Assisted Living: A Novel by Nikanor Teratologen

Lindblad, Nisse Linnman, and Bisse, but without sound; one specializes in fiascofucks caught on hiddencamera; one exclusively shows garroting and grannieporn. Grandpas windpipe rattled, the channel needed changing. He didn’t have the energy to throw a fit, though. I pretended I was asleep.
    He turned off the TV and carried me into the bedroom, crawling over the bookstacks as he went. Then he gently lowered meonto the urine-filled waterbed, kissed my forehead nightynight, lay down, and sent up a thanks for all we had received. Outside, everything continued as it was. It’s worse than you can ever imagine. No matter how deep you sleep, no matter how good you’ve got it, tomorrow always comes.
     
    __________
    Spanferkel —suckling pig
    Gyllenhammar —Pehr G. Gyllenhammar, well-known Swedish businessman, CEO of Volvo for many years
    Lena Liljebord , Jane Björck —Swedish TV hosts
    Jan Lindblad —Swedish naturalist and writer. He was also quite a virtuoso when it came to the art of whistling

XVIII
    —You know you’re a man when you can tell the difference between having to take a piss and wanting to fuck, Grandpa declared and took a big honking swig of Jack Daniels.
    —Geiserich’s fimbuleyes and fistulousdick! he swore, after he’d downed half the bottle. They must’ve let a nigger jerk off in that.
    That meant that Kvasir’s Blood was especially potent today. We were sitting in a nettlebower with Eilert and Petunia. Summer had cum a few hours ago, but was good to go again. The sky looked like a rotten cloudberrycompote, the wind brought with it the ripe aroma of the gypsymassgraves up north. The only mixer we had was rosehipsoup; all we had to munch on was a thick slab of St. Lucia cake and a few soggy, lukewarm loinglands.
    But:—They’ll be the main course, won’t they, Momma? Eilert had said when they turned up on the road leading to the caste villages and the Yehuda Triangle.
    —Hellandhighwater, Grandpa, don’t you think a boy becomes a man when he kills his first Jew? Petunia asked, sucking on a Rio Brasil.
    —Hosianna, but you sure can talk shit, woman! Grandpa exclaimed.
    —Killing Jews is about as difficult as gaying up Foucault!
    —But Globocnik said …
    —I shit on Odilo! fumed Grandpa. And on his compassion! And on his scythe! And on his spatula!
    —Shit, were so comfy here, Eilert broke in, can’t you two stop fighting?
    —You better think about just who you’re dealing with, Grandpa warned him.
    —Oh, we are, Eilert said, planting a kiss on Grandpa’s veiny, shriveled hand. Grandpas eyes narrowed dangerously as he glared at Petunia from beneath his forelock, but then he cast himself back into the Neapolitanyellow and Berlinblue hammock. Beneath the driedout layer of sperm and vomit, you could still see the bestiality motif from Suleiman the Magnificent’s rape of Europe in 1530. Vera Renczi had embroidered it with newbornbabies’ intestinalvilli.
    —Hey there, boy, Eilert said, faking a laugh and trailing a finger over my neckshotdimple, don’t you have anything clever to say? I think you’re too silent and sullen for your own good.
    —I don’t know about that, I said, dropping my eyes to my cock.
    Not that there was much to see. They’d made that clear enough.
    —Tell them about your noobproofs! demanded Grandpa.
    —Okay, I’ve thought up three lazy and logical proofs for God’s existence. They come from how things are.
    —Let’s hear them, you snotty windbag! Petunia quipped. Auntie’s a beast, she’d just as soon smoke a ciggi with her cunt as hermouth. She’s ugly as a walrus and she’s fat, foul, and knocked up to boot
    —The three proofs of Gods existence are: I. Pain and shit (even though that’s how we like it). II. Everything’s so cunningly made (though there’s no point to it). III. Everyone’s nice to me (even Petunia, who’s usually nasty as an octoberotter).
    First there was silence. The grasshoppers were chirping hard. That, combined with