" this way, this way ! ". we’d been chasing that ruddy mammal up and down the darkened streets of the town since dusk. when, half an hour earlier, we were sitting at a table on the terrace of the Belvédère, and Niguel had come out with: “look lads! a ringed rat!”, we’d had a giggle at first and given him a right barracking. “a ringrat ? why not a fuckinkanga or a wingedpig ? ask yourself why your glass is empty while you’re at it.” but as he got all het up about it, turning as white as the froth on his Grimbergen, we took a shin-level shufty at the gutter all the same.
well, who’d have believed it ?… Viktor and me had to double-take the critter just to be sure it was a critter and not some rat-like mouldiness sandwiched between a couple of unmistakeable dog-turds. Rattus rattus was lying on his back grooming himself, checking his golden ring was all nice and shipshape at the base of his tail. the beast swung about and started eyeing us solemnly from the depths of its dark kingdom. he looked us up and down scornfully, locking his gaze onto our frozen smiles. it was sordid… mind-blowing…weird. that look was a bit like running into a wall. it was the look of someone who folds their arms, leans against your stoned legs, and says “ congratulations, mate. you’ve come to the right place : I’ve got a thing or two to say to you.”
the oddity of the situation proves one thing, says I to myself : one extreme leads to another. if the cynical way he thumbs his nose at us is anything to go by, this classy quadruped is pleased to have escaped the miserable destiny of the pack. on the style front, he’s not exactly pin-stripe.
- there’s nothing for it but to play it tight, declared Viktor.
- yeah, you’re right ther, replied Niguel. “ this is weird ! but who’s gonna come out on top ? the beast or his Saturnine ring ?”
don’t ask me why, but our clamorous observations and whispered speculations seemed to make the Lord of the Rings laugh. We felt we were becoming the accomplices of comrade gutter rat (Niguel, Viktor and myself have been sowing our wild oats together for donkeys’ years. we all belong to the same club: the Right Royal Society of Wankers; we’re unbeatable at downing ecstasy pills by the gallon; unbeatable at spotting the swing o’ the hips of a slut within a radius of five miles; unbeatable at telling those who aren’t into pleasure at any price to piss off. cause we’re the Gropers, the slickest set of old hands about these parts… but I’ll spare you the details).
in the embarrassment of that face-to-face, I thought to myself how it was right up everyone’s street if we were all ringed like that. we’re all cursed with the concentric circles of the libidinal impulse. it sticks out like a sore thumb, if you get my drift… you see, I’m no peasant, I can talk it up as good as any therapist – I’ve read my share of the outpourings of Freud and De Sade in the everyman’s library of a camping site – but I’m not about to show it off, cause showing off is something I for one never do : you’ll not find me strutting my stuff like some pea-brained peacock. see here, all I care about is knowing where the next pint or girl is coming from. as for the tarts, you’re best off taking them from behind: you know how ready they are to bend over. all they’ve ever got on the brain is that voracious hole of theirs, and then its “d’you mind if I finish myself off ?” I know all about that, but it doesn’t stop me from kicking the hell out of the homos when I get a chance. you see, it’s my round now, and I’m gonna get this shit off my chest and tell it like it is. reassure me, I’m not the only one who feels like spewing bile till I’m blue in the face, so listen up, I’ll go the whole hog, cause I know your world is like a fraternity of tight-rope walkers whose only pleasure is to trip each other up; your world’s in ruins, your world’s a cesspit which nobody lives in anymore – not even the dead – your world’s an empty bed in an empty house. I don’t remember my father. I can remember my mother. they said she was anorexic. in the end her tears were shed for nobody. I pulled the sheets up over her eye-sockets. there’ll be no raising anyone from the dead, no healing, nobody saved, and there’s no way I’m going to pretend the opposite. and while we’re about it – in for a penny, in for a pound – I want mausoleums built in memory of the fallen soldiers, in memory of the blood on their boots, of all the whores they never screwed. listen here now : I’m as ready to work as the next man, and more so. I take what I want, without regret, without pride. I don’t make any bones about it – there’s no need for milestones on the road to nowhere. I’m stepping out. try to understand : I’ve drowned too many of your sorrows, pissed too much of your despair. I’m sick to the stomach with your fetid, festering thoughts. I’m the hollow echo of your hypermarket. I’m the dreary Sunday in the garden of your subsidised suburban home. listen here now. I don’t know what life has in store for me in this stinking shit-hole, but I can hear my heart drumming it out – bullshit, bullshit, bullshit, bullshit…– and I’ll stand up in my g-string for the right to collective amnesia in face of what you lot still dare to call ‘Life’.
the bells rang, interrupting my delirium. we had to do something and fast. “get outta here, you pestilent son of a bitch or we’ll cut yer tail off,” yelled Viktor.
the rat didn’t need to be told twice. ashiver ran down his spine and he took to his heels.
that was the starting-gun for the chase. the hunt took us half-way round the clock-face. we ended up cornering him down a sinister side-street. you could hear a ruddy pin drop. when Niguel drew a switch-knife, I knodded with approval. the rat didn’t so much as squeak when the blade fell, severing the appendix from his body ( what better hymn for a rat than a requiem ?). the knife was knocked into the drain by the force of the animal’s spurting blood.
after a split-second hesitation, we threw ourselves on the trophy. it was kaput, but we had to go through the motions of jousting for it. soon our arms, thighs and legs were entangled in the crush. the more we struggled, the weaker we got.
they’ll not get me in a clinch, I said to myself. angered by the fierceness of the attack, I flayed out blindly, hoping to make contact. I heard a thud. when I opened my eyes again, Niguel was lying on his back, unconscious.
this morning, my mate was released from hospital.
after four weeks of coma.
four weeks of despair, panic, and fear.
four weeks of freaking out, of expecting a knife in the back at any moment.
four weeks of counting the seconds, the minutes, the hours.
Times have changed.
This morning, when I asked Niguel to take what I was about to give him without second thoughts, he didn’t turn a hair. I gave him a gold ring, with the promise of life in it. He slipped it on his finger. It was a perfect fit. I thought my heart was going to burst when he pressed his lips to mine. Times have changed. I know who I am now.
And it fits me like a glove.
well, who’d have believed it ?… Viktor and me had to double-take the critter just to be sure it was a critter and not some rat-like mouldiness sandwiched between a couple of unmistakeable dog-turds. Rattus rattus was lying on his back grooming himself, checking his golden ring was all nice and shipshape at the base of his tail. the beast swung about and started eyeing us solemnly from the depths of its dark kingdom. he looked us up and down scornfully, locking his gaze onto our frozen smiles. it was sordid… mind-blowing…weird. that look was a bit like running into a wall. it was the look of someone who folds their arms, leans against your stoned legs, and says “ congratulations, mate. you’ve come to the right place : I’ve got a thing or two to say to you.”
the oddity of the situation proves one thing, says I to myself : one extreme leads to another. if the cynical way he thumbs his nose at us is anything to go by, this classy quadruped is pleased to have escaped the miserable destiny of the pack. on the style front, he’s not exactly pin-stripe.
- there’s nothing for it but to play it tight, declared Viktor.
- yeah, you’re right ther, replied Niguel. “ this is weird ! but who’s gonna come out on top ? the beast or his Saturnine ring ?”
don’t ask me why, but our clamorous observations and whispered speculations seemed to make the Lord of the Rings laugh. We felt we were becoming the accomplices of comrade gutter rat (Niguel, Viktor and myself have been sowing our wild oats together for donkeys’ years. we all belong to the same club: the Right Royal Society of Wankers; we’re unbeatable at downing ecstasy pills by the gallon; unbeatable at spotting the swing o’ the hips of a slut within a radius of five miles; unbeatable at telling those who aren’t into pleasure at any price to piss off. cause we’re the Gropers, the slickest set of old hands about these parts… but I’ll spare you the details).
in the embarrassment of that face-to-face, I thought to myself how it was right up everyone’s street if we were all ringed like that. we’re all cursed with the concentric circles of the libidinal impulse. it sticks out like a sore thumb, if you get my drift… you see, I’m no peasant, I can talk it up as good as any therapist – I’ve read my share of the outpourings of Freud and De Sade in the everyman’s library of a camping site – but I’m not about to show it off, cause showing off is something I for one never do : you’ll not find me strutting my stuff like some pea-brained peacock. see here, all I care about is knowing where the next pint or girl is coming from. as for the tarts, you’re best off taking them from behind: you know how ready they are to bend over. all they’ve ever got on the brain is that voracious hole of theirs, and then its “d’you mind if I finish myself off ?” I know all about that, but it doesn’t stop me from kicking the hell out of the homos when I get a chance. you see, it’s my round now, and I’m gonna get this shit off my chest and tell it like it is. reassure me, I’m not the only one who feels like spewing bile till I’m blue in the face, so listen up, I’ll go the whole hog, cause I know your world is like a fraternity of tight-rope walkers whose only pleasure is to trip each other up; your world’s in ruins, your world’s a cesspit which nobody lives in anymore – not even the dead – your world’s an empty bed in an empty house. I don’t remember my father. I can remember my mother. they said she was anorexic. in the end her tears were shed for nobody. I pulled the sheets up over her eye-sockets. there’ll be no raising anyone from the dead, no healing, nobody saved, and there’s no way I’m going to pretend the opposite. and while we’re about it – in for a penny, in for a pound – I want mausoleums built in memory of the fallen soldiers, in memory of the blood on their boots, of all the whores they never screwed. listen here now : I’m as ready to work as the next man, and more so. I take what I want, without regret, without pride. I don’t make any bones about it – there’s no need for milestones on the road to nowhere. I’m stepping out. try to understand : I’ve drowned too many of your sorrows, pissed too much of your despair. I’m sick to the stomach with your fetid, festering thoughts. I’m the hollow echo of your hypermarket. I’m the dreary Sunday in the garden of your subsidised suburban home. listen here now. I don’t know what life has in store for me in this stinking shit-hole, but I can hear my heart drumming it out – bullshit, bullshit, bullshit, bullshit…– and I’ll stand up in my g-string for the right to collective amnesia in face of what you lot still dare to call ‘Life’.
the bells rang, interrupting my delirium. we had to do something and fast. “get outta here, you pestilent son of a bitch or we’ll cut yer tail off,” yelled Viktor.
the rat didn’t need to be told twice. ashiver ran down his spine and he took to his heels.
that was the starting-gun for the chase. the hunt took us half-way round the clock-face. we ended up cornering him down a sinister side-street. you could hear a ruddy pin drop. when Niguel drew a switch-knife, I knodded with approval. the rat didn’t so much as squeak when the blade fell, severing the appendix from his body ( what better hymn for a rat than a requiem ?). the knife was knocked into the drain by the force of the animal’s spurting blood.
after a split-second hesitation, we threw ourselves on the trophy. it was kaput, but we had to go through the motions of jousting for it. soon our arms, thighs and legs were entangled in the crush. the more we struggled, the weaker we got.
they’ll not get me in a clinch, I said to myself. angered by the fierceness of the attack, I flayed out blindly, hoping to make contact. I heard a thud. when I opened my eyes again, Niguel was lying on his back, unconscious.
this morning, my mate was released from hospital.
after four weeks of coma.
four weeks of despair, panic, and fear.
four weeks of freaking out, of expecting a knife in the back at any moment.
four weeks of counting the seconds, the minutes, the hours.
Times have changed.
This morning, when I asked Niguel to take what I was about to give him without second thoughts, he didn’t turn a hair. I gave him a gold ring, with the promise of life in it. He slipped it on his finger. It was a perfect fit. I thought my heart was going to burst when he pressed his lips to mine. Times have changed. I know who I am now.
And it fits me like a glove.
Aucun commentaire:
Enregistrer un commentaire