store and a newskiosk. We passed a reservebarracks where the future of the town had left weekendengravings and spatterpaintings. . “Luge sucks shit” … “Kåge by night, full of fight, Kåge by day, girlie and gay” …
People Against the Missionary Position had set up a snuff-and splatterfilm booth directly in front of the Belial office of the local Demonsbureau. Homo-Lage and Wanker-Helge were working the counter. We joined the group of inbred apemen listening openmouthed to the pompous bullshit spouted by the lot from Skellefteå. I recognized “Cowberry,” “Wolfman,” “The Quack,” “Chewe,” and “Moans a lot” in the crowd.
—Raoul Wallenberg’s alive, his death’s a conspiracy, Lage was grandstanding. He lives! I know it! Sure as Jesus Christ shot his wad on the cross! As he babbled, he lit a licorice ciggarette. Me and Helge met him in Finlandferry on Pentecost. He was calling himself Inez and making a living blowing pens through a straw with his ass, and telling fortunes by consulting balls.
—But Lage, Bjuuv interrupted, with a becoming hint of feeblemindedness in his voice, how the hell can you be sure it was Raoul?
—Because he was him! shouted Lage, starting to get riled up.
—I’ve been with tons of guys who claimed they were Raoul Wallenberg, old tumor-for-a-toupee bragged.
—You’re way too pretty for that, Helge said mockingly, screwing up his chloasmically blotched face. By the devil, you AIDS-riddled swine, if you sucked cock as well as you lied, what more would we need? That doxy we met was the Grauballe Man, though, you can believe Lage the Lip when he says that it was Raoul. And you know what Wallenberg told me, just between us four balls: Nothing can match a foul, fleshy Finn feeling peckish for a good old slaughtertango. Then he taught me gutter Finnish and got Lage and me to like lappwaltzing with our lappcocks. He was so sweet I felt like a little girl all over again!
—Aw, you’ve got so much love in you, Wanker-Helge, said Frusse. But what was he like? How did he look?
—Well, Raoul’s scrawny and nervous, but he’s got motherofpearl skin and eyes like amber. He has bite marks on his chin and forehead. He doesn’t have any feelings, but he cries at the drop of a hat.
—And the guy has tried everything, continued Homo-Lage. One day he was a mongoloid, then an absentminded professor, and after that he really needed to take a shit.
—Limpcocks and dryfucks! Grandpa said in a halfwhisper. Come on, mite, let’s leave the whores to their filthy jabbering.
We walked past the supermarket with hate beating down the back of our necks. As we passed, I read some of the headlines.
“Queen Bee Silvia: Fuck it all!”
“New Hope for Bisected Seamstress”
“Ingemar Stenmark and Björn Borg Having Love Child”
“Ibrahim, the Centipede, Dead”
“Shocking pictures: Loffe Breastfeeding Hagge!”
“Oldsberg and Melander No Longer in the Running”
“Tumba Refuses to Jerk off King!”
“Dalai Lama Has Great Faith in Stig H. and Nasty Faggot”
“The 100 Poorest Swedes: Pictures and Facts”
“Barbro of Surahammar: I’ve tried to commit suicide 110 times”
“Bengt Westerberg Single Again: I love loving to the sound of a heartsick, squalling babe.”
Our brains were buzzing like bees in a macramé pie when we finally snuck into the old age home and knocked on Hildings door.
—Who’s there? he rattled.
—Erik O., grunted Grandpa, disguising his voice.
—And someone else who wants to talk to you, I said, playing along.
—Whatdoyouwantwithme, you demons? Hilding whimpered, cracking the door and peering out with bloodshot eyes. I didn’t order no meatwagon.
—Just Mengele and Streicher here to play a little game of two on three.
—Nonononono, grimaced the ravaged face, not gonna happen!
—God Hilding, you poor scoundrel, don’t you recognize me, Grandpa cackled and forced his way in.
—We used to be joined at the hip, he
People Against the Missionary Position had set up a snuff-and splatterfilm booth directly in front of the Belial office of the local Demonsbureau. Homo-Lage and Wanker-Helge were working the counter. We joined the group of inbred apemen listening openmouthed to the pompous bullshit spouted by the lot from Skellefteå. I recognized “Cowberry,” “Wolfman,” “The Quack,” “Chewe,” and “Moans a lot” in the crowd.
—Raoul Wallenberg’s alive, his death’s a conspiracy, Lage was grandstanding. He lives! I know it! Sure as Jesus Christ shot his wad on the cross! As he babbled, he lit a licorice ciggarette. Me and Helge met him in Finlandferry on Pentecost. He was calling himself Inez and making a living blowing pens through a straw with his ass, and telling fortunes by consulting balls.
—But Lage, Bjuuv interrupted, with a becoming hint of feeblemindedness in his voice, how the hell can you be sure it was Raoul?
—Because he was him! shouted Lage, starting to get riled up.
—I’ve been with tons of guys who claimed they were Raoul Wallenberg, old tumor-for-a-toupee bragged.
—You’re way too pretty for that, Helge said mockingly, screwing up his chloasmically blotched face. By the devil, you AIDS-riddled swine, if you sucked cock as well as you lied, what more would we need? That doxy we met was the Grauballe Man, though, you can believe Lage the Lip when he says that it was Raoul. And you know what Wallenberg told me, just between us four balls: Nothing can match a foul, fleshy Finn feeling peckish for a good old slaughtertango. Then he taught me gutter Finnish and got Lage and me to like lappwaltzing with our lappcocks. He was so sweet I felt like a little girl all over again!
—Aw, you’ve got so much love in you, Wanker-Helge, said Frusse. But what was he like? How did he look?
—Well, Raoul’s scrawny and nervous, but he’s got motherofpearl skin and eyes like amber. He has bite marks on his chin and forehead. He doesn’t have any feelings, but he cries at the drop of a hat.
—And the guy has tried everything, continued Homo-Lage. One day he was a mongoloid, then an absentminded professor, and after that he really needed to take a shit.
—Limpcocks and dryfucks! Grandpa said in a halfwhisper. Come on, mite, let’s leave the whores to their filthy jabbering.
We walked past the supermarket with hate beating down the back of our necks. As we passed, I read some of the headlines.
“Queen Bee Silvia: Fuck it all!”
“New Hope for Bisected Seamstress”
“Ingemar Stenmark and Björn Borg Having Love Child”
“Ibrahim, the Centipede, Dead”
“Shocking pictures: Loffe Breastfeeding Hagge!”
“Oldsberg and Melander No Longer in the Running”
“Tumba Refuses to Jerk off King!”
“Dalai Lama Has Great Faith in Stig H. and Nasty Faggot”
“The 100 Poorest Swedes: Pictures and Facts”
“Barbro of Surahammar: I’ve tried to commit suicide 110 times”
“Bengt Westerberg Single Again: I love loving to the sound of a heartsick, squalling babe.”
Our brains were buzzing like bees in a macramé pie when we finally snuck into the old age home and knocked on Hildings door.
—Who’s there? he rattled.
—Erik O., grunted Grandpa, disguising his voice.
—And someone else who wants to talk to you, I said, playing along.
—Whatdoyouwantwithme, you demons? Hilding whimpered, cracking the door and peering out with bloodshot eyes. I didn’t order no meatwagon.
—Just Mengele and Streicher here to play a little game of two on three.
—Nonononono, grimaced the ravaged face, not gonna happen!
—God Hilding, you poor scoundrel, don’t you recognize me, Grandpa cackled and forced his way in.
—We used to be joined at the hip, he
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