player. What does he want from me now? I tossed the rag doused with thinner over the palette, mixing the carefully separated Russian white with the others, and ruining it!
– Ah, to Hell! – and with the dirty hands of the artist I grabbed the black telephone, soiling it with color. . .
– All right Dokovic, I know you are entertained by the looks on Katanic’s face, or the Zlobiberovic’s one, but must I. . .
I was interrupted by a shrieking voice, which could very well belong to a drowning man calling for salvation. Hysterical, sharp, demanding with a note of mocking.
– What’s happening with the Dryads? They want a bit of passion too? And about Hercules, you could’ve painted an orgy scene for the visitors of the exhibition. Him, Jolaj, and Megara, who should actually turn out only as Megara, no donkey allusion, oh no, that continuum of linguistics is highly unnecessary! You donkey! What kind of a damn cockpit you are painting that is yet to be entered by a masked science fiction Aphrodite! That one will be the first one to fly towards the handsome Cockpittians! Cosmic love is at stake, is it? And that Ironman of yours, he must be rusty already! Alas, worry not, I will now correct all your mess. Look now how the paintings are beautiful. Turn around, son of gods! The Portrait of Boogey Gray!
– Who is this making a joke? – I roared.
– Have you found your expression yet, painter man? And one not thought of before, like you did!– a chilling laughter rang while my body shivered.
– How… Can I hesitate after this? To turn around O, yes. And I will see there is nothing there. Nothing, but the closure of the joke by an anonymous bastard. I turned around with force and with a wild expression on my face, I took a second look. . . The paintings changed!
Frightened to the brink of madness, I dropped the telephone, but it was still loud in my ears. It was a horrifying, inhuman laughter coming from the telephone not yet closed, which like a hanged man hanged on the wire.
I had a sight to see. The view was a thrilling, diabolical blow, an illustration of horror itself, a dreary encounter with a supernatural jest.
I saw, with a proud full – horrified posture of the creepy old woman with a horn on her head, an expression of defying dignity It was the Boogey in a fancy suit, worn by the pretentious Dorian Gray in Wild’s novel.
The phone rang, even though it was not yet closed from the previous call..
I grabbed it with the speed of a devil in run..
– How do you like my handy work? And you should see her when she was not sinful. Young and beautiful, all teeth in pla…
– Stop! Who are you and what d you want from me? How are you doing this?
– How? Well I paint, a little, when bored. I sing too. Tenor, Pavarotti told me from the grave. But, the drama one, not the lyrical one! By the way, I thought of enriching your dilettante work with one more tinsy-tiny detail. Tzap, poof, abracadabra, doo! Look now! – the Telephone smiled.
Am I crazy? And how can a man get crazy, all of a sudden? I was not even melancholic or in a bad mood like I usually am… Perhaps that is the reason!
I turned around obediently, like a man on his death bad who is at peace with the inevitable..
Boogey was in the same position, but the painting was once again changed. She was now on the phone.
– She is talking to her best friend, Baba Yaga. They go on for hours – the Telephone was explaining to me in a most serious tone, almost filled with respect towards its masterpiece of horror.
– Mhm-mhm… yes, that expression… yes, now a little bit of the Indonesian style, he-he… – no, don’t turn around just yet, I have to center it better. I recommend you „olio di papavero“. When you are capturing a detail such as this, you can’t do well without Italians, although it is not the pure Italian oil . It is not even from flax!
– What is it then? What are you talking about, man?
– Man? Do not insult me, Ferentz. I will get mad and I will no longer talk to you, nor will I show you how to paint.
– But, I do not need your help, nor do I want to talk to you.
– Neither do I.
– Why are you calling me then?
I came to peace with the madness taking me under its wing. I was consoling myself that it must be because of the toxic fumes of the thinner, The hallucinations will pass in a few hours, They say Francisco Goya experienced the same thing while he was cutting the ear. . .
– You have only one assignement, Hercules, and I will leave you alone. Be blessed! Hercules had 12!
– What do I need to do?
– To bring me back Persephone from Hades. My dead darling. To her I want to phone, like before, when we lived with your Nazi grandpa.
I have gone mute. It is an intelligence officer who must have got his hands on the documents I thought were destroyed. It was probably a blackmail. What is it that he wants?
– How much money? – I asked calmly. All of it that was within the borders of the human mind was not foreign to me, although I was confused by the mysterious method by which this militant was altering my paintings. Perhaps he had someone else in the room. An accomplice! While I talk with my backs turned to it, the accomplice who is hiding in the closed on which my paintings are leaning, comes our and replaces the canvases. But, would I not hear that? No! They are counting on my fear, my bewilderment from fear, when the senses are dull. Besides, it must be BIA or CIA, they are highly trained, this is nothing for them.
– I feel no guilt, nor do I consider to have anything in common with the great-grandfather who did evil. My name is Frantz, not Ferentz – I hung up the phone.
I approached the closet with determination and opened it. There was nobody inside. O, those bastards are truly skillful.
Although shaken to my core, I returned to my work. I had an unusual passion towards painting with the Flemish technique. They spoke of my colors as if they were magic, the secret of the master trade which I kept solely to myself, What do they want? The painting is gone! There is no more Frantz. There is no Ferentz. Bastards, why do they not leave us alone. It is CIA, understandably. That is the purpose, a turmoil of fear, followed by catharsis. They are giving up. But maybe they have placed on every spot the living eye of the camera to study my every move, at least until they finish the investigation. The apartment should be cleansed from spy satellites. Immediately!
I was a passionate lover of baseball, so this rude joke reminded me of the offence of the guest team. Unprepared, I was not wearing gloves, and I was not in the phase of offence, for I was not even participating in the game. But, I will change by bad tactic. I will run all four home bases, by using their lack of attention in the defense. I was certain I will find various devices that CIA uses for tracking and eavesdropping. With the speed of the baseball player I was winning the bases one by one, until I was interrupted in my senseless search through the apartment by the dreadful ringing.
– „Force play“! – he laughed harshly. That is when I screeched..
Beaten by the magic of these CIA ghosts, I stared off into the distant, chosen spot like a catatonic man, while the Telephone laughed loudly.
– Come on Frantz, snap out of it, look at your Black Fairies. Perhaps I am a little pushy, I know, but how else can I make you do what I ask you to do? I don’t know how to do it slowly. I don’t think you are a bad guy. . .
I firly decided not to look around, while I sat on the floor dirty from colors. I observed the pulsing veins of my hands, visualizing the razor which would lightly slide inside its lively depth. I saw them open and I saw ponds flowing from within them, mixed with Russian white color, and Russians and veincutters don’t save on the pigment.
But, If Frantz shall not come to the Black Fairies, the Black Fairies will then come to Frantz.
– Black Fairies. What a stupid name! Like you are talking about lawn mowers! Is it some theme from the agricultural life? Not that I have anything against reaping or pricking the hay with the pitchfork, and black one too, besides the so fine Russian, white, oily. But, you are a bourgeois, descendant of Arpad. Frantz, you are no host, you have not even offered me with a cup of coffee. And we drank the coffee from the thermos. Unbelievable! Back then! Like in Picnic on the Hanging Rock! Or was that tea. . .
All of a sudden, it was like some woman stood before me, but it was not a woman, but the painting came alive. Boogey, in dandy clothes, walked up and down the canvas, while bloody shadows danced around her.
– Watch my children, Yaga, while I am in the portrait. I do not care! Switch to vegans. Do not dare touch my children!
And following her, the glorious Caesar telephoning with the same damn, black telephone while gambling with Titus Labienus – ALEVA KRATKA JEST! Brutus, I have nothing against the Republic, but you must also think of those less fortunate than ourselves! Give my greetings to Servillia! Where were we, Labienus?!
Only to be followed by an appearance of the third in which two nymphs were caressing each other, but each in her own corner of the canvas. While telephoning to each other, they were self-pleasuring themselves in loneliness.
– Dri, you excite me so, dear!
– By Aphrodite, when you talk like that, you awake the fire in me. I am all burning!
– There – concludes the Telephone – this is what you should exhibit. Masterpiece par excellence!
I nod my head and I fainted. Telephone burst out laughing and hung up.
That is when I dreamed a dream in which he told me his tragic tale.
This is what happened, and what unbelievable history I heard from the hellish Telephone, of course, by picking up to stop the senseless ringing, with the number pad sparking, in the deaf time of the night, while thunders were burning the sky for it was a storm outside. . .
I picked this misfortunate hour for my vengeance, when the sky is bloated with gray clouds, and the rain does not drip drops, but bubbles like cursed membranes!
He coughed, and that sound was alike giggling of the piped of the radiator vent and the sizzling of the fortron power adapter.
– This is how it happened…
– How?
– Well, like this: Five kilometers away from Salgotarjan, under the wooded Cerhat mountain, beside the shore of river Ipelj, that twists through Nograd, my darling and I were bathing under the sun, under the beautiful summits of naked Hungarian mountains overlooking the river and our wetted bodies. The forests of Nograd, under the tooth of mountain, squeezing the juice. Threatening cliffs woven with deciduous forests crokked over our Eden.
– Eden?
– Yes, painter! May your coloring book be golden! Smearer! House-painter, dyer!
– Don’t insult me!
– Shut up Zoltan!
– I am not Zoltan, I am Diš Piš.
– Zoltan, you mason! The rotary of buncerberger order with no coming, hear and take the unknown history even by the Black Pope, when it is so solemnly given to your ears.
We ate the malt of Salgotarjan from the baskets full of oranges, my darling Isabel and I.
– Telephone-lady?
– Only while it rings. At night, when the moon warms, she turns into a winged girl.
– Were you not on Salgotarjan during the day?
– But it was a vampire day. The primal templars shone their reflectors upon us, from the casket of Oath which they carried over from Ethiopia, for from within it the bones of Arthur, the Celtic Brit, screamed from heat. He rises at midnight and walkes around with the Holy Grail in his hands, cursing Dan Brown and Geneviev. The watched us from the round table while voting how to bring queen Geneviev to life, and my love, the immortal Ilona,. . ah. . . Elbowed on the round table they spun their swords, turning their heads sideways, as to look at her better from all sides. Then upon the river shore a heavy cavalry and three hundred peasants with Excalibur stormed, and the fangs . . . click click click! I have not seen her since than, she merely calls me from Avalon.
– What connection do I have with the Rotery masonry and primal templars? Why are you hunting me?
– Because your grandfather was the marshal responsible for the sacrificial ritual, weapons and horses, as well as for the orchestrated centers of power of the hellish music players! Your chevalier pored my Ilona to the altar, and took the remains to Avalon on black horses. Before that, he cut her wings and pushed a stone from the Wall of Wails into her mouth. Since then, there hollows a hole in the Holy city and no brick or stone can fill it. Except for the painted woman on the Wall of Wails, a sound isolator was built into the stone wall, to silence the cries! .
Look, really, what am I to do with myself? Where? Towards? How to escape this hellish Telephone?
It is the mind toying with me. The illusion of horror swims out, bowing my pulsing forehead. Maybe this is too much. It is not easy for me. I am under pressure. Everything can be rationally explained. I do not want to became like those guys, the anonymous addicts of black phones. And so I chastised myself for my superstition.
– I took all of this far too seriously..
Brener. Brener will fix all of this, this absence of reason. Or, even better, the cistern – The thought about the telephone being sucked in into the toilet, by the elegant pull of the water cistern’s string, like a boat sinking into the inexorable sea, developing the mind like a roll of “film noir” (as black as the damned phone).
He is watching me!
On him, apparently, there is nothing out of the ordinary. Perhaps he spoke by accident?
The tiny veins of my mind in my head made a Gordi’s knot. All of it is delirium. All of it is to be buried in the depth, silence and darkness, into the dreamy eternity of death.
In the evening, around eight o’clock, I rushed towards the phone cable with the desire to end my misery. I ate two slices of pizza from the local bakery and like a condemned man, I prepared for my death. I wore my grandfathers war vest, my great-grandfather’s dandy coat and half-cylinder and my great-grandfather’s father’s shoes laced with camel hair. Because, the telephone, eternal as the dream of a dead man, was passed on through generation from my great-grandfather to my grandfather until my father, the war hero, who lost both of his legs while fishing with explosives, gave it to me.
Out of the blue, the cable whipped my back, like I was a horse. I realized: I have awakened the ghosts from the Forest of Shadows where the brother of my great-grandfather’s father hid the remains of the magical Telephone-lady, the true bride of Dracula, who was dieing of old age.
– I was a newer model. Yet I loved her – the magical Telephone spoke..
– Go into the Forest of Shadows, dig up my beloved, call somebody from Telecom to connect us digitally, so we may exchange our signals to eternity – thus spoke the enamored Telephone
– Your screw trew drew great-grandfather was warned. He hired a coachman that stormy night, the coachman was whipping the horses far worse than the pale man from Nosferatu. The horse stopped two hundred meters from the forest and began to whine. It cannot be went further.
– On foot from here, sit. You woke the ghosts.
And the coachman flew into darkness. Your ancestor was left alone.
– The Forest of Shadows.. What lunacy. Superstition of peasants. I am not afraid of specters, of those I made for my myself. I am the sculptor of my curse, my destiny. Everything is in my hands – I was comforting myself.
Besides, what can a Telephone do to me?!
Those are devices which can be assembled after they are broken. Yes, yes, like in life. Again. . . again. . . Where is this philosophy coming from? I am tired. I am in the dark.
– I will light your way – said the Telephone and enflamed himself. I screamed and closed myself in the bathroom. It was dark, for the light bulb was broken inside..
My thoughts were like an instrument badly tuned which gave of tones more resembling the heaving of a well paid slut, than those of a well composed harmony. . .
It felt like nobody was behind the door. Complete silence, until… slowly the Telephone crawled out of the toilet and head towards me, while cables flew like unseamed gray hairs…
I realized I was whimpering. Inconsolably. It is over the image that was invading me was overcoming me, my face was numb, my hands lost all power. .
I waved my hand: It will pass. Tiredness. Maybe not even that. A mere caprice of the mind. Fear of the dark. But, the force of death stepped out of the toilet, from its depth where nothing but blackness exists, the undeniable end of the road. Yes, he is near. . .
I ran through rooms, not finding an exit. At the end, I closed myself in a tight, small room. One by one, all light bulbs snapped. A beastly growling was thundering from the dark. I Zoltan and so on, lover of telephones, surrounded and alone, have barricaded myself. Should I call for help? That would, in any case, mean I would have to make a phone call!
– I am not afraid of you, Telephone! I am not afraid. I have a hammer and a brener.
(Run away as far as possible. Maybe to Tasmania.)
Tired, I laid on the wide ottoman and hugged a pillow. I lit a candle.
How scary it is inside here, in this dark. It is very cold. I rubbed my hands to warm myself and from within the drawer of the night-stand I took out the godly magnum. . .
But, the darkness would not be darkness if it would not birth the soft, pulsing shrieks.
– Good evening – spoke someone in the corner of the room. I screamed: Aaaaaa!
– Who is that?
– It’s me. Your Telephone. You can call me Mister Bell.
I pointed the pistol into the thick darkness – my eyes got accustomed to it in the meantime. The room was illuminated by the light of the candle. I thought I saw a shadow flying past. Ah, there he is! On the bed, next to it! Watching me. And grinning. I pointed the magnum into the darkness tingling with the soft light. The chair which was supposed to have a man sitting on it was empty.
I spun like a whirling around the small room, half-insane, with a gun in hand, firing shots while the volcano danced around, releasing joyful screams. The force spun me so strongly that for a while I was pinning around all points, the X one, but as well the Y and the Z ones, until I felt something invading my head, the pain, the long ago pain perhaps with which I was mustering the strength to explain my numerous friends that I am more of a “telephone type”. Now I knew that the Telephone was subconsciously sending me obscene messages, in order to fulfill his vengeance – the great-grandfather who broke the Telephone bride “accidentally” fell of a horse. He did not survive the fall. My ancestors all died with a chilling, unexplainable death, suddenly, one of them even while in a passionate embrace of a courtesan – He had a heart attack from excitement – the gentlemen told. That lady also loved to telephone. It was told Alexander Graham Bell was one of her orderly customers.
– Inbreed! – I growled towards the telephone while madness sparked from my eyes.
– It is not my fault. I will buy you a pink telephone to keep you company! – I moaned.
– Hm-hm-hm… – the specter was changing places, from one shadow into the other, so that „hm-hm“ finaly canonized together with the ghastly laughter. I have more felt than saw the cable that like a whip whipped the worn floor of the room. Something on the floor appeared and it looked like blood.
It looked like to me as I was seeing a trace of a female foot walking the room. The roared, the uncompromised hammers of revenge.
With my last flinches, I fired a shot into one corner of the room. The bullet only startled the rocks in the wall and stuck inside like a gluttonous, determined thought of me-the-insane.
I was tortured by that ghastly ventriloquist, maddened me to death, acting slowly like a poison that got his hands on my mind.
– You have to hurry up with the decision – Telephone spoke mercifully. – Shall we dig her out together or…?
Of course, you will live with us and pay the phone bill each month. And then we will find you friend to who you can telephone to. Oh, you cannot even imagine what kind of conversations is awaiting you . . . ones of multiple hours. . .
And I understood. I heard the growling, wild voiced of my ancestors, murderers, thieves, gamblers (it was told also that my great great great great-grandfather was the brother of Dorian Gray’s uncle, for who the generations of school kids believe was a fictional character, thanks to the skillful propaganda of the French novelists who still remember the one hundred year war).
I saw the faces of the past that flew above, whose voices come to me from Samara’s well and twist through the black veins of the torturer, the creatures I belonged to and to whom I will always belong to, with them together, I. . . will continue to grow and rot, forever separated from the knotty womb of all that is human, never again in the routine of existence, a marionette who will be etched by the ghosts in their hands and blind to never see the day and night again with the mute stars.
A sound alike a scream spilled through my skull and that is when I saw myself – under the light of a waning candle, my extinguished eyes. A shadow in a gray hoodie towered above me. Evil tears spilled from my eyes after knowing all is well.
The demon told me something. It was a thought that cut through air, after being spoken. Or everything got mixed, and I heard a word, followed by the thought. All I know is that the unreal, maddened eyes (whether mine or of the Creature) sow fear followed by a raging disease and death!
– Everything is all right, Zoltan, or how hmm was it… – he felt the cold touch of the telephone cable. He turned around, grabbed him savagely and choked him with the telephone wire.
The hero of this story, with a thousand names and in the advanced stadium of madness, during the two days he spent in Senburn, tore out at least two, tightened with strong belts, straight-jackets. He was finally saved, thanks to the mysterious call from the house of this incurable, violent madman.
– Cursed inbreed! He phoned to the Ambulance just to torture me! Aha! Just so you know I will not carry a singing shovel for your darling, you will have to dig her out yourself!
– Who are you talking about, sir? Who phoned? You live alone, Your neighbors … We have information that you do not leave your house for years, that you only talk with the trained androids of Telecom. Did you not, after so many years, not even drink a coffee with any of them?
– You! Rotarian! King Arthur, ha-ha-ha! How so! Telephone! He phoned the ambulance to save me!
The doctor gazed into the distant, blue clouds. The day was coloring itself the colors of the evening. The changing of the seasons was at the horizon.
He felt a stinging pain in his stomach – like it was being pressed by a flaming egg. During his twenty year long practice, he truly sympathized with his patients, especially the lost cases. He opened his notes and wrote in the final verdict:” He does not see the body, but he hears the voice. May the Lord have mercy on his poor, over stimulated psyche”.
– No doctor, the madman do not go to Heaven – he got startled by the deranged madman who right lip was twitching to the side.
He hesitated for a moment. During his practice, he realized that the misfortunate, lonely people, forever trapped within the world of obscene hallucinations, develop some sort of telepathy with those who treat them – those are, like ticking of the clock, painful blows within their heads. Whispers, demonic whispers. . .
– Sir, it is impossible that happened. Intrigued by Your story, I made sure to order a thorough examination of the telephone. A weird model, I must admit. . . 1866. . .It honestly intrigued me. . . But, that which removes all doubt. . .
– What? What? How did He trick you? Oh, that sleezy…
– Sir, the telephone was not at all connected into the wall, it in fact. . . does not even operate on electricity. . . and the dial is missing. . . you know. . .
The last scream broke through Senburn. I died three months later. My last words were:” Give me back my cable, doctor”.