THE EMBALMER

THE

 

EMBALMER

 

Novel by Thomas Tobias

 

1.

 If I asked you, what is your job, what would you answer? Well, let me guess, you would probably answer, that you work as a clerk in a grocery store, or you would answer, that you are a lawyer, or a doctor. Alternatively, you would not want to answer, since you are ashamed of your job, since you work like a dustman or a cleaner at a high school. It is nothing unusual right? However, you would be surprised… no you WILL be surprised or maybe shocked, when I tell you, that I work as an embalmer. Well, most of you have never heard about it before. My job is preparing dead bodies for the funeral. Let me tell you how it works. It may be disgusting for somebody, so first assure yourself, if you want to know it for surely, what the embalming process is. I give you one minute.

 Ok, your time is up. So when you work as a funeral professional, you may be called upon to do your job at anytime, day or night. People have a tendency to die at the most inconvenient times, and a mortician cannot wait until later to retrieve a body. This means lots of getting up at 1 AM and having to work on holidays. First, you have to fill out an embalming report, that that logs all jewelry and personal items on the body; details any discolorations, cuts, bruises and so on; This report can become very valuable if a deceased’s family bring a lawsuit against the funeral home. When you work as an embalmer, you can not be a kleptomaniac. Because if you fill in the Report, that there was a watch, a Cartier on the wrist, it can not be missed. The mourners may ask for it and if this expensive watch misses, you have trouble. A strong disinfectant spray is used to clean the skin, eyes, mouth, and other orifices. If rigor mortis, the stiffening of muscles after death has set in, it is relieved by moving the limbs and head about and massaging the muscles. Of course, you have to shave the body first. Even if it is a woman or a child, you have to shave the “peach fuzz”. Next begins the process of placing the facial features and the body itself in the position it will remain in the casket for viewing. Great care is taken to close the eyes. The traditional method for doing this involves placing a bit of cotton between the eye and eyelid. Many times after death the eyes sink back into their sockets, so small plastic “eye caps” are placed on each eye ball. The mouth is closed either by tying the jaw together with a piece of suture string or by a special injector gun. After all, you do not want your late granny looking like she just finished a blow job. When the body finally looks enough gravely, you can begin the arterial embalming. Once the embalming fluid begins to flow into the arterial system, pressure begins to build up in the entire vascular system. This helps the fluid reach all parts of the body and penetrate into the tissues. Evidence of this can be seen in bulging veins throughout the body. Once arterial injection has been completed, the arterial and jugular tubes are removed, the vessels are tied closed, and the incision used to access the vessels is sutured closed and sealed with a special chemical. And now, may be one of the most disgusting process, you can meet with in this job.

 I am talking about the… a minute of thrill… and here it comes… the cavity embalming. Arterial fluids mainly treat the skin, muscles, and organs themselves. What’s inside the organs (such as urine, bile, etc.) begins to decompose. Gases and bacteria can build up and cause distention, odor, and purge (such as brown fluids coming out of the mouth – not exactly the way you want to remember grandma). These bacteria can sometimes spread to other parts of the body, even after arterial embalming, causing decomposition problems (and then sometimes legal problems for the funeral home). Cavity treatment starts with aspirating (suctioning) fluids out of the internal organs in the abdomen and thoracic cavity. This is accomplished this with the use of a trocar. The embalmer uses it to puncture the stomach, bladder, large intestines, and lungs. Gas and fluids are withdrawn before “cavity fluid” (a stronger mix of formaldehyde) is injected into the torso. The anus and vagina may be packed with cotton or gauze to prevent seepage if necessary. And now, finally my most favorite part, the post-embalming. You know, the mourners want to see their late trimmed, pretty, satisfactory. They do not want to remember the ones they loved like a pile of dead, untidy, smelly meat. So I do a make up on their face and neck, I trim their hair, I adjust their nails. I dress them into the clothes, the relatives of the dead person; they call it still a person, but we all know it is only a pile of dead meat, so they bring me clothes, that they wish me to dress their late. I am a stylist of death, and these bodies are my models and the funeral is the fashion show. But nobody shakes my hand and congratulates me. Nobody says, how good job I did. Nobody asks my autograph. But for heaven’s sake, tell me, how the hell can I fix the look of somebody, which burned to barbecue? I am not Houdini. So it is not my business, when the mourners will puke, when they will see the stake-burned body. Please understand. I am not a plastic surgeon. And these mourners will ask, “Why did not you put on the red tie, we chose?” or, “why is our granny dressed up like a slut? Well, this is not your beloved grand mom. This is her cold, dead, stiff corpse. Please, face that fact. And in regard of the red tie, it fits to my shoes. You are not the only one, who has no taste.

 This guy, I’m finishing needs extra-large coffin, he’s that fat. It’s obvious, that he died for fast food. If your body is your temple, you care about that, you work out, exercise, eat healthy, don’t smoke and avoid alcohol. But if your body is for you just a box, you got when you were born, you don’t care about it. You poison yourself with fast food staffs and alcohol and with cigarettes. And the only cardio workout is when you run after a bus, when you miss it. And when you successfully catch it, your heart wants to jump out of your week, fat body. And here we have another extreme. A silicone breast play mate bitch. If I was necrophilia, her body would be great to fuck. Was that her real reason, why she was born, that she has to be perfect? And this guy here, he died, because he loved sadomasochism. He asked the hooker to choke him harder and harder. And she broke him so hard, that she broke his hyoid bone. Of course, she got arrested for murdering him.

 Why nobody dressed up and got ready Jesus Christ for his funeral after the crucifixion?

 People ask me, what’s the worst thing about this job? I don’t even know. Many beginners, who come can’t take the smell and bizarre look of dead bodies, so they quit their jobs after a few weeks. Me, I can eat my sandwich, while I shave a body. I always leave some crumbs in the coffin, a feast for the ants. When you cry, everything is so blurred, that you don’t see the crumbs. So I can do my job without disturbing for bullshit.

2.

 When I got home, my mom was doing her every day ritual. She was kneeling in the living room in front of the bearded, long haired man. Oh please, just don’t imagine anything shameful or dirty. The man is dead… I don’t even know how many millions of years, he let people to crucify. Yeah, you’re guessing right, I’m talking about Jesus Christ. My mom was just whispering some prayer. “Oh shit!” I told myself. I came back home too soon. She was brokenly clenching a rosary and was hardly begging her lord for merci to clean her dirty, guilty, Christian soul. She needs to clean her conscience from what she had done to me when I was a child. Just to explain you, Nancy, my mom, when she used to have menses always got surges of anger a week before, some hormonal shit. And during these anger attacks she was very cruel, very aggressive and very hysteric. She was devil’s itself. She used to trash things in the house, she used to beat me. During one these attacks she cut my thumb on my left foot with a kitchen knife. Since that time I’d hidden all knifes in the kitchen. We didn’t cut the meat we tore it with our teeth like wild animals. And once she trashed my head to the corner of the kitchen table. Since that time I hate women for their menses and hormones. I call them “bloody demons”. You ask why my father didn’t save me. It’s because I hadn’t any father. I never knew my father. I grew up with my idiot mom Nancy. You may ask why any social worker didn’t take me away from her and put me into an orphanage. Because they never knew about it, I didn’t call any. I was just a stupid child, I didn’t know about any thing like that. Nobody told me, there were intervention lines or some thing like that. Oh and by the way, just imagine that, how pathetic it would be. A telephone near my year and me, hysterically crying into it, “please, save me. Help me; please I’m afraid of my own mommy. Please, take me away, pleeeeaaaaaaaseeee! Pff! It was our little, family secret. And like a stupid child, I all ways thought it stops one day, because Nancy promised me that. But it didn’t stop. Unless she begun taking hormonal pills to regulate her hormones. And now, after twenty years, Nancy kneels in my living room and prays for her soul and my dumb finger every day.                           

 So I use to sleep at the morgue, before I start working. I just hope, I won’t wake up one day in one of begs we put the bodies, closed into the fridge. This coffin of modern society, full of useless gadgets is perfect to get depressed, when you see on television all the rich, famous stars and you know, you will never get what they get. The only way, I can get close to them, is when I’ll do the embalming on their cold bodies after a drug overdose. My flat is on the fifteenth floor, so it’s fun enough, when you drop for example yogurt, cereals, old, used cell phone or you piss from the window on the people walking on the sidewalk. Of course pissing from the fifteenth floor is useless, because of the wind, which blows your piss back to your face. I often imagine how I fall down to the dirty pavement and my body trashes to pieces and hit the passers-by. But I’ve never done it. I’m still alive at a housing unit with my idiot mom and dead friends. I’m sitting on the couch with green and white stripes and browsing the channels and I’m trying to avoid the commercials. People million years ago used to sit on the ground. Who the hell told, that it’s uncomfortable? So the people invented the cheers. Now the cheers and couches and the armchairs are obligatory complement of any house or flat. Our forefathers, when they were hungry, they haunted mammoths. And when they were overfed they didn’t have to think about the surviving, so they started to bore. And when people are bored, they invent things, not necessary for survival. So they invented the cheers, the radio, the television and other stuffs.  I wonder, if all the stories about the only son, Jesus Christ, the stories about the crucifixion, the resurrection and the wondering healing of the lame, if all that  isn’t just a huge commercial to sell the Holy Bible. To make me feel more comfortable I take off my socks and like all ways, I face the fact, my thumb on my left foot is missing. I never used to wear a sandal, because the other kids would have laughed at me. Even when I had my first sex I didn’t take off my socks. Not even, when I had my second, third or the fifth. When you live in a housing unit, you can’t fall asleep, because of your, lonely, fat, horny neighbor, who watches porn movies at midnight so loud, that you can hear everything, but really everything, if the blond, big tits porn star would fart during anal sex, you would hear it. I sit on my old, brown, cheap sofa on the floor without carpet. There are no drapes on my windows. Who the hell would voir me on the fifteenth floor? Maybe, only a humming bird. On the small table in front of the couch is standing an angel statuette. All around my cheap, dirty flat are stupid, small statuettes of dumb angels. Nancy collects them. Even in the bathroom is one, the small dust catchers. If I had nightmares with angels I wouldn’t be surprised. Oh by the way, in the bathroom, there used to be a naked picture of  Bell Reese, one of the most hot brunette porn stars and now, there’s hanging the poster of the pope. The day I realized it, I stopped masturbating!    

3.

 Some times I meet the family members of the late ones. I meet them when it’s necessary. It’s not in my description of work. I am the guy behind the curtains. I meet you, when you have some demands about the look of your late. What clothes I have to put on her or him. How should I make her or his hair and make up. This time I am supposed to meet a widow. Just like the other widows, she wears black hat, black dress, black glove and black sun glasses even it’s a little dark indoors. All her outfit is expensive from some world known fashion designer, Dolce&Gabbana, Givenchy, Emporio Armani and others. Yes, you can mourn for your late husband only in some very expansive and luxurious dress. She holds a bag. This is one of those recyclable paper bags to save the nature. One step closer to be a perfect human, a faithful Christian. So you can build your atom factories and cars causing the air pollution without any punishment so your compunction can stay calm, although you have your fucking recyclable paper back. You can smoke and die for cancer sooner as you would, so you will never see the consequence of your attempt to see the green world. The small, freckled nose, her shape face, braided by her black hair. That hair could be used in a commercial for a shampoo. Kick ass for Head and Shoulders. She puts down her black glasses and her green eyes make the room lighter. The calm Hinduism cow in me turns into a rut buffalo. Her voice is cold and silent. “Please, show me my husband’s body. His name’s Dave Stuardson.” “Well, I would rather say, his name WAS Dave Stuardson,” I think for myself.” I look deeply to her green yes, “Dave Stuardson?” I ask her and lead her to the fridge box, where his body lies. I open the fridge. We look at the dead meat she calls her husband’s body. We share the silence. “Please”, she tells, “could you leave me alone?” Oh, pardon if I’m pointless here, I think for myself. I’m a dead rat in the trash can. I watch her from the other side of the morgue. She holds pressed a handkerchief in her left hand. On the other hand, still wearing the wedding ring, a memory of her perfect, beloved husband, she gets crying. I’m not sorry for her. I’m never sorry. She gestures me to come to her. “Please”, she says, “could you dress my husband his favorite suite?” And she takes out from the paper back a gray suite, black shoes, moccasins and a brown tie. “It would be very important for me.” She says. Of course I will. And I’ll also put his body to a pretty coffin with a violet satin, what ever you will wish. Really everything, just don’t ask me to pray for his soul. For that we have the pastor here. And I also hope she doesn’t want me to listen to her, understand her, share her pain. I’m not paid for that. She gives me the paper back, she blows her nose and I see her of the more. She walks away and leaves me here with her paper back and the grey suite for her husband’s meat. I get taking care of Dave Stuardson´s body. On his neck he’s got a nickel with the cross. I hope, this dead meat doesn’t hope in the resurrection, like the Jesus Christ. It’s bullshit, I know it. Do you know how I know it? I tried it. When I was ten years old I crucified a cat. Then I buried it just like the Jesus Christ was buried. I waited one day, two days, and three days. Nothing happened. I waited a week, two, three weeks and guess what. Yeah you guess right, nothing happened! So I found out in my ten years, that the part with the resurrection was a bull shit. I crucified a cat, because I never liked them, since my early childhood I loved dogs. Who the hell would hurt a dog? The dogs are the most wonderful animals on this fucking, senseless world. When I was thirteen years old, I had a dog a beautiful golden retriever. But Nancy, the bitch mom killed him. I saw her through the window of my small, dirty room. That night I wanted to choke her with her pillow, but that bitch woke up and pushed me to face. So she’s still alive with me in my poor flat. Burn in hell you which!       

4.

 “Please button the top of that shirt.” Tells me mother, when I try on a blue shirt with white stripes at a clothes store. She wears a shirt with long sleeves. She all ways wears shirts with long sleeves to hide the cuts she causes to herself. She knows that I hate to button the top of the shirts, it chokes me. But she pushes me, so I do it just make her to shut up. “You’re so handsome!” Rejoices Nancy, I have to buy new clothes, because I have birthday. Nancy does a birth day party for me every year to celebrate it. Of course, no body comes. No one has ever come. I celebrate my birth day with my idiot mom every year. And every year, just like this one I wish her to be dead. I have to buy new clothes or at least a new shirt every year for my birthday. My mom tells that I deserve that. Nancy, the bitch mother still imagines me like a little boy in some stupid, decent clothes like a school boy, the mothers little boy. If you wonder, why I do this all, don’t think I love my mother the point is to make her keep shut up. All ways, that is the point. So I try on the white shirt, she picks for me, the gay-pink shirt, the light brown shirt, the grey, the yellow, the light blue and the flowered shirt. We spend hours by picking the shirt, my idiot mom likes. But we still need to buy some shoes and pants. After six hours we finally go home. When we get home, my idiot mom with name Nancy, puts on the table the cake, she’d baked, before we went shopping. She lights the candles on it exactly thirty three, yeah, this long time I’ve lived with my idiot mom. “Wish some thing.” She says. “I wish the fingers, I cut on your foot would grow back again and you could promise me,” she says guiltily. And I wish, I had a normal childhood, I had a normal mother, I say for myself. As we sit there around the table, my mother asks me, if I remember the days, she used to swing me on the swing. If I use to think of my dog Skipper, she asks, if I know, that tales she used to tell were made up by her self. I don’t answer. And she keeps trying to start a conversation with me. I just eat my doggy-shit cake and I’m silent. After ten minutes Nancy, my idiot mom gives up and shut her mouth up. And according to Skippy, my dog, yes I remember him. I remember how she chocked and buried him under the apple in the backyard. She doesn’t know that I know it. I saw her though the window of my bad room. But I never told her that. There were so many other reasons to hate her for. The cut fingers, the chocked dog, that she used to voir me, when I had showers. That she cooked and ate my goldfish, because she’d bought nothing for launch to cook. She was lazy to go to the town. And she did it all in front of me. And as usually, she didn’t say anything. I had to ask her for money to buy some food. And now she cuts herself to deal with the feeling of the guilt. We finish the doggy shit cake and I go to town to roam the streets. I roam the streets. I pass by some church, the storage of souls. I pass by an old pub, a museum of dreams. If your Jesus was a real person, not only a Bible tale and you’d meet him, what’d you ask him? Would you ask him, why are there so many wars? Or would you ask him, why Hitler had been born? Or what would you do, if you saw Jesus Christ? Myself, if I saw him, I’d go immediately to the nearest psychiatrist to ask him for Risperidone or Clozapine, my new friends. Every time I pass by some black-haired woman, I remember the widow from the morgue, the one with the grey suite for her late husband and her ecology paper bag. They were married only for four years, so he died before they could began to hate each other. So her sadness wasn’t fake, on the funeral she will stand there above her late husband’s grave, in her black dress made by Armany or who ever pressing the tissue in her hand. She will tear down her white face and blow her small, freckled nose. This is what you Christian do. The Hindu people, they have their reincarnation at least. They believe that the soul travels from one body to another after dead, so the soul is immortal, and it may be one thousands years old. They call it also “rebirth”. The soul can also move into an animal or a plant. So by this theory, I just hope I wasn’t a frog in my past live, I would be very pissed of. I think, some cultures or people believe in the reincarnation, because they are too much scared of death and they can’t resign, that they just die and there will be nothing more. They need some hope, that there will be another chance to set right what they screwed up in this live. But what if they’ll reborn as a blind camel? So all the hope in the redress is gone and believing that you have a soul and this soul is immortal must be a damn satisfying feeling. I’m thirty three and I’ve been living in this town for all my life. Never have seen another part of my country or the world, maybe I could to go to India and shoot some Hindu cows. Or I could try to make a putsch against the communism in Cuba. Or maybe I could go and piss to the Red Square in Moscow. Or I also could fly to England, walk into the RoyalPalace and murder the queen, lock all the Royal family into a gas chamber and drink beers with the local punks and anarchists. They would love me, yeah! Sid Vicious lives for ever!

5.

 I haven’t been at home all night. At the sunrise I go to the morgue, where I nap. After a nap I go to get some coffee from the coffee machine. I don’t have a toothbrush, so I look ahead the day with smelly breath. My dead friends smell worse any way so who cares and I work alone. After the coffee I get working on Dunkovsky`s body. He’s still got the wedding ring on his finger. Nancy would like to, if I got married too. I really don’t need another woman to ruin my life. I put down the ring and put it on the desk next to the table where his body lies. I strip his clothes his body is sporty and a little muscular. What luck that I’m not some necrophilia gay. Has my mother ever been married? Have I ever had a father? I didn’t see any through my entire childhood. I never asked about him. Nancy never talked about him. Maybe I’m just a product of some drunken party sex, and the guy who fucked Nancy never called her again. Maybe he could have protected me. Protect me from Nancy’s attacks. I clean the body. Some times before the cleaning the bodies, I write stupid poems on them. I write short poems on their skins with rouge. Dead bodies are my paper. We all have some perversion, so this is my. But it’s still better, if I cut the fingers of dead ones and eat them with a spicy sauce. I’ll clean them any way. When it’s finally the launch time, Nancy comes and brings me some food. “You didn’t come home in the morning. I worried about you.” She says. Oh what luck, that I don’t have a cell phone, she would be calling me all day long. “Look. I prepared your favorite dish.” Yes, she really did it, that’s it how much she loves me, a plastic utensil with causes testicular cancer with my favorite dish in it. I start eating. Nancy just stares at me. “Sweetie”, she says, “How can you eat in here, in the middle of a room full of dead bodies?” Nancy takes Dunkovsky´s wedding ring form the desk. “Nice ring”, she says and waits hoping to hear the same from my food full, chewing mouth. Since I don’t say anything, she asks, “don’t you think honey?” I know what’s next. She starts, “have you ever wondered…” here it comes. “…What ring will you buy to your fiancé?” And now I lost my appetite. I ignore Nancy’s question and keep on chewing my little chicken with rise and salad. “My son”, Nancy says, “you know I go to the church. It helps my soul.” Oh Nancy has a soul. That’s good to know. “You should go to the church with me. I don’t want you to forgive me. I just want you to reconcile with that. Maybe a praying would help you.” Doesn’t she know that I don’t trust the God? Or does she just ignore that? “Or you could to visit a psychiatrist.” Nancy keeps on talking. I just support my head with my hand and look at my idiot mother. Than she asks, if my cut finger hurts, sometimes I wonder, what dress I would put on Nancy to her funeral. Nancy’s got a blue dress. That’s the only pretty dress, she’s got. She was that dress even on my birth day party, how she called it. She loves that dress. She also loves me, yeah, now she loves me. After the years of abusing, after the cut foot finger, now she loves me. She loves that much as she loves her blue dress. “So,” says Nancy, “do you promise me, that you’ll go to the church with me?” Of course I will. If I would not, she’d keep talking about it for the next four days and you remember, what I told you… the object is to keep her mouth shut. When I was twelve, she cut my finger. Now I’m thirty three, and she cuts my soul, my brain and my private space. I have to do something, before shi will eat me up. Escape, run away or fill my apartment with gas. Anything, before she will make me to kill her or both of us. I finish my chicken with the rise and I see Nancy off the moorage with words, “I have to carry on with my work.” Then I carry on my job. I clean an old, wrinkled body. I think for myself, how funny it would be to take home of the bodies and just throw it out of the window, just like the old TV,

 The phone or the water-balloon condoms, it all fell down like a fictile owl. Some times my boss comes to the morgue, just to ask, if I’m done with some of the bodies, because the client would like to see it, yeah, “clients”, that’s how we call the mourners. When yours bereaves are rich, you have a nice ceremony and I put your body carefully into the family crypt. And when your family was poor, I’ll just dig a hole and put a nothing special wooden coffin with your dead pile of meat into it. Rich people have nice final resting places. In the past, rich people used to put to the coffins of dead ones some of their expensive properties. Rolex watch, diamond necklaces and rings, the dead ones was dressed in their best and the most expensive dress or clothes, and of course cash, huge cash. But in several past years occurred grave robbers, so bereaves stopped it. Meanwhile I’m getting done with the embalming process, I’m thinking of the displeasing fact, that I have to go to the church mother, to the storage of human souls, otherwise I can listen to her for the next month. I’m sure; she will be standing in the door and waiting me with the suitable suit for the church. The horny neighbor will be watching his porn very loudly, so some seven years old girl will ask her parents what. I was only six at that time. And she told also, that the sex is necessary for keeping alive the humanity. I’m another chain link in the humanity. The monkeys had done it too million years ago. The evolution, the evolution is the reason, that doesn’t let you to NOT grow. So you invent guns, television, meds, the cars, and so on. I don’t want to go home so I’m delaying the work. I still can remember the first time, when Nancy took me to the church. The entire place smelled from old women. Do you know the smell of old books and bandage? So that’s the way, the old women stink. We kneeled down and Nancy, the idiot mom whispered the “Our Father”. I really thought that the God exists and I hated him for my psychopathic mother. I was thirteen, when I realized, that there’s no God, that it’s only a tale. And I was really proud on myself, that I was more intelligent, like my twenty five years old mother, who still believe, that she’ll go to the heaven and she’ll be drinking beer and whisky with the angels for the eternity. Oh yeah! She’s the perfect lamb of the God. And I always used to compare Nancy to other moms. You know, the real moms, who don’t torture their children, who don’t beat them with broom, who don’t hit their face. You know, the moms, who kiss their kids for good night and tell them a good night stories and not just yell on them, like a crazy bitch. I compared her to the moms, who went to the park with they kids on Sunday afternoons. I compared her to moms, who iron their children’s clothes, and not their feet. Who cared about their children, as a kid I red many books about the relationships between parents and the children, I could be a great child psychiatrist! Of course if the kids wouldn’t drive me crazy and if I cared for them!

6.

 Nancy, in her blue dress kneels down in front of the long haired gentleman, hanging on the cross and I listen to my mp3 player. I listen to the Sex Pistols, John Lydon AKA Johnny Rotten screams to my ear “I am an antichrist, I am an anarchist,” meanwhile Nancy, the idiot mom begs the highest one for mercy. I look behind me and I see the widow from the morgue in her Kelvin Clein black dress. She sniffs into a tissue. I watch her. “Do you like that woman?” asks the idiot, bitch mother, I act like I don’t hear. “Go ahead and great her.” All I think for myself is just: “Shut up and fuck off mother!” the widow notices me, but she acts like she doesn’t. In her ranking of importance I’m not more than a cleaner or a hooker in Las Vegas. And Nancy thinks I could have a chance at this rich, walking personified Wall Street. She’s dumber I’ve ever thought. I mean the idiot mom. Nancy on her knees and the widow on the bench, this owl gentleman hanging on the cross and Johnny Rotten in my mp3 player screams to my ears “Did you know wrong?” and I know, I mean less, than a dead rat in a trash can, a tiny bacteria is now more than me. My upper button is buttoned up, so it chokes me. I thin, Nancy can be proud, that she (in quotes) brought up a man, who is smug for any Occasion, the church visiting, the visiting some forgotten family member, for the prostate examination… Simply, for ANY occasion, “please”, it’s again Nancy, “why don’t you pray with me? Please, kneel down and be with me in moments like this. “Oh yeah, the idiot mom wants to share with me her soul, her spiritual Life. She wants to obtrude me her Christianity. Meanwhile, the widow has disappeared, her bench is empty. She left me here alone with my idiot mom. How could she do this to me? She was the point, which didn’t let me go crazy. If I was now lying here with my face in my own vomits, it couldn’t be worse. Nancy prays, she repeats the same two prayers, she knows. She never red the Holy Bible, she doesn’t even know about the Jacob’s Ladder, or the story about the Tower of  Babel, I don’t know them neither, but at least I don’t act, like I ate the Pope’s dick.

7.

 When I got home this time, I found Nancy with other five people sitting in circle and whispering some prayer. I slammed the door to get their attention. Nancy boggled. “Oh it’s you honey.” She said. “We’re praying for a little boy, you know, he’s got a cancer.” Explains Nancy, I just looked at those five assholes and said. “Yeah, what ever.” Why here? Why now? Why at my place? Why in my life? I just hope, none of these idiots took a look at my porn magazines or used my toilet. It would really piss me off. I go to the kitchen to get an orange juice from the fridge; meanwhile these five occupants carry on their prayer. One man between these holy willies was really ugly. Oh man! I have never seen such an ugly man before. He looks as if you crossed Rowen Atkinson with Prince Charles or with any other British guy or woman. I swear he’s British, only British people are that ugly. His big nose like a cucumber, dotted with blackheads, cheeks with septic acne, thin, slick hair. If the God created the humans on his own image, I prefer not to know how ugly him self is. And then, there is some old woman, she looks like hobbit from Lord of the rings. Crouching body, big ears, thin, white hair and wrinkled hands, what luck, that I’m a fucking gerontophil, if I was I would tear her clothes, play with her droopy, wrinkled skin and tits, I’d smell her dry, dusty pussy and cum all over her nylons. What a blow job would it be without dental plate? When finally after one hour they left Nancy came to the kitchen. “You should to see him, the boy we were praying for.” Nancy says. “He’s so smart and clever, he’s so brave. We all in the church are so proud on him. You never know, what God choose for us. To some people he gives wealth, successes, and to others just sickness, pain and no hope.” And she still blindly loves her lord. Then she told me, that she got a job. “Do you remember that woman from the church? You know the elegantly dressed one? Who you were looking at?” she asked. “I work at her house; she gave me a work of house cleaner.” Then she told me about her big, expensive, luxurious house with the expensive, rare paintings from Claude Monet, Georgia O’Keeffe and Wassily Kandinsky, about her furniture from the period of Henri the fourth.

     “Today, when I was cleaning at her,” bothers Nancy, “I saw her doing some meditation in one of the rooms. Oh what misbelieve! Instead of blessing our Lord, she was doing this godless, unholy and atheistic ritual.”

    Oh yeah, a real which. A shameless bitch I thought to myself. I can imagine her, like she sits in the lotus sitting position surrounded by candles under some poster of Buddha or Shiva and listen to some medical, mantra shit and repeats “ooooohmmmmmmmmm” and she can see my mother’s aura with her third eye flying some where in the astral dimension like a Hinduism cow. Sorry if I told some thing wrong or some bull shit, but I don’t know anything about this. About the meditation, about the aura, third eye and the catapult into higher dimensions. The highest dimension I ever flew was on the high school when I got drunk like a Russian cosmonaut. I asked Nancy, how often they want to meet at my flat and pray. Just to know how many times a week and the main thing, when I should to stay out longer or in the morgue, she told, twice a week, on Saturdays and Mondays. Good to know, so n Mondays and Saturdays I’ll stay longer out. This bitch steals my space, my flat, my comfort. I should to move away and never tell her my new address. I can’t just put her out on the street. Maybe I could put her into some almshouse.                        

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