The Country from Hell
Wiggy lives in an apartment in an elegant fin-de-siècle building just off University Square. It's one of the only ones like it left in Klo, the rest having been smashed to bits to make room for the never-ending rows of apartment blocks.
The apartment door is opened in the same second that you knock.
"I thought it might be you," says Wiggy, placing his hand on your shoulder and drawing you inside. You have always loved his apartment. It is one of those rare spaces untouched by the passage of time. Old lace curtains hang on the windows, their faded edges made charming by the stacks and stacks of books stuffed into shelves and on every imaginable surface of the small studio. The Professor always said he wanted to be a poet, but engineering was considered more revolutionary and practical. His literary bent once got him into some nearly fatal trouble when a single sentence he published in the University circular came to the attention of a jealous rival who made sure that the Professor was "sent Up North" to cool his heels in a place that even now he will only talk about in vague allusions. After the Pig was overthrown, the Professor was offered this apartment as a sort of reparation. Wiggy has an awe-inspiring respect for his father, and together they live a life far removed from the rough streets of Klo. You sink down into the sanctuary of an old leather armchair.
"Well, if it isn't the sacrificial lamb," says the Professor, getting up from his own seat to warmly shake your hand.
"I don't understand."
"Did you go for your scores, boy?"
"Yes."
"Then you know that you were cheated out of your place."
"I came here to see what you knew."
"Oh, I've known it all along, son. The same dog who sent me packing Up North also happens to have a son about your age. The kid is dumber than a donkey, but his father insisted that he be granted admissionÂ…at your expense, I'm afraid."
"Ah, well, that's life," you say mechanically, accepting the cup of tea the Professor extends to you.
"Indeed. Some things never change. The Pig and his Sow might have been cooked up for Christmas dinner, but that doesn't mean all his goons didn't stay onboard. They just traded in their red for Armani suits and switched the title 'Comrade' to 'Sir'. Just look at that limousine out there. Recognize the plates? Of course not! They're from Michigan, USA! They were able to fuck off to the States, excuse the expression, and make a fortune thanks to their shady connections there. Then they came back with their cunts in the air, excuse the expression, just to make sure the rest of us know that they are still the winners and we are still the losers. Excuse the expression, but fuck them in their ears!
This is the kind of nonsense that made my sister so religious. She might as well just make the Orthodox Church her permanent mailing address. 'Rejoice that God has made you suffer! That means he likes you!' Ha! Well, in that case, I think God is a sadistic shit, excuse my filthy mouth. You see, when the Reds sent me Up North, I left my belief in God at the concentration camp gate. Some vagabond gypsy must have stolen it because it wasn't there when I came out five years later and fifty pounds lighter! Ha! No, I have stopped trying to make sense of my world. There's no sense to be had. There's just pleasure in little things. When I walk through the park and see little ones playing, I think that maybe theirs will be a better world. For sure, it will be shit. But even shit happens in degrees, my boys! All I need to do is smell braised cabbage on an old Iadian stove and I'm set for a week of bliss! Anyway, I'm sorry for what happened to you. It wasn't fair. But don't give up. The second you give up, you die. But I'm just an irrelevant old man going on and on. Why don't you boys go out and have yourself a couple drinks on me? It's summer. You're young. What more does one need?"
The Professor smiles kindly at you, but you can see his eyes are troubled. Looking down at the American limousine, you want nothing more than to drop a Molotov cocktail on it, watch it burn right there on the street. You thought you wanted to know why you weren't accepted, but really it would have been much easier if you just hadn't made the grade. "Lucky is the stupid manÂ…" Your thoughts are interrupted by Wiggy punching you lightly in the arm.
"Come on! Let's go have a little fun."
The apartment door is opened in the same second that you knock.
"I thought it might be you," says Wiggy, placing his hand on your shoulder and drawing you inside. You have always loved his apartment. It is one of those rare spaces untouched by the passage of time. Old lace curtains hang on the windows, their faded edges made charming by the stacks and stacks of books stuffed into shelves and on every imaginable surface of the small studio. The Professor always said he wanted to be a poet, but engineering was considered more revolutionary and practical. His literary bent once got him into some nearly fatal trouble when a single sentence he published in the University circular came to the attention of a jealous rival who made sure that the Professor was "sent Up North" to cool his heels in a place that even now he will only talk about in vague allusions. After the Pig was overthrown, the Professor was offered this apartment as a sort of reparation. Wiggy has an awe-inspiring respect for his father, and together they live a life far removed from the rough streets of Klo. You sink down into the sanctuary of an old leather armchair.
"Well, if it isn't the sacrificial lamb," says the Professor, getting up from his own seat to warmly shake your hand.
"I don't understand."
"Did you go for your scores, boy?"
"Yes."
"Then you know that you were cheated out of your place."
"I came here to see what you knew."
"Oh, I've known it all along, son. The same dog who sent me packing Up North also happens to have a son about your age. The kid is dumber than a donkey, but his father insisted that he be granted admissionÂ…at your expense, I'm afraid."
"Ah, well, that's life," you say mechanically, accepting the cup of tea the Professor extends to you.
"Indeed. Some things never change. The Pig and his Sow might have been cooked up for Christmas dinner, but that doesn't mean all his goons didn't stay onboard. They just traded in their red for Armani suits and switched the title 'Comrade' to 'Sir'. Just look at that limousine out there. Recognize the plates? Of course not! They're from Michigan, USA! They were able to fuck off to the States, excuse the expression, and make a fortune thanks to their shady connections there. Then they came back with their cunts in the air, excuse the expression, just to make sure the rest of us know that they are still the winners and we are still the losers. Excuse the expression, but fuck them in their ears!
This is the kind of nonsense that made my sister so religious. She might as well just make the Orthodox Church her permanent mailing address. 'Rejoice that God has made you suffer! That means he likes you!' Ha! Well, in that case, I think God is a sadistic shit, excuse my filthy mouth. You see, when the Reds sent me Up North, I left my belief in God at the concentration camp gate. Some vagabond gypsy must have stolen it because it wasn't there when I came out five years later and fifty pounds lighter! Ha! No, I have stopped trying to make sense of my world. There's no sense to be had. There's just pleasure in little things. When I walk through the park and see little ones playing, I think that maybe theirs will be a better world. For sure, it will be shit. But even shit happens in degrees, my boys! All I need to do is smell braised cabbage on an old Iadian stove and I'm set for a week of bliss! Anyway, I'm sorry for what happened to you. It wasn't fair. But don't give up. The second you give up, you die. But I'm just an irrelevant old man going on and on. Why don't you boys go out and have yourself a couple drinks on me? It's summer. You're young. What more does one need?"
The Professor smiles kindly at you, but you can see his eyes are troubled. Looking down at the American limousine, you want nothing more than to drop a Molotov cocktail on it, watch it burn right there on the street. You thought you wanted to know why you weren't accepted, but really it would have been much easier if you just hadn't made the grade. "Lucky is the stupid manÂ…" Your thoughts are interrupted by Wiggy punching you lightly in the arm.
"Come on! Let's go have a little fun."