After several months of prophesying and daily preaching at the town square it was clear to Mouthmad that Shitlam was going nowhere. His congregation has grown very little and he had only a dozen of acolytes if farm animals were included. They were people that have been rejected in all other faiths either because their mental handicaps or their bad smell or in many cases both.
They were few but certainly faithful to him. They obeyed and imitated Mouthmad in all his acts. They followed every step and did exactly as he did which became a problem when he needed to use the toilette. Most of his followers lacked not only wit but also dexterity and there was some confusion every time with toilette procedures. Mouthmad had to stipulate a very stringent set of rules regarding which hand and whose bottoms were to be cleaned.
The blind devotion of his flock did little to improve the dire economic situation because all of them were destitute and Mouthmad had to declare that all Shitlites should abstain of food during daytime so he could sneak by night and get something to eat in town while his followers were asleep. This strategy did work for a while but soon took a toll in their ranks. They had to eat sand and soon some of them died of starvation. Mouthmad declared those were martyrs of their faith and announced they would go straight to paradise. Paradise according to Shitlam is a place were food is abundant and everything is edible. Even God is made of a very tasty matter and He allows the faithful to bit off chunks any time they want. Mouthmad promised his gullible followers that those who died at his service would get the best tables in the heavenly feast and that the waitresses would be topless blondes with huge breasts. This calmed the protesters complaints but not their hunger. Eventually he had to institute temporary cannibalism among his followers until the situation improved. He realized that he had to find more affluent followers or his flock would soon eat each other and vanish.
He tried a new strategy to impress the unbelivers performing some miracles that would lend some credibility to his rants. He decided to resurrect the dead, a miracle he was sure would get at least some clapping. He spent several nights at the graveyard speaking to the tombstones trying to persuade some corpse to raise but had no better luck than when he had tried to teach a boulder to do tricks. He finally lost his patience and disinterred a fresh corpse to pass him for alive by carving a hole in the back of the skull and using his hand to move the jaw to give the appearance the corpse was speaking. Unfortunately Mouthmad was a lousy ventriloquist and his lips moved when he performed for his audience. He had to run for his life when the jaw fell to the ground and the villagers accused him of performing unnatural acts with corpses. His hand was still stuck inside the skull and he had to drag the corpse chased by a mob throwing rocks. It was only the lack stamina and the heavy rocks that they carried that allowed Mouthmad to arrive at home ahead of them. He commanded his congregation to pick up the Holy Shit and their scarce valuables and they took off for the desert with Mouthmad’s hand still inside the dead head. Later a blind deaf-mute follower with sharp teeth chopped off the body’s neck but there was no way the hand would come off the skull.
They got lost in the dunes and walked in circles for days trying to figure out what to do next. The rotting head in Mouthmad’s hand soon attracted vultures and a circle of them hovered over the odd procession day and night. One day a particularly big and daring vulture carried the tasty carrion away with Mouthmad still attached to it. The vulture flew away with both the rotten head and the scared prophet in his claws until finally the hand slipped out the skull and Mouthmad plunged into Melilla’s town square.
When people saw a bewildered bearded man falling from the sky they thought they were witnessing a miracle. It was certainly a miracle that Mouthmad survived the fall. He landed in the canvas roof of a stall selling pillows belonging to a fat Ceutan merchant that also contributed to cushion the impact but perished in the process. The stupefaction of the witnessing crowd didn’t prevented them from looting the crashed stall and steal the wool pillows, a luxury item in backwards Melilla where most people slept on stone slabs with their heads resting on an inflated donkey bladder. Many of the superstitious looters placed the pillows in the dust and kneeled on them to worship the man that had fell from heaven to facilitate plundering. When Mouthmad regained consciousness he recognized the great opportunity the accident presented to him. He stood up and announced he was a messenger from God and that his religion saw plundering and pillaging of infidels as a legitimate form of amusement. This announcement won immediate approval of the Melillans that practiced a more conservative faith that allowed looting only on Saturday evening and Sunday.
This incident is considered the foundational event of Shitlam and it is called the Pillow Day. In this day Shitlites will wear a pillow in their heads and eat the stuffing with vinegar when night comes. This is also the explanation why Shitlites consider pillows and other linens as holy and the Western custom of using them to sleep a profanity. The followers of Mouthmad sleep naked under a layer of sand and treat linens as family members. Linens can be used only as headwear and pillow fondling is punished with the severing of offender’s nose.
Mouthmad stood on top of an upturned empty barrel in the middle of the little Ceutan main square, that was also the only square in town. He looked around to the brutish villagers who went around on their business without paying attention to him and who had not even thought to organize a welcome party for him after his six years long absence. In fact most of them hadn’t even noticed he was gone and nobody seemed to recognize him. Only a handful of idle men and the village idiot had gathered around to see if he would make a fool of himself. Some of them were already weighting stones in their hands to throw them to him in case a stoning was found pertinent . He coughed some dust and cleared his dusty tongue and began to speak.
‘ Listen to me my Ceutan brothers. I have just come back to you from my pilgrimage into the desert where I endured great hardship and all sorts of calamities. The days were hot and the nights cold. I had neither food nor water. I breathed as few as I could to make myself worthy of God’s attention. For days I left the burning sand of the desert to slip into the crack of my butt and let it there without scratching as penitence for my many sins. I ate sand and I drank sand. I slept in the sand and woke up under the sand. I took showers with sand and brushed my teeth with sand too. Even my humbles clothes were woven with sand just to prove God, the great sand maker, that I am humble as a grain of sand, although much heavier. Satan came to tempt me with riches and pleasures, but I refused his evil seduction and buried my head in the sand. Like a merchant in the bazaar he offered me golden palaces at bargain price and lascivious voices called my name from the darkness luring me to sin but I filled my hears with sand not to hear those wicked calls. He showed me tempting images of the pleasures of the flesh but I filled my eyelids with more sand not to see them. Then he offered me a device called vacuum cleaner that would swallow the burning sand out of my stomach. I felt tempted, I must say, but still I refused, for Satan is a prince of lies and such a contraption would never be possible. Then a deafening thunder was heard and the earth itself trembled in its wake. It was the Almighty Himself calling my name from Heaven. He told me the Devil was at his service and He had sent him to tempt me and see if I was weak and unworthy. I had proved myself to Him and He had decided to show up for a chat although I couldn’t see Him yet because my eyes were still full of sand. He told me he had been moved by my meekness and stupidity . He said he wanted a prophet for his revelation and he had chosen me in the hope I would perform better than the last one who only had managed to get himself nailed on a cross. I told him that I was indeed the meekest of the meek and considered dumb among the stupidest and precisely because that I was not taken very seriously among sinners. He told me he was about to give me an irrefutable proof that would silence the incredulous and that he only needed a minute. He was silent for a minute and the sun and the moon appeared together in the sky at the same time and I realilize I was watching God’s buttocks. They were pure white marble and chiseled like a Greek sculpture. God, praised His name, maybe timeless but he stays in good shape. A thundering grunt of relief was heard and a black mass fell from the sky and landed at my feet and covered me with a sticky matter not unlike feces in texture and smell. The Maker, praised be His bowel movement, had just defecated. His almighty feces where mine to prove the distrustful that He was not only God, ruler and creator of the Universe, praised be His name, but that his bowels movements were as almighty as himself. I carried His holy turd through the desert and brought it here so you can see it and honor it’
Mouthmad step off the barrel and from under it he produced a black congealed mass the size of a melon. He raised it above his head to show it to the onlookers, specially the shorter ones in the last rows. He took it in his hands and with great care climbed back to his improvised pulpit. Then with one stretched arm he raised the black pertrified giant dropping and with his free hand pointing to the sky said:
‘ Behold my brothers, God Almighty, praised be his name, had found in his mercy to drop on our lands his Almighty Dark Feces to show us that we are His chosen people. Praised be Him. Honored by His name and His fecal matter. Brothers I command you: honor the Holy Shit!’
The crowd was silent and unimpressed. The thing Mouthmad was holding in his hands looked to them just like a regular dry turd whose only impressive feature was its size. Only the village idiot fell on his knees and began vowing to the Dark Feces with outstretched arms and forehead tapping on the ground. Some of the onlookers throw some rocks aimlessly and the small crowd dispersed to do their duties wondering what that stranger was talking about.
Mouthmad was left in the middle of the dusty square holding the Holy Shit with the village idiot at his feet. Not so bad, he thought, at least nobody had cracked his head open with a rock like the last time he asked for directions. He already had three followers. First his wife had believed everything he told her, no matter how nonsensical and strange. Mouthmad had even told her he was growing feet in his head and she nodded to that too. Then there was his retarded son who felt a strong emotional attachment to the Dark Feces and spent hours in the yard caressing the black turd, although he did that with any feces he found. And now he had recruited the village idiot for his new religion he planned to call Shitlam, which meant ‘Those Who Worship Dung’ in the desert dialect.
Mouthmad walked back to his house and had the village idiot whose name was Moron carry the feces for him, because they were heavy and Mouthmad disliked manual work and thought prophets shouldn’t do any sort of heavy lifting. Moron followed him to his house jumping around and beckoning to hurry up a few paces ahead, for he was a very nervous and fast paced idiot. Mouthmad who preferred a more leisure pace became very upset by the constant screaming and beckoning and decided to have revelation while the tied up a loose sandal. It was reveled to him that idiots and persons of inferior intelligence, which included the total of female population, should always walk seven paces behind a person of superior intelligence, and everybody should walk thirteen paces behind the prophet.
Moron had a fit of laughter that lasted six hours when they made it to the little house and he saw Shycunt wearing a bucket in her head. Mouthmad had always felt ashamed to be seen in public with such an ugly wife so he had had a revelation that morning while having breakfast. His eyes had rolled up and down and he had begun perspiring profusely followed by a wild salvo of noisy farts, all the classical symptoms of revelation. He had proclaimed then that God had spoken to him and that from then on ugly women should cover their heads with a bucket or a sack. Incidentally this law of Shitlam would be later extended also to beautiful women to great disappointment of the male Shitlites.
Mouthmad bestowed upon his first three acolytes the honor of building a shrine for the Dark Feces while he sat on a chair and watched the progress of their work. The progress was slow and the result dubious. What could you expect of an idiot, a retarded child and a woman blinded by a bucket? The shrine was a shaft made of four crooked sticks buried in the sand holding a roof made with a soiled bedcover that had been white but now was black. Mouthmad had them stitch some chicken bones on the hems to give the whole contraption a more shrine-like appearance. He had wanted to have it decorated with some nice paintings depicting his ordeal but nobody of his followers was up to the task although they certainly tried. Moron would only draw giant penises and naked women with huge breasts, his son could only sketch two parallel lines that met at the end and his wife produced some drawings with the bucket on her head but Mouthmad face was drawn so crudely that he looked like a giant chicken, which was actually how he looked although he had much loftier vision of himself. He got so mad with the poor results that he had another revelation and he banned the depiction of human form and poultry animals for all Shitlites and that women should never hold a pencil in their hands. He ordered dinner and went to sleep afterwards because next day there was a lot of prophesying to do.
Mike is sitting in front of his laptop, the screen’s blue glare illuminating his weary face. The desktop background is a high resolution photo of two dolphins jumping together out of a blue pool and leaving a trail of sparkling water drops. They look happy but Mike doesn’t. He is watching a long line of figures dropping endless down the screen like a waterfall made of numbers and currency symbols. He is checking stock prices on the international markets. That’s how he makes money, by monitoring the fucking prices and getting good deals for his clients. He plays with money. He is good at that. He is the fucking best. That’s him. The stock market is his natural habitat and the rules of that habitat are the same than in any other habitat: fucking survival of the fittest. If you want to thrive in that kind of environment you have to be the smartest and meanest motherfucker in the fucking environment, or you are fucked. Like hose dolphins in the screen background of his fancy last generation aluminium laptop. They are the meanest fish-eater motherfuckers in the fucking ocean. That is why they deserve to decorate a high-tech flat screen. Do repugnant fleas manage to become models for sleek wallpapers? No. They do not. Because they are nasty and weak. Dolphins are entirely another matter. They eat all the fish and still have time to fuck around and pose for photos. If dolphins wouldn’t live under the fucking water, he though, they would own a place like mine, even with the same appliances and decoration. Fucking sharks only know how to eat your legs, they are fucking oceanic terrorists
Mike is still worried. Today his supervisor passed him what they call at the office a hopping potato. His boss came to him when he was about to leave and handed him the folder with the data. He told him to sort out things with that assets portfolio for next day and leave, because he was fucked as shit. Mike had flipped quickly through the contents of the folder and was worried because he could not make sense of the data. In the elevator a friend he despised told him about that folder. That black folder had been around the office for weeks because nobody wanted it. The guys called it a hopping potato. Shit you wouldn’t touch with a ten feet designer aluminum pole. You touch that shit, he had told him, and you find next sleeping in a dark alley under a cardboard box. That didn’t sound as something Mike wanted for himself. What worried Mike most was that he didn’t know what the fuck a hopping potato was. He understood the literal meaning of the words but he knew that the words had some kind of ominous metaphorical significance. They referred to some dangerous feature of the funds contained in the folder he had been assigned to manage.
Now he is at home staring at the flat screen of his computer. Peering through the high speed wireless window open to the world of international finances. He is looking for clues about the meaning of hopping potato. He found several descriptions of the expression hot potato used to describe a matter that is difficult to handle, but were a hot and a hopping potato the same thing? Is his colleague an idiot who had made a malapropism? Whatever a fucking a malapropism might be. His colleague is certainly an idiot and human being of inferior quality than himself, but still, was he making an idiot’s mistake when he told him about the fucking hopping potato? Mike opens the black folder and checks the numbers, they do not look right, specially the fives and nines, they are skewed and blurred. This does not make any sense. Why in fucking hell the sort of people who prints smeared figures would like to invest thity-million dollars in upturned funds. What they were trying to do? And what are upturned funds anyway? He feels sick of all this shit. He is the best and he should not be dealing with upturned funds and shit all the time. He feels he wants to tear off his own skin and run around the city showing his muscles to everybody. Does not the world know he is a fucking finances genius?
He makes some calls to find out about those upturned funds, but gets mixed results. Somebody tells him upturned funds are risky assets whit high profit returns. Somebody says they are bonds issued by international trading stakeholders. Somebody says leave a message. Somebody says upturned funds should and will go to hell for all he cares. Somebody says upturned funds are a crime against free flow of capital. Somebody says his grandmother lost his teeth because upturned funds. Somebody says don’t call this number ever more you motherfucker. Somebody says she will suck his cock and let him come on her face and he realizes he had mistakenly dialed a hot-line or his girlfriend’s number.
He is beginning to despair. What will he do tomorrow? How is he going to explain his boss, that son of a bitch, that he doesn’t know what to do with the folder? Even worse. What is going to happen when his colleagues find out he is clueless about what a hopping potato is? Those motherfuckers will think he is not the best any more.
He can’t stand the pressure. The walls are closing around him and the ceiling seems closer to the floor every minute. In no time his floor will cease to exist. He lives in the thirteenth floor of an apartments high-rise, but there is no thirteenth floor on the building and his floor is numbered fourteenth. He lives in a level that already does not exist. Trying to cheat imaginary bad luck the builders created an imaginary floor that is about to truly crush him into nothingness.
He goes out for a walk. It is late but the streets are still populated with people who does not want to sleep and people like him, who cannot sleep. They look to Mike like shadows, like fucking shadows. They are pale and they do not care about Mike or the upturned funds. Bunch of fucking losers, he thinks. A well dressed man on his thirties with a pretty blonde hanging in his arm is coming towards him. They are laughing and probably they are drunk. Mike thinks how exhilarating would be to spit on the blonde’s face and see what happens. That would teach those fuckers to be alert, he thinks, but he does nothing because he doesn’t want to get in trouble. Instead he enters a dark alley and after making sure nobody is around he begins licking one of the blackened masonry walls of the building. The taste of soot in his mouth always pacifies him. It tastes like eating the city itself and makes his tongue black.
‘ Are you going to finish that? Ha, ha! ’ asks a cranky old voice coming from the darkest recesses of the alley. Mike stops and turns around. He detects some rustling among the trash bags and cardoboard boxes that are piled up against the wall at the other side of the alley. He can make a shape struggling to stand up. A man that smells of urine and liquor. There was a homeless sleeping in the shadows and now he is making fun of him. Mike does what everybody does when they see a homeless: he acts as if it didn’t existed. I am smarter and I dress better than a fucking homeless, he thinks. The homeless is dressed with several layers of dirty clothes and still can’t stand up. He gives up and starts mumbling sitting on a mattress made of damp cardboard. He begins mumbling something but Mike is not listening what he says. He does not even registers the man’s presence and his voice is indistinguishable from the muffled noise of traffic coming from the mouth of the alley. Homeless speech is like the muzak of the streets. Mike would not get any closer anyway because from the other side of the narrow alley his smell is already unbearable to him.
‘ That fucking hopping potato is going to ruin you life ‘ says the homeless from the darkness when Mike passes by his side, but Mike does not register that either and goes back home.
Next morning he shows at the office resigned to tell his boss he has not been able to make any sense of the numbers. He will try to have the black folder passed to somebody else. He will make some excuse, a death in the family. Not his father. Mike already killed him to dodge the fallout of a very bad business deal worth millions.
When he steps into the wood paneled lobby of the firm he sees the young and cute receptionist is very altered. Almost in the verge of tears. Mike asks her what happens. She tells him his boss is dead. That night a homeless had sneaked in his home and slit his throat and his wife’s with a cutter. Then the nameless homeless killed himself in the same bed when their kid showed up on the bedroom.
Mike is petrified for a few seconds. He couldn’t tell how he knows this but he knows it. He is fucking positive. The killer is the same individual he had ignored that same night in the dark alley. He murmurs some perfunctory grief formalities and heads into the office. It is very early and people is around in clusters, probably talking about who will get the coveted supervisor’s post. Mike sneaks into his dead boss’ office and slips the hopping potato at the bottom of the pending folders stack.
If you want your voice to be heard, lose your hope, and your hopes will be fulfilled. If you want your time to run faster, don’t worry, he is faster than you. He will eventually catch you, and he will tell you the truth. The truth is that there is no truth. Because truth is just a fancy tune, but not true. Do a little dancing at the beat of that fancy tune and you will be forever dancing at its tune. Do a little singing too. Come on man, go and sing them about the truth. The truth is that is not true. Phone lines are still working and connection is not lost. Come on man, tell them that. Tell them there will be no pain. No sorrow. Tell them the truth, which is not true. Say something they wanna hear: a lie, something not true. Because real truth is too funny. Too true. Tell them you are interested to hear. To hear about the truth. They will be enchanted to tell you about that, about truth. All they will say are lies too. How could it possibly be otherwise? After all, they are speaking about truth. The truth is that there is not limits and no expectations too. The truth is that maybe somebody is listening but that is unlikely true. But if anybody were listening, what would he think about you? He would be thinking you are lying while speaking the truth. The truth is that nobody is listening what you say about truth. Nobody knows it is true. The truth is that truth is too good liar to be fooled by you. Close your eyes to see the truth. Now you can really say you are watching the truth. You can’t see nothing, that is true. Because you are watching the truth.
Welcome to my world. I apologize if it is untidy, but that is the way worlds are. This one is a very dark world, dusty and old. There is a room in this world, not less dusty, not less old. In this room there is a man. This man is an old man. His hair is white. His skin cracked. He is screaming, for some reason. This old man wants to fuck. And he wants to fuck really hard, you know. That is why he is screaming. The room is a kitchen but it looks like a set. A cheap and dirty cardboard-made set. The lighting is poor. The old man is yelling. ‘ Traigame a las viejas! ‘ * he says. The old man reeks of liquor. He is drunk. But still, he wants to fuck. He is calling into the darkness asking for women. To fuck them. There is little chance this stinky old man will get any women. The darkness is merciless and he stinks. But an old woman comes. She comes from the darkness. She smells like darkness. She tastes like darkness, not that we try. She is made of darkness. She bits the stinky old man in the cracked lips. She does this hard and without mercy, because she is made of darkness. And darkness is merciless. As we said. The old man feels the dusty dead tongue of the old ugly woman inside his mouth. It tastes like rotten strawberries. Strawberries are sweet, but not the rotten ones. Those are bitter and taste like death. The old man thinks: ‘I can’t fuck death, but death can fuck me’ The man is dead right. Death can fuck him. And she can fuck him really hard. Harder than he had ever been fucked before. Longer than he had ever been fucked before. I like that, he thinks, to be fucked really hard. That is why he was screaming before. He wanted to be fucked really hard. And death came and she fucked him really hard. She fucked him to death. And then he was really hers. He was then made of darkness too. But he cannot fuck any more. Because he is dead. He is fucked. No more cries. No more sorrows. No more waking up early in the morning to work. No more sunshine, no more rain. No more fucking. No more fucking around with death because you are now fucking her. Forever more.
(*) ‘Traigame a las viejas! ‘ Bring me the old hags!’ in original Spanish from the movie The Wild Bunch by Sam Peckinpah
This scrolls describing the End of the World by an environmental holocaust of political incorrectness were found sticking out the anus of the mummified corpse of the Pope by a race of alien scavengers in a planet very similar to ours. The following is a transcription of those scrolls that contain the prophecy made by an unknown author who decided to remain anonymous to avoid being sued. Given the striking similarities between the planet described in the text and our home planet many readers might feel inclined to outrageous indignation or murderous retribution, or both. But let me assure dear reader that those similarities are purely incidental and that there is no chance that such a preposterous incident would ever happen here. This mere transcriber regrets the language and gross nature of the original text that unfortunately was lost eaten by a poor starving leper. In any case this reading is intended for people who doesn’t take things too seriously, if you still have any sensibility left you better go and fuck yourself before somebody takes advantage of it and fucks you. And remember that this is, after all, a text of religious nature and hence totally fictitious.
And it came to happen that I dreamt of dirty, stinky and undomesticated negro fist-fucking his daughter’s with a spiked iron fist. Then the terrorist negro became a jew watching TV. There was feature about negroes killing each other on the screen, but the streets were unpaved so it was probably Africa and nobody cared. He resumed the fucking of his mongoloid daughter with renewed energy, stimulating his sick mind with footage of the Nazi holocaust and Koranic satanic verses that promoted the slaughter of infidels for buying counterfeited goods. The dirty negro was not aroused any more by his too old nine years old daughter so he shot her in the face with an unregistered weapon and then ate her splattered brains while listening to a Marilyn Mason CD played backwards at top volume.
Then I wake up and the big negro was in my room holding a memorandum and I knew he was the messenger of God and the herald of our destruction because he said so in a deep resonant voice that made the walls collapse. He told me that the End Of Days had arrived and that he had been sent to destroy all life. He carried in his hands an itemized list of the nine and one procedures that would end history and he said the ruins my bedroom were as good as any other place to do his task.
He read the first item of the list of The End Of Days and there was great expectation to see what calamities would befall upon us. What happened was that an atheist transexual was elected president of United States in the first clean elections in American history. The president addressed the world in a ceremony of wrestling in which he appeared naked and sodomized a cross-dressing republican rabbi who smoked profusely during the show. Europeans molested the children of the neighboring continents but paid good tips and everybody became bald and fat. Stereotypes became true and everybody was evil and wicked and entire harvests were lost not to be found again.
Then the second item was read and driven by despair and for his human natural appetite for destruction somebody stole a nuclear weapon to commit justified acts of terror to be televised worldwide without parental rating. He rounded up some Asian war orphans of ethnic minorities and raped them with the Korean nuclear warhead in front of a giant screen showing a necrophilic lesbian show performed by Lady Diana and Mother Theresa’s corpses. The United Nations protested for the public exhibition of the images and the delegates contracted a repugnant infectious disease, their tongues fell on their soup and that killed them all. Some cartoons of prophet Mohammed carrying a cheap Chinese-made copy of a Louis Vuitton purse were broadcasted to increase the sense of general pandemonium.
Then the third item was read and the Vatican joined the onslaught by resucitating the body of Jesus that had been kept hidden inside a jar with the help of Templars and Nazi vampires. The putrid zombi Jesus covered in marmalade appeared live on TV wearing a human skin hat and began to masturbate. He declared that the party was over and from then on people should worship Kunt, the gorilla-god that lived on the moon and demanded of his worshipers to eat the feces of the members of the boards of directors of the International Monetary Fund and the World Bank, as if has been done until then.
Then the fourth item was read and triangles suddenly had two sides and two plus two became five and mathematicians ran on the streets naked throwing rotten coleslaw sandwiches to pregnant women. Kids starred on sadomasochistic pornographic cartoons produced by Disney and the drawings were made by African underpaid blind slaves using only their blood as pigment.
Then the fifth item was read and troops were called to restore order and everybody without a medical insurance was declared legitimate collateral damage and killed and his human rights violated in every conceivable manner. The warring armies became all sodomites and fornicated wildly in the battlefield and there was much bloodshed and defecation. Everybody sued everybody on fictitious charges of child abuse and compensations were paid with money stolen from the salaries of illegal immigrants working in syndicated unbearable conditions. There was widespread abuse of authority and rape of endangered species became he most popular sport among women.
Then the sixth item was read and mandatory abortion was established under the penalty of Biblical punishment by stoning for trespassers. Greenhouse gases production was swiftly promoted and rewarded with huge corporate handouts never accounted for and exclusively made of fake money. Internet was saturated by spam and stopped working and only child pornography and fandom Stark Trek pages were available on line but the speed was slow and noisy. Video games became more violent and gory and the Bible was eaten by a flying nun. Macs became PC’s and PC’s broken dishwashers.
Then the seventh item was read and the toilette of Auschwitz overflowed and Hitler resuscitated dressed as prophet Mohammed and sodomized a pig on an Israeli talk show for Hassid housewives. The peaceful and fun-loving muslim community retaliated by farting simultaneously at their hour of prayer causing pestilence and earthquakes at inconvenient times. Movie stars and expensive prostitutes ruled the world and astrology was revealed to be pure mambo-jambo. Dentists became blind and millions of teeth were missed.
Then the eighth item was read and the economic system collapsed and money became worthless and only small coins were available. All men became homosexuals and women lesbians. Homosexuals and lesbians became pedophiles and all pedophiles were ordained priests. Genocide replaced football as national sport in many countries and gang-raping an olympic discipline.
Then the ninth item was read and a really big radioactive and unclean meteorite made of shit was deviated by aliens and impacted on the Tibet just when it was about to be declared independent. The meteorite bounced back just to smash Burma and then fall in the Indic Ocean. The impact generated a tsunami that spread communism and AIDS over the entire population of the planet .
Then the tenth item was read and as a result half humanity became underpaid part-time cannibalistic tax inspectors that denied everybody’s returns and spit them in the face. Great calamities were endured by human race and no reparations were paid for this suffering. The swollen sun engulfed the planet and a low budget movie was made depicting the events in a totally inaccurate manner but the production was awarded six Oscars anyway and grossed thirty-million tons of panda meat in the box office.
The Green Enigma (II)
Layna’s shift was uneventful and she told Alma about her husband’s strange conduct of the previous night during pauses between bodies. She wasn’t paying attention and Laysa accidently amputated the genitals of one of her corpses while shaving the groin, but he didn’t complain and she kicked them under her workstation when the supervisor came. The supervisor was young homosexual fresh from processing training that had never touched a body himself but hold a degree in post-mortem processing techniques and was always reminding her and Alma about the important social function of their job seemingly unaware of the low wages that they earned for performing such an important and disgusting task.
After the eight hours long morning shift Laysa and Alma walked together towards the station through the imposing structures that formed the vast industrial park. When they arrived to Alma’s hydro-bike parked near the station they departed and she promised to call Laysa later that day to know if Nat was back, which she know she wouldn’t do.
‘Don’t worry’ Almacia had said while inserting her head in the pink helmet ‘I bet you will find him sleeping on the doorstep ‘. But when Laysa arrived home the man who was by the apartment’s door was neither her husband nor he was sleeping. A tall and thin man dressed on a clean and elegant grey polyester suit was standing by the door. When the man saw her coming towards him he approached towards her and introduced himself with determination, as if he was afraid she might run away and try to scape, which had been Layra’s first though.
‘Mrs. Madsotne, I presume’ he said flatly, and without waiting for an answer, he added ‘My name is Mr. Calmer and I am here to deliver you a message from your husband’
‘Who are you?’ she asked wondering precisely who the man was and what relation could he possibly have with her husband. She knew he could not be one of his husband’s few friends because they were too poor to wear expensive suits and always spitted when talking to her.
‘I just told you. My name is Mr. Calmer and I have been commissioned to deliver you a message on behalf of your husband ‘ he repeated calmly.
‘ How do you know my husband? Where is he? Has something happened to him?’
‘ I am sorry Mrs. Madsotne, but I am afraid that I don’t know the answers to that questions, as I said my commission to deliver a message. I have been instructed by a third party to come here and deliver the message to you in person. But I am afraid I haven’t had the pleasure of meeting your husband in person and I am afraid I don’t know anything about his whereabouts either’
‘I bet you haven’t met Nat or you wouldn’t call it a pleasure’ she joked, appeased by the monotonous quality of the man’s voice and polite manners that had a quasi-hypnotic effect ‘What is the message?’
‘ People will come asking for me. Do not trust them. Watch for the greens.’ the man said.
‘ People will come asking for me. Do not trust them. Watch for the greens.’ the man repeated
‘Yes. I heard you the first time. What is that supposed to mean?’ asked she losing a bit of her temper.
‘I am afraid I don’t know the answer to that question either. As I said I have been sent here to deliver this message, not to elucidate its meaning or engage in futile speculations about its content. I was instructed to memorize it and to forget about it once delivered. So if you have listened to the message I will proceed to erase it from my memory’
‘Instructed by how? Who sent you here?’
‘I am afraid that information is confidential. The only quality my employers values more than efficiency is discretion. I am not authorized to reveal their identity of which, I am afraid, I am ignorant myself. My function is limited to follow my employers’ instructions in the precise manner it is requested without question their validity or meaning. A task for which, I must say, I am handsomely rewarded. I wish you a pleasant evening Mrs. Madsotne.’ said the man. Then he headed toward the elevator doors at the end of the hall and pressed the call button.
‘What if I call the police?’ asked she across the hall without conviction.
‘I am afraid that would prove futile. The intervention of the authorities I am certain would not help your husband whatever his situation might be and I have every reason to believe it could even be detrimental of his interests, whatever they are.’ he answered louder in order to cover the distance that separated them, but without altering his characteristic monotonous tone.
‘You are afraid of many things Mr. Calmer’ she mumbled, not expecting the man to hear.
‘You should be too Mrs. Madsotne. Good evening.’
The lift had finally reached their floor and the man boarded and left with a courteous farewell nod. Laysa stood by her apartment door wondering what was going on and who the visitor could be. She came into her apartment and noticed immediately that her husband was not at home, neither there was signal that he had been there during the day. She did some cleaning around the house expecting to hear the intercom any minute and trying to figure out the meaning of the mysterious visit of Mr. Calmer. Later she cooked some instant noodles and ate them for dinner staring through the window how the facade of the identical apartment building across the street changed colors as the evening progressed. Then she fell sleep with her face on the empty bowl.
Next day at the factory she told Alma about the strange visit of Mr. Calmer and the not less strange message he had delivered.
‘He was a filehead, that Mr. Calmer. He must be in the payroll of some big corporation’ Alma said.
‘Filehead? What is a filehead?’
‘You know those guys that have surgically implanted nanodisks connected to their brains. The big companies use them as data couriers for confidential information because their disks can be erased and the courier doesn’t remember shit. It is not a bad job, it certainly beats cleaning corpses and is better paid’ she explained.
‘Okay, but that doesn’t explain anything. What can possibly Nat have been doing with these kind people? The only people he knows are losers.’
‘I don’t know.’ Alma admitted, and then added ‘ There is nothing you can do. In a couple of days you can go to the police and they will put you in the waiting list for missing persons. They will not do anything, of course, but you better cover your back if he is found dead. I wouldn’t worry… well I would be happy to get rid of that pathetic piece of shit if I was yo!. You should be celebrating. I can pass you some red stars or nano-psychotropics. You should get high and forget about this mess for a few hours’ offered Alma. Laysa wasn’t much of a drug user, she had done some second generation drugs during her youth, but nearly a decade has passed since then. She decided to buy some nano-psychos Alma in the hope that she would be able to forget about her problems for a while. When their shift was over Alma sold her two pills from the stash she had hidden under her bike’s seat and adviced her to take only one because the fourth gens could be as ten times more active than third generation drugs. Four generation Nano-Psychosalucinogens were designed by molecular engineers to travel right to the cerebral cortex and induce six or seven hours of cataleptic trance that submerged the subject on a dream of images and sensations . If overdosed you could spent the rest of your days believing you were a chair, or worse . When Alma got home that evening the apartment was empty and there was no messages on the intercom.