Assisted Living: A Novel by Nikanor Teratologen Page B

Shub-Niggurath! the terrifying thing howled.
    —You’d better haulass back to Kokkola before I call Grandpa!
    There was a shriek and then the sound of something writhing and pulsing down a tunnel. Then all was still.
    —That’s right—you don’t get to play in our backyard, I sighed in relief.
    Then, feeling so-so, I sank down onto the brown grass. Being Grandpas child is like playing Russianroulette. Fear was doing a number on me, but there was no point in asking for help. I’m more afraid of Grandpa than anything else; that’s because I crave his love. I drained the two mammothbeers I’d nabbed from some strangers. That put a little hair on my chest. After a moment, I was able to enter the cellar and turn on the gas. A flame leapedup, sending flickers pitterpattering down the passageway. It was sticky and rank. Most of what was down here had been hanging so long it was inedible. Whatever they’d once been, they’d definitely returned to their origins. A gooey string of grease snaked its way towards a hole in the floor. The meatlocker held a lot of crimcram: boysroomsmokers, greeneyedlouts, kwashiorkors—in other words, a lot of nipplesuckers were hanging from the dripping ceiling. After a moment, I found the kid Grandpa had jumped while the dolt was out trapping woodpeckers on Flakaberget. He was dangling from a meathook and wasn’t especially pretty. He was about my age, only bigger. I had a hell of a time trying to pry him loose because the hook was caught in his ribs. Finally, though, I worked him free. It happened so quick that I fell backward and he landed on top of me. I couldn’t drag him by the head, because Grandpa had taken such big hunks out of his neck that his skull would pop off. So I grabbed him by the ankles. When we finally made it out of the cellar, I turned off the gas and locked the door. Then I dragged him across the yard the same way I had come. I went as fast as I could, because I knew the others would get tired of waiting soon. I nearly got stuck in the hedge, but I pulled myself free. Exhausted, I finally tumbled into the bower. They all fell silent and stared at me. Grandpa twisted my nose without a word. He was cold and hard and I knew he’d been hitting the hooch. I tried to explain, but he pressed his death’s head ring into my cheek until it drew blood.
    —That’s what a thirst for adventure and a hunger for knowledge will get you, he quipped.
    —This meat looks ready to cook, Petunia said, drowning herself in ethanol. As long as he wasn’t shitting himself when he died. Fear makes the meat tough and bitter. Better to roast them alive, before they know what’s happening.
    —I’m sure he’ll be fine, Eilert said.
    —Just let me light the grill, Petunia said, wanting to show how capable she was. She emptied two fifty-kilo bags of walruspubes onto the two-meter-long grill. Next came a bottle-and-a-half of mouthwash. She downed the rest, since it was still “firewater.” Good plan, except she lit the grill without taking her cigarillo out of her mouth. That’s when the show got good. The fire leaped off the grill and landed in Petunia’s tangled mane. She stumbled around, arms waving wild, while brightred blisters blossomed all over her face. The fire cackled merrily and the oldhag howled to highheaven. It probably hurt, but it was fucking hilarious to watch. Petunias fiery blouse was itself a joy to behold; also the way her piggy flesh cracked and spit like fryingbacon. Grandpa looked on indifferently, but Eilert sprang up and pushed Petunia across the bricks and into our morayeelpond. He held her under the water until the fire was out. Good move, except that when Eilert pulled her up, she had a schweinfurtgreen, thighthick Beriamoray dangling from her chin. That didn’t last long, though. With a little cooing and coddling, Grandpa got it to open its jaws and sink back into the fermenting pond. Then Eilert smeared ramlotion on Petunias face and shoulders, and soon she