Mary’s violet eyes make Johny stand up now, period.
The entire teaching staff of the S.S., the Sadistic Scribes’ Academy, needed only one round to decide. Everyone agreed that the youth had eaten too much and could no longer benefit from their knowledge.
If he does not want to pop*, then we will make him pop, this is what the five bald gentlemen and the five bald ladies had decided unanimously. (* ‘Pop’ means ‘to publish’ in this case, freely translated from the slang of The Free-Sadistic-Language Association.)
‘We will hang him with the salmon. Language Nazi, inform Publisher Vulnerability-Is-Strength. They are immensely interested to publish the incest story of his French teacher, his exhibitionistic mother and his alcoholic father. Moreover, they have already convinced the literary juries that this will be the blockbuster of the century. Language Nazi, just add to it that they must already open their cage. The youngster will finally be thrown into it within three days.’
They did not waste any time. After the following writing-lesson, Miss Tuts van Delft made sure that the youth stayed behind in the classroom. As she kept him occupied with chitchat about his writings, the bald man crept in silently. He grabbed him firmly by the collar and dragged him through the back corridors to the backyard.
In the shed, past the greenhouses, the four bald men and the four bald ladies were ready with a gigantic roll of cellophane. He was already completely wrapped in it, even before he had the chance to defend himself.
The youth suddenly thought of his Greek aunt. She could hardly pass for a cordon bleu chef, she was too old, too big, too chubby and too ugly, but she was a renowned mezze genius. Her stuffed vine leaves were surprisingly different each time. No one who could come up with so many different fillings for dolmadakia. Was he then nothing more than a tasty bite?
These sadists were clearly used to it. For them, it was nothing more than a mere routine job, the youth realized while being immensely sad. He could not even cry, because the cellophane was stretched so tight that the tears could not flow. He thought of his cousin, who swore by the swaddling of babies. They cried less and slept better. Now he knew why it was so.
The only difference with his cousin’s babies was that their faces remained unobstructed. They could breathe. And he could not. They had made a vacuum out of him! They were going to annihilate him! He was going to die. And these bastards would do something with the dark energy that would be left behind. In the end, they did that with all the fish that ventured into their pond. He knew too much. And he had come too close. Panicking, the youth sucked a layer of plastic into his mouth. If he did not get any oxygen anymore …
And just when he thought he was going to suffocate, someone stuck a straw in his mouth. He eagerly sucked in the air.
Then they rolled him to the smokehouse. They hung him on a hook between the filleted salmon halves. The youth tried to console himself with the fact that they had at least left him in one piece.
He started having trouble again to breath. He had lost the straw during the commotion from the shed to the smokehouse. Someone planted it again between his teeth. Someone was kindling a fire. Someone else sprinkled a few tins of yellowish powder on it. His vision became increasingly hazy. Someone closed the door. And suddenly, he did not see and feel anything anymore.
It was daybreak on the third day. The youth slowly woke up. The world was still vague and bleak to him. Oh, yes, he did notice that there was some fresh air. He thus deduced that someone had opened a window. He heard the salmons crack and rustle. The young man could no longer see anything - he knew for sure that he had become blind at some or other level - but he could clearly imagine that the salmon were pupating. The fine cracking of the tearing only confirmed this. In his mind he clearly saw how their fins became wings. Through an image in his brain, he realized that they were breaking away from their hooks, after which they flew through the window, on their way to the publishers with their story. The salmon were butterflied and ready for consumption.
The youth then decided to turn to the interior again. There is a crack in everything, that is how the light gets in… This thought, along with that of vulnerability is strength, just kept on imposing on him. This had been the cause of his refusal to publish that shit story.
Qualms of consciousness prevented him from doing it. Because, it was not right. No, he would rather die than fly out. He would not be responsible for scattering incorrect thoughts. Mankind had been poisoned for too long and too much. It was your purest nonsense. The powerful were precisely suppressed by that silly vulnerability cult. And if you were light, you did not need darkness in order to see. After all, he also understood everything that happened around him with eyes as blind as a mole?
At that moment, he was overwhelmed by a feeling of joy. His hands and his feet turned into claws, his arms and his legs transformed into diggers. He laughed with happiness. His body popped out of the cellophane. His black fur glistened with pride. He was a moleft, or a Delft niffler. He was not going to use the window, no.
The five bald men and four of the bald ladies disappeared, one by one. Only Miss Tuts of Delft was spared from this disaster. There was no idea where the missing people had gone. With some of them, you could find a giant molehill on their lawn. At others, there were rumpled heaps of tiles, in a living room, a classroom, a kitchen, a garage, a pavement…
The youth no longer worried about good or evil. He now understood that the judgment was entirely reserved for the reader. And he only did what they had made him for.
The into-God-grown aspirant-writer enjoyed his creative strength from what he had become. With his strong diggers he described countless ways right into the centre of the earth, carrying his burrowing victims into the depth, the warmth and the light, looking for a proper place of rebirth in the flowing magma for them.
After returning home to his personal demons, he decided to deal with the writing politicians. After this category, he focused on the writing bankers.
He burrowed and burrowed until the planet was fully recreated. It was about ten-folded and reached from New York to the middle of the moon by means of a sublime spiral staircase consisting of winding steps made out of rock.
Its pointed quirkiness consisted of indeterminate gracefulness. Its porous surfaces were numerous and dazzlingly beautiful, always accompanied by a squirting fountain or splashing waterfall of fresh-salt water. Just like its new, high-Gothic mountain peaks, its razor-sharp gorges and deeply undulating valleys. The youth had already reduced its contours to a sublimely swollen and, at the same time, extremely eroded rococo emittance.
Miss Tuts van Delft beheld and saw. She loved it. The nest, she suddenly thought, full of excitement. He would return to the smokehouse. There was chemistry between them right from the beginning.
She actually knew it before they had even met. She had first seen it in the mist. Then on the blood moons that succeeded one another in a murderous tempo. Now, she saw it in his tectonic writing. She smiled. The youth had always cherished a strong predilection for the irregular verbs. Then she also felt it all in her own body. Her ovaries were ready to burst.
Oh dear, she thought.
She saw stars and there were many of them.
It made her dizzier than ever before.
She had to give herself a slap to get out of the vision. This is the way it should happen and that is the way it should be. Getting totally out of the trance was almost impossible.
‘Make Your New Pyjama Out Of Eight Meters Of Japanese Fabric,' she muttered to no one in particular but to herself in order to remind herself to take the necessary appalling action, after which she retired to the smokehouse, she kindled a fire, threw the herbs on it, rolled herself into the cellophane and remained there lying on the ground, in the suffocating whiffs of the sun dust, full of impatience and euphoria, waiting for her third day, which would undoubtedly welcome her with a number of transformations, as a result of which the age of the people would probably slip into the folds of an exceptional, extraordinary, totally new universe at the hands of her ticking urge to procreate and a future generation of glitzy Delft nifflers.
She already saw it all before her.
The youth would take her to the moon, their children would lead them to the other little planets in this insignificant Milky Way.
It was an intensely welcoming thought of a primal mother-in-the-making during the oppressive, voluptuous period of waiting.
What are words, Chris Medina