The Country from Hell
"Here in Iad," your father informs you as he stands before the window scratching his balls, "There are good men, bad men, and very bad men."
"I know. You always say that."
"Do I? Well damn, kid, grab me some custia before I lose my mind!"
"As the proverb goes, lucky is the man who goes mad when he's still young, for his whole life is filled with joy."
"I've heard that one, too, Grandma." Your grandmother is dressed in her mourning black, which has been her color ever since Grandpa was crushed on the Great Construction Project many years ago. She is watching the Singing North channel on your black and white television. The Singing North channel almost always features a woman who, like grandma, is dressed in black, singing an old sentimental folksong completely off-key. As you head towards the refrigerator, it occurs to you that the woman on that channel could in fact be wearing dark blue, but you'd never know the difference since your TV is black and white. No, it has to be black. Iadians don't like color.
"Dad, the refrigerator's broken again." Peering inside, you are greeted with the acrid stench of rotten vegetables. A custia bottle stands sweating in the corner.
"Custia is custia! Bring it here, you brat!"
Custia smells something like deep-fried turpentine and because it's omnipresent, that means that Iad also smells something like deep-fried turpentine. You gag a little as you hand your father the custia bottle and a glass. He farts loudly and swigs directly from the bottle.
"What is this treachery!" shouts your wizened little grandma suddenly from deep in her armchair. "Don't you hear? There's a Frosty singing on my channel! Get off of my channel, you greedy pigdog!" She furiously throws a tabloid or two at the set, which flickers for a moment before returning to its usual gray fuzziness.
"Old woman!" bellows your father, prematurely jolly because he hasn't yet drunk nearly enough custia to really feel that way. He's just anticipating it. "Relax or you'll aggravate your ulcer!"
"What do I care about an ulcer? Am I supposed to sit here as these Frosties, these foreign barbarians, come into my country, steal my land, steal my language, steal my very soul? They're the ones giving me an ulcer! They chill me to the bone, these Frosties! Cold hearts! No scruples! Scoundrels!"
Her face begins to turn plum purple, but she smiles obligingly when your father finally fills the glass with custia, setting it down on the table next to her.
"You always were a good boy."
You walk into the bedroom where the window is wide open. Already you can feel the heat rising up from the concrete, impregnating everything to the point of bursting. You see the people outside are scowling even more than usual. A streetcar rumbles by, filling your ears with its cacophony of ugly sounds. You sigh, suddenly feeling at a loss of anything to do. Is anything worth doing today? Tomorrow? You catch sight of the downward-slanting corner of your mouth in the old bedroom mirror. For lack of anything better to do, you step in front of the mirror to examine yourself, just in case you are different today than on all the other days of your unremarkable life. Staring back at you, as usual, is a...
"I know. You always say that."
"Do I? Well damn, kid, grab me some custia before I lose my mind!"
"As the proverb goes, lucky is the man who goes mad when he's still young, for his whole life is filled with joy."
"I've heard that one, too, Grandma." Your grandmother is dressed in her mourning black, which has been her color ever since Grandpa was crushed on the Great Construction Project many years ago. She is watching the Singing North channel on your black and white television. The Singing North channel almost always features a woman who, like grandma, is dressed in black, singing an old sentimental folksong completely off-key. As you head towards the refrigerator, it occurs to you that the woman on that channel could in fact be wearing dark blue, but you'd never know the difference since your TV is black and white. No, it has to be black. Iadians don't like color.
"Dad, the refrigerator's broken again." Peering inside, you are greeted with the acrid stench of rotten vegetables. A custia bottle stands sweating in the corner.
"Custia is custia! Bring it here, you brat!"
Custia smells something like deep-fried turpentine and because it's omnipresent, that means that Iad also smells something like deep-fried turpentine. You gag a little as you hand your father the custia bottle and a glass. He farts loudly and swigs directly from the bottle.
"What is this treachery!" shouts your wizened little grandma suddenly from deep in her armchair. "Don't you hear? There's a Frosty singing on my channel! Get off of my channel, you greedy pigdog!" She furiously throws a tabloid or two at the set, which flickers for a moment before returning to its usual gray fuzziness.
"Old woman!" bellows your father, prematurely jolly because he hasn't yet drunk nearly enough custia to really feel that way. He's just anticipating it. "Relax or you'll aggravate your ulcer!"
"What do I care about an ulcer? Am I supposed to sit here as these Frosties, these foreign barbarians, come into my country, steal my land, steal my language, steal my very soul? They're the ones giving me an ulcer! They chill me to the bone, these Frosties! Cold hearts! No scruples! Scoundrels!"
Her face begins to turn plum purple, but she smiles obligingly when your father finally fills the glass with custia, setting it down on the table next to her.
"You always were a good boy."
You walk into the bedroom where the window is wide open. Already you can feel the heat rising up from the concrete, impregnating everything to the point of bursting. You see the people outside are scowling even more than usual. A streetcar rumbles by, filling your ears with its cacophony of ugly sounds. You sigh, suddenly feeling at a loss of anything to do. Is anything worth doing today? Tomorrow? You catch sight of the downward-slanting corner of your mouth in the old bedroom mirror. For lack of anything better to do, you step in front of the mirror to examine yourself, just in case you are different today than on all the other days of your unremarkable life. Staring back at you, as usual, is a...