Slovenčina (Slovenská republika)English (United Kingdom)
Home Death of the Goat (a selection from the stories) Death of the Goat

Death of the Goat

Smrt kozy smrt kozy>From: editor < This e-mail address is being protected from spambots. You need JavaScript enabled to view it >

>To: “Me“ < This e-mail address is being protected from spambots. You need JavaScript enabled to view it >

>Cc: Johnny < This e-mail address is being protected from spambots. You need JavaScript enabled to view it >

>Cc: Gaspar < This e-mail address is being protected from spambots. You need JavaScript enabled to view it >

>Cc: editor < This e-mail address is being protected from spambots. You need JavaScript enabled to view it >

>Subject: The Goat is finally wide dispersed

>Date: 14 September, 2002 12:21 PM>




that writing has terribly worn me out. I've spent months of long nights at it, and on weekends I haven't even stuck my nose out of the house. what a life!

I no longer believed that the Death of the Goat could ever be finished.






by Rastislav Dobos

(All characters in this story, except God, are fictional and do not represent real persons.)


... therefore if anyone had invented this world,

then it has only been with this intention ...


It was raining. The light was falling from the roofs having an appearance of a lazy endless necklace. Brshleek was trembling on a cross like a drunken kitten. "Man is not designed for death but for life," he rasped like a whistling machine. It made no sense to go on anymore. He commended his soul to God and succeeded as well as other beings before him, except for one small difference: his death was broadcast live by the mainstream media. Camil Brshleek was simply blessed from the heaven because it was the beginning of the third millennium after Christ when some still thought that black people in Africa live on trees like monkeys, while others were fornicating via computers under the Atlantic. Well, at least until recently.

They looked like monkeys too, but luxurious ones.

"Those words were not in the script," frowned Ted Turner. There still were little sparks of luxury visible on him. "He should have said: ‘Eli, Eli, lama sabachthani?’" But overall everyone was satisfied.

At the cross there was a decrepit little old lady in a wheelchair. She was smelling tea in an unusual flowered cup. "God," she thought. "Why are you taking my son? To you he's much less than a May bug!" Brshleek was still hanging there, higher from all by the height of the cross. The cameras went out.


The cameras went out. It happened somewhere on a white country road stretching between Nova Dubnica and Kolacin. Surrounding hillsides were strewn with people like over-ripened bunches of grape. It looked like there were all who remained on Earth. Because of cameramen and directors Brshleek could hardly be even seen. Here and there Ted Turner spent moments sitting nearest to him at the cross as big as the world. Out of boredom Turner was unshelling small dried monkey heads. It was clear that before the Apocalypse he could buy a whole heaven out of his pocket if he had wanted to and if it ever crossed his mind in case it did not already belong to him.

The weight of his personality contributed to the magical atmosphere of this great event. "The most precious period of human history has probably ended. Let us thank God for this unspoiled spot of the earth in the heart of former Europe, and we hope that our broadcast will be captured also by other living beings on this planet even though the hope dies." Turner leaned towards Brshleek. "Jesus was a neat rascal," he whispered. "And Jesus had something up his sleeve. And humankind has been feeding off of it for 2,000 years. But from now on the humankind will feed off of you; because that's the only thing I have up my sleeve." He nodded with his chin to the directors who started jumping around like on strings. "In terms of the history of Universe these thousands of years are more or less meaningless, but we're already in a state where every hour is good for us." All cameras focus on Turner. "Humankind needs a new Christ!" he shouted into the megaphone. "And here He is!" Then tons of T-shirts with pictures descended upon the crowd.
 Smrt kozy smrt kozy tricko 

The pictures symbolized the twilight of diddly consumer dickheads or whatever else. The directors conducted a band of fireworkers by slow gestures of fingers. A round of flaring crackers soared into the air. Everything turned white. God even added some lightning farters from above. It was like a sign of God. "So the Titanic is still having a party?" The crowd was going crazy. There were cameras and video recorders going full blast everywhere. Bill Gates pitched in his effort too. Now was the time to grab a slice of the pie. He turned on all computers that were left and started making a beautiful animated cartoon in the sky of the show on earth. "Yes!" bragged Bill into the megaphone like a Mega-Titan. "We will create a new society, a new virtual society. Just raise your eyes toward the sky. What a splendor!" And he stuck out his tongue at Ted. But the latter did not give up that easily. "Dammit, we're not just going to watch fairy tales here. Now this is the reality!" And he hit Brshleek over the head. The crown of thorns dug deeper into Brshleek’s forehead. There was a trickle of blood.

"Everyone can choose his or her own definition of reality!" shouted Bill. Now he was all over the mega-heavens. He put on a clown's nose and all kinds of other things. It was a funny cartoon. My empire is the most advanced in the world. For it is exactly what anybody would want the way he or she likes."

"Shit!" Turner shouted. "Away with that zany!" He would rather tear up the whole heaven. He seemed to be pulling on the short end. What was in heaven could not be compared with what was on earth at all.

"And I always thought that when I'd be famous, it would not last long because of my dumb smile," said Camil Brshleek and smiled, his knees broken down in a dumb way. "You have to put the pain away," he sputtered through his clenched teeth and his lips stretched across his face as if saying ‘cheese’. "Then what is put away no longer is, and that which is not does not exist."

Michael Jackson came up on a stage. He had an artificial face put on, a black one, and even a wig with kinky hair. He could have been a black Christ himself. He was so beautiful it was terrible. He shook his butt and stroked his erotogadget in the front. The crowd was fainting. The performance was over immediately, but a few cartoon questions appeared in the sky. "We're all MFs by nature,” replied Jackson and after a short reflection he continued: “except me, all of you. It's all about how you deal with it." He wiped off a trickling silicone tear. "Why didn't I think of becoming Christ? Instead they entrusted it to such a botcher!"

"Oh, Michael!" sighed the crowd and continued playing its role well beyond expectations.

"Zoom in on the guy on the cross! Zoom in on every part of him! On the knees!" the directors kept shouting at the cameramen. Brshleek spread his arms. "I am the Resurrection. I’m the cartoon life. He who believes in me shall never die!" And the crowd stood up and prayed. They were like squashed bunches of grapes and wine was pouring everywhere followed by other miracles and flaring crackers.

At that time, many dying were begging the Lord to deign longer life upon them. The Lord either kept them alive or He did not. He did as He pleased, which was the fairest thing, and obviously it was the only justice on the planet Earth, in the solar system, in the universe.

It was also similar on other planets. For God, as God says, is only one. Tridafor Clemark from Nutgons could be recounting you his story about it for hours and years.

After his ascension to heaven, the new Christ sat down under a tree. He was still shaking a little. He was excited. Then he went bowling with his Father. The Father has always been bowling. Christ lost. For God, as God says, cannot lose.

"Mankind certainly needs its Christ for reasons that are strange to me. But also God needs Christ to have someone to go bowling with. That's all," spoke God.

"Now I'll finally do something for people. I will redeem them from their sins," said Christ massaging his thighs. He was sore all over from idly hanging on the cross. "And they need to be shown that I’ve risen from the dead." He wanted to get down to work as quickly as possible.

"Now let’s go bowling," said God. He hated repeating Himself.


He hated repeating himself. But Brshleek had no other choice left anyway. He was throwing cartoon peas at the green cartoon wall. He has been sitting on the edge of a tent camp and aimlessly repeating: "Thou shalt love thy Lord!" And a while later again: "Thou shalt love thy Lord!" By now thousands of people have already gathered on the white country road, although the announced crucifixion of the Messiah was still a few days ahead. Brshleek stretched out his arms to the remainder of mankind. He felt the moment had come. "And now I will tell you about an apocalyptic vision of the recent past, when you permanently abandoned your Lord before a terrible destructive fire after which a black smoke enveloped the rest of the country. It's called the Twilight of May-bugs." The crowd sat down and listened to its Teacher.

"A man walked into a dining hall. There were long lines of tables beginning right at the door so tightly next to each other that it was almost impossible to pass among them. There were hungry people and clatter everywhere, an unceasing excruciating clatter of aluminum spoons against grimy mess canteens.

He turned to the guy wearing a white garment and a snow-white chef's hat. The guy's head was twisted to the side as if it was going to roll off his neck at any moment. His appearance was clean and tidy like from a different world.

‘Are you new here?’ asked the cook with a wink as a sign of mutual understanding.

The man nodded. The cook pushed him among the tables past the curtain from where dirty smells and steam were coming.

A big hall unraveled before the man’s eyes which at first appeared as a vast mountain valley covered by small blue lakes, but a moment later he realized they were massive nickel vats full of boiling water. Giant scoops were lying casually scattered around them. The cook nodded at the man to help himself from the vats and returned behind the curtain.

‘Water,’ murmured the man under his nose. ‘It's just water.’ Suddenly, not far ahead of him, about three hundred feet away, he saw a vat of dirty brown bubbling liquid. He staggered to it. Suddenly, another starving character passed him up, whose body was rattling like a clunker toy train. He was panting and hungry saliva was spurting from his mouth like an emaciated geyser. Then he began to play around with a scoop, but he slipped, wobbled on a smooth edge of the vat and plunged into the soup like a bone-and-skin fly before the other man could help him. For a while he was gone. The steam was peacefully floating to heaven. Then rolled out eyes without face emerged and a mouth falling off appeared followed by an overcooked scream.

The other man shouted: ‘Help!’ Immediately all gathered together making wild gestures. The man leaned over the edge of the tub and wanted to help the guy getting cooked. Then he hesitated seeing the metal edge was slippery. Instead he sat down and handed the guy a scoop. Suddenly, he felt being drawn inside the vat. The over-boiled eyes rolled out even more. The man started looking around not knowing what to do. There was a tense silence. Only occasionally a spoon clanked against a mess tin. The cook pushed his way to the vat. Thank God, thought the man. The cook pulled his head to the brow. The other man suddenly felt someone behind him slowly pushing him toward the bubbling vat quite inconspicuously and accidently as if something was happening quite naturally. This was so he would not even notice anything because it would bring an unmanageable alarm into his soul, which would actually not even be proper if one saw the solemn tense faces of bystanders.”

The Christ finished his talk. The crowd was blown away. People were oinking. Manon was too. That was all.


"Was that all?" Gates looked scrutinizingly at his tablemate. Turner nervously swallowed a pinch of wine. "Year 2000 Châteauneuf du Pape turned out excellent with great legs."

"For God's sake Ted, you can't just say that it's all you've invented. Ever since the Gulf War you've owned one of the largest reporting agency of our civilization, and now you're pulling old things out of the grave like Marx, Lenin, Hitler, and I don’t know who else yet. Our grandmothers used to scare us by those. That's over!" Gates also tastefully smacked his lips; although it must be said that his hedonism was considerably square. "Really an excellent year! Just what will happen when we finish drinking all our supply? It would be best not to ever finish."

"It's an expression about the cult of personality, although distorted reporting-wise," Turner kept harping on. He no longer wanted to endlessly repeat the same thing since the hope for survival was dwindling day by day anyway. The words alone will probably not save the mankind, he thought, but he continued aloud: "We can always find a good reason to batter the world into a good stew. Just remember Bush and Putin. Like God, they peed on what would happen to this little planet. But they are not related to the Divine Providence. They pretend that the human misery, which they had caused, could be covered by the palms of their hands. But where can such a big and merciful hand be found?" Gates was already totally fed up. He rolled over his eyes and looked into his own head. There was nothing but news. He understood them all very well, just did not know whether it was good to understand them. "A nation, whose biggest problem is who its President is screwing, shouldn't be surprised by anything one morning!"

"Don't downplay that!" Turner was shaking with anger. He did not give up. "We're all evolving. Me too, even though I am constantly for facts on the pulse of the day, now I claim that only history can provide us a feedback and a touch with the future. We have to find something that will pull the decimated remnants of the civilization further." He pushed a button. "Well, at least let's finish watching this."

The boy from the garage reluctantly pushed the glass aside. "Even so, nothing else can be invented anymore. Money has no value. I can just toss my money around with a pitchfork." He poured himself another glass. "And human life has none either. It's not even worth the pitchfork."

On the screen Mao Tse-tung fixed his uniform in a dignified manner. He had a dashing Chinese appearance. "America is an overly rotten country. If all people there had as much money as they want, then their lives would no longer make any sense. What else can console a heart beaten by hard life more than a look upon gay, though impoverished, people with pom-poms at the Gate of Heavenly Peace?"

Stalin abruptly wiped a drop of vodka from his bushy moustache: "I thought God was deigning to make a miracle and invest in America. Beria claims that someone has already admitted it in Lubyanka. But," he sighed, "you cannot believe anything Beria says. All those broads and money are coming out of his ears. He was supposed to find out for us where God lives. It would have made our lives easier. But he's just gazing from behind those glasses of his like a hamster whose granary has just been snatched away."

Soros tapped on the yield of his hedge funds with his index finger. He was a special character, sort of rubbery. He only wanted to say this much: "I could join in, but my theories are extremely fallible. My biggest mistake is that I'm too seriously concerned about money. Some loose it and some don't. The only thing that is more important to me than money is just more money."

Mao Tse-tung felt a genuine disgust: "A man who sold himself to the devil!"

Marx stroked his beard wickedly. "Money is the only form through which the objective reality can determine its own value." He could say it more scientifically but did not want others to slander his apparently innate exhibitionism from the very beginning.

Lenin stood up and nervously walked around the room. He was a quick man, full of energy but somewhat of a laggard. "Comrades, for the rest of my lifetime I'll be babbling about the objective reality more than enough yet. We must realize that knowing oneself is recursive. How can I justify that I exist and, on top of it, possess a nation?"

"Nations!" Stalin jumped in.

"After all, it’s by the simple fact," continued Lenin, "that there exists an author of this claim - and that's me. I am the form of knowledge and it fits me like a glove. There's no doubt about that, comrades. I hope!" He gave everyone a clever look, a hard penetrating look and everyone was clear on it.

Ceausescu snatched the bottle from Stalin's hand. "This is hundred-percent spirits. I always wash my hands with it after greeting the people. It can't be drunk. But to continue, to own a nation, I do not need any form of objective reality. What does a human being mean to me? Just a bloody piece of flesh that will say what I want to hear in the end anyway."

Then there was Hitler, such a little nasty fella, slightly suede and of pure bred race. "I have a more subtle method for it."

Ceausescu added: "Life is totally just for fun, especially someone else's."

Havel, who was there only by chance, said: "You know, I'm actually here by accident. I am more of a playwright tied to Providence than an owner of everything. Yet, there were times, when things were going for me so bad that I could not even afford a fricking piece of white paper. There was nothing to scrawl on. What can a little man like me do then? He can only spark a velvet upheaval others wouldn’t get crap out of except me and sell the nation’s wealth. I'm a little bourgeois man because the bourgeoisie wanted only the best for themselves, and even a little more. That's what's so nice about it, and let others have as much luck as can stick to them."

Marx: "That's exactly it! The development of civilization is clearly moving up in a giant spiral. What did Lenin want? Also just a little of luck for everyone, particularly for his own people. Just like Christ. And let’s not forget that Christianity was based on it, which still holds its own people above the surface while threatening others with a judgment day."

Meciar: "I am Meciar."

Lenin: "Beloved Comrades, the judgment day is at hand. I can prove it. Consequences of known events create an objective reality. This I know from personal experience. When I died, my Russia really cried for me like for Christ. The one who painted a black square on the black background even claimed that the last Christ had died on earth."

Stalin: It slipped by us. Oh, civilization, technology," he sighed in a daydream. "I wanted to gird the entire Earth with cables, so I could be informed in Lubyanka about every fart. How we used to dream about it with Beria over shot glasses during long winter evenings. Then the painter would've certainly not claimed the thing he did! A brush pusher like him can’t be allowed to do just whatever he wants! I am still here! Am I some kind of a reject? After all, my mom was beautiful like Virgin Mary too?" And he took a sip of the spirits. "A Russian boyar can drink anything. But I'm not a Russian," he said shuddering.

Ceausescu: "If things go on like this, I'll have nothing to wash my hands in. That would’ve been something if people had soaked up all of Pilate's water! What a way to change history," he was shaking his head in disbelief.

Marx: "Since little Lenin likes to rush through things, I’d like to put it more exactly: even the consequences of unknown events create an objective reality, particularly the one with an abstract undertone."

Lenin: "Comrades, my eyes have opened! I finally understand the role of objective reality in history. Simply put, the objective reality rhymes: Stalin - Laden. That explains everything. I have reached the level of absolute truth, whereby I absolutely negate the non-rhyming development. History is a multitude of unlikely events that will definitely happen, and I understand them at last. For example, anthrax and Zyklon B - no rhyme."

Hitler angrily: "It doesn't explain a diddly squat! What the hell do I or Ceausescu care about these shoddy rhymes? What this harmless little old man Ceausescu, who had cherished his homeland, and his venerable wife devotedly loving him have suffered! Well, what did he want? Just to be judged by his nation. And the tribunal said: 'We are the nation!' and it was all over; such a death for such a good guy. It was cruel and so was my case. A suicide is no fun. Does all this have to fall into oblivion, just because we now bear less significant non-rhyming names? What was so exceptional that this Russian Bear had accomplished?” and he pointed his finger at Stalin’s bushy moustache.

Stalin: "I'm not a Russian."

Ceausescu: "A few days before my death, I gave orders that those who had not wanted to kill, to be killed. But it was too late. Oh God, would that I had known then what I know now!"

Hitler: "In that case, I would've really heated up the chimneys."

Stalin: "Basically, I agree with both of you. I have always argued that the Russian people need tears and weeping like I need vodka and champagne," and he took a slurp of the spirits. "Have you seen those Beria's new twin girlfriends? They're identical like two peas and they even have the same disastrous hairstyles as though airplanes have just landed on their heads. And how vulgar they are! Just like Beria. But the latter looks vulgar even when he sleeps covered by ten feather filled quilts. And just because you guys have such boobyish names does not mean a diddly thing," and he gave friendly hugs to Hitler and Ceausescu. His moustache was jerking from a surreptitious giggle. "The hell with it! I will never forget you."

Mao Tse-tung: "Not only the Russian nation needs a small yard and a long whip, but the rotten imperialist American nation does too. Americans are blinded by oil. Their knowledge of making decisions in world affairs ends up in thinking that all Chinese wear blue, because they saw some Kung Fu fighting where everyone was in blue. If someone wanted to change this scenario, Americans would rather use their unmistakable and humanistic power that would repaint not only the entire world but also the surrounding areas all the way up to Nutgons within 24 hours."

Laden, one of the most handsome of terrorists: “Fanaticism can only be fought by fanaticism. When there’s no alternative of pure goodness around, I go for pure evil. I swear by Muhammad, this option is much safer!"

Hitler: "I don’t think anybody would listen to this. What sort of non-Aryan monkeys are jumping up around here? Go back to your trees! Had I only hurled the whole world into furnaces, we would’ve rid ourselves of all problems!"

Marx: "I would say it more decently. Americans cannot ensure continuation of global civilization. The tip of the giant spiral has been visible for a long time already.”

Turner turned off the film and provocatively winked at Bill: "Don't say that it hasn't been inspiring and alerting!" He took a sip of mineral water and carefully adjusted his tie. There was ash everywhere. His lungs were black as if he had spent two hundred years in hell.

Gates kept pouring the excellent Château into himself. There was not a bit of free room in him any longer. "Most of our existence will be dead. That's why I think that the most important thing for us is to have coffins lined with something soft that is decorated with cheerful designs." Turner was left speechless. He only waved his hand. Gates went unmanageably berserk. "The problem is that coming up with this definite kind of verdicts as shown in the film is definitely not safe! Instead you should have called a magician. At least he would entertain people," and Gates chuckled.

Turner clenched his fists, and although his days of youth were gone far behind in the past, he knocked Gates off the chair and held him down on the floor below the neck. "You have no ideals! All this won't kill a cynic like you! It´s about winning so that the civilization doesn’t lose its self-confidence, and bear in mind it is the last one to lose!"

"Yakety yak!" Now only the excellent vintage was flowing through Gates' veins. "Death is a quick thing. You live in such a rush that at anytime you can live four hours in just ten minutes. If you don't have any clues, you'll suddenly be fifty with your life drowned in a bucket of whiskey. Those few number crunchers, one just like another, won't save me. I'm not a cynic, but only afraid that I'll croak and there will be nothing more. That's why I am the way I am."

"Although there will be nothing more," said Copperfield, "you will have nothing to fear of." He made his way through the wall. He has exclusively not been walking through the door recently. Many have suspected that this guy can really do only one thing: take apart and put together anything anywhere in the world at any time. "You know it's quite easy. I just use the intersection of the four-dimensional space and three-dimensional one. Just like God. The rest is just words, a circus and distraction, a fundamental magic trick." He drank some wine and it oozed out of him on the floor. Copperfield and floor remained dry but others got wet.

"What the hell!" growled Bill.

"You know, miracles must not repeat too often so that people don't get used to them." Then he passed his hand through the table and in turn the table through himself. "This is easy, no? You too can act like God if you want to, but first you must practice it on cartoon animals." And he slipped them a children's coloring book. "Even these mute creatures are happy when someone occasionally does any kind of miracle for them. After all, who knows how the ones above look at us." Turner tried it out. He went through a cartoon wall, prison bars and made a mountain disappear. The cartoon pets were totally in awe from all this, particularly the handsome hedgehog. "Those little son-of-a-guns," said the hedgehog with relief.

"Anything you can think of," Copperfield exhorted the two. "What is God? Just an illusion and deception. A supreme coercion."

"I suspected that!" blurted out Gates. "And do you know something real good? Like how to change ashes into bread?" The thought of the last Christ on earth was resonating in his mind. Since people lasted under His rule for 2000 years, why could a few weeks not draw it out some more? "I’ve been fascinated by such things since childhood." But Ted did not know what Gates was driving at. ‘What does the nerd from the garage have to babble to me about it?"

Copperfield rose into the air. In his demonstration, flying seemed like a natural motion. "I'm not here because of children's knickknack – amtracs," he hissed. No response. "When nothing, then nothing." And he flew away. There was no mystery.

Camil Brshleek, a 33-year old shy young man, knocked. There was a translucent, almost inconspicuous halo around his head. He was pouring hot embers from his hands, a childish miracle. Then he walked on them barefoot. Turner and Gates still did not see any benefit in this, but it was symbolic. There was smoke coming from the burnt intarsia parquet floor. "It's not American enough," said Ted with a twinkle in his eyes, and that’s when the idea started dawning on him.

"Here we are!" tweeted a swarm of American tourists wearing colorful T-shirts with intellectual signs, and brilliant little fan blades and rattles on top of their heads. “We'll stand wherever necessary so the cameras can film us." And right away they even had a little street dance ready. There were wavers and applauders with flags everywhere; as if from the same mother.

Laden broke away from the scene. He had a sense for simple Islamic ideas. "I'm gonna tattoo a few words from the Koran on your asses! Why did Muhammad allow this?! Such a degenerate money fucking civilization?! All you know how to say is: Shut the fuck-up and drop! But it's hard to drop off the Earth!"

"They can't cross over their own imperialist shadow," said Mao Tse-tung. "Even the ancient Romans couldn't do it, and they had a higher quality shadow! Perhaps the time is ripe for a change of races."

The American tourists immediately pretended to be friends of all people around the world. "We are an advanced nation and the rest of you are a bunch of scalawags and some of you even yellow ones."

Also Lenin still wanted to play and be in the spotlight a little longer. He could see where it all was heading. He was warning them: "The Church has always been doping nations." Lenin somehow wanted pull off Brshleek’s halo. But there was no way he could.

"I used to dope everybody too," Turner blurted out. "What a broadcast this is going to be!" he daydreamed.

"You Americans have two beautiful qualities. You have money and luckily you are super-fabulously going nuts from them. I do not want to imagine a situation where you would have money and be smart too!" said Brshleek pouring more embers from his sleeve. They were cooling off and future options were becoming limited.

At once everything was clear to Turner and Gates. "We are going to make our own Christ and with a new cross. His resurrection will redeem us. We really do have the dough."


"We really do have the dough!" they shouted and pulled a few coins out of their money bag. "But what is the moolah really worth?" Brshleek adjusted the stone on the rubble to sit better on it. The land, where the taverns and swimming pool of Nova Dubnica once stood was charred and littered with corpses like burned Porcini mushrooms. But at least it was solid together. In a distance the ocean was roaring. Drunkards have discovered a ruined warehouse of alcohol and they were taking out bottles. Previously they were members of a secret society that ruled the world by their will. At the beginning of civilization they were called alchemists, now they were drunkards. Some arranged the Challenger, others Chernobyl and still others set up hundreds of different, small, seemingly random things that needed to be constantly and thoughtfully organized remotely in order to make everything appear natural. Once they would create events on one side of the Iron Curtain and another time on the other side to keep all in balance, like kids do with a rocker. All experiences, which they had been passing on from generation to generation, were whispering to them that one day the good is going to whack the evil over the head. This thin thread of Ariadne has always infallibly carried them over minor stumbles, especially when the Curtain evaporated like a morning cartoon mist. Even now the drunkards seemed to have everything under control, from turning on the Sun to the bumble bee's buzzing, just like recently when they controlled the existence of civilization from the bottom of the Ganges River. But even the River was gone now. They were unshakably composed and adequately smashed. "They say if you have enough coins, you'll know how to turn them into clean water," they told Brshleek.

"Only in a shop," said Manon tauntingly.

"When we have clean water, we will get to work again." They were rubbing their hands. The alchemical blood echoed in their veins. Their infallible heads fell to their knees. They were on their knees.

"I will make the change!" And once again he made an attempt to do so. It did not work. He nervously twitched his halo and turned gloomy. It was another of the finite series of proofs about God's existence. "But I think I haven’t got enough coins or there's another catch to it."

"Sure there is," grinned God from above. "Miracles don't happen. That's the whole joke."

"It will change shortly," insisted Brshleek. "God whispered it to me." He clasped the money in the palm of his hand. "Whoever drinks of the water I give shall never thirst." The drunkards kept their fingers crossed. However, there already were the first doubters among these ‘apostles’. "Don't pretend to be the only expert on God." Manon sat next to Brshleek. Everybody was turning the bottles bottoms up as if it were their last drinking spree before the end. "God's balls grind slowly." Every now and then they glimpsed at Manon's hands jerking under a bed sheet and Brshleek's eyes as he was rapidly breathing. The drunkards were nudging each other: "It’s like a human hand quivering to the rhythm of the human soul," and winking at Brshleek.

"Stop winking! I need to fill my tummy now because of my facial skin." They were all happy that Manon remained alive with them. "You're like a pretty little fountain, my precious sweet lips," she said to Brshleek and stroked his cute multiple chin. Suddenly she became perturbed by something among the onlookers. "You're taking me serious just because I have important unimportant parts of the body." She really looked like a clone of Dolly Parton. "What would happen to the civilization if all plastic surgeons ended up with their bellies up?" she worried. She fixed her inanimate tits spiked with blind plated patterns.

Brshleek buttoned his pants in a well-mannered fashion and gracefully clasped his hands. Everything was still vibrating in him, even his liver full of alcohol. "The man is a terrible dimwit completely different from other Animalia in the universe. There is no such creature in the world which would sacrifice its whole life for two seconds of happiness."

This did not make any impression on the drunkards. They kept throwing bottle corks at each other. "To hell with you. We'd rather be unhappy all our lives than happy just for two seconds." They were polishing away the bottles of vodka. "At least we will enjoy ourselves more and that's why we drink."

"Big tits are the basis of a nice figure and good mood, boys," Manon advised them. "Where there is a way, there is a will." And suddenly she fished out a plastic surgeon from somewhere and had him attach huge udders to them, all of them.

"We drunkards are typically entertaining flatheads." Then they sacrificed a few udder bottles to God. The purpose of the sacrifice was to get God drunk and God let them. Today His work was finished.

Manon focused on Brshleek. Constantly there was something about him she did not quite like. She grabbed him by the jowls. "For God's sake, exercise your chin at least! Nobody is forcing you to move your whole body." And she was yanking him like a horny fish. "Change the coins into water at last! You have to believe in yourself! Why do you think that you're not the Son of God? After all, we are all children of God!"

"But he puts His sons on the cross," resisted Brshleek. He would rather have somewhere to lay down with Manon, somewhere away in silence to take a rest on her cartoon breasts. But there was nowhere to go. The ocean was roaring more ominously by the minute.

"That was horseshit to put His Son on the cross. Only a complete nitwit could do something like that. Can You hear us, oh Lord God?!" the drunkards shouted to the heavens while throwing bottles up. A couple of them got caught on the firmament. "At least fifteen people said that you're a nickampoop along with your Crucified One."

"Gosh," thought God. "Now these are the kind of people who the world belongs to! They can just go ahead and take this world! All of it as is, because it's not worth a diddly-squat." Then He made the rain come down so he could pick up the bottles in peace. There was a deposit on them.

"It raineth and lightneth," said Brshleek. "It raineth the devil’s pitchforks from heaven. Don't do stupid things. If there's some truth to what they’re saying about God, then we're not worth the muck in a pipe!"

"We are still alive. The others are just a heavenly pulp. And if someone really exists up there, he can blow us. Better yet, let Manon blow us," agreed the drunkards.

They were getting more and more belligerent thus making the situation worse. Brshleek stood up and spread out his arms. "Not only what you are doing but also have done irritates me terribly. Woe of woes!" He talked pacifically. "But you are doing the same thing, and do you think that doesn't piss us off?" they said.

"Are we talking about me or you? We can't booze ourselves up to death! Anyone could do that. But there’s still hope left for us."

"Peek a boo, my darling amadou!" Manon yanked on his sagging jowls again. The seriousness of the moment was broken.

"May the earth that nourished ye devour ye! Living ashes ye are and to dead ashes ye shall return."

Manon sank into his pants. "What a cute little Pinocchio you have!" Brshleek tried to change the subject: "I shall tell ye a biblical story, ye lost sheep. It's name is the Death of the Goat." Some remained just to hear the breaking Good News. Others preferred to go as if to drown themselves. The ocean was already in sight.

"At night a man dared to creep up to the house even with his whole family. He had been spying around there from behind the young shrubs for several days. He had everything surveyed well. He hoped that he was right. They asked to be put up for the night. The landlord and landlady were bearded like him. They had long hair, dirty beards and wild suspecting eyes. They put for them some hay in a small shed with rundown frames behind the house. ‘If the children hadn’t been part of the deal, I would've already shot you by the fence,' she grunted. Apparently it was the landlady. It was hard to tell who was he and who was she.

After all that hardship there was this palace ready for the newcomers. The man gestured his wife and children to be quiet. He heard heavy breathing through the planked wall, which was coming from the next stall. He smiled. The stubble on his face stretched from ear to ear. It was there.

He buried himself deeper into the hay and out of joy he jazzed his wife and even started kissing her loins. It was something he had not done for a long time. 'It feels like you're licking my heart. Can you hear it beating?’ Then she broke into tears. ‘You'll leave me anyway! You're just like other bastards!'

‘I will never leave you!' The excitement was pulling him by the sleeve. He crawled into the stall. There his hands landed on a hairy body. It was breathing convulsively. It was a live goat, a miracle. God does exist. He groped for the udder. Then he was suddenly interrupted by voices and stomping feet. He jumped up and broke out a stake from the shabby fence. Long years in the woods had taught him good lessons. He was brisk as a marmot. Yet he had never seen any marmot nor he ever will. The landlord and landlady accompanied by a group of blood-thirsty tenants dragged his wife outside and beat her up. They ripped off the remains of rags covering her body and raped her. The wife was breathing heavily and screaming. She was already infirm and weak. She was not in their taste. After a while of playing around they threw her into a well. Children lumped into a small bunch. They were trembling but not crying.

'We're gonna kill the children if you take that goat,' said the landlord and landlady wearily. Even so, they knew it was pointless to say. The landlord and his gang, standing together, each one of them now resembled goats; bearded and with long thin locks of hair stuck together like peed-on straw. But it was the man who was actually holding the goat by its beard. He fiercely attacked them. With the stake in his hands he managed to knock down two of them. The smallest one of the goat-men gang, such a nasty midget, snatched his most beloved daughter with a corroded knife next to her throat. 'Leave the goat here!’ The little girl looked at her daddy with hope and pleading hands. Then the goat-men smacked her into the well.

With his giant arms the man threw the goat over his huge shoulders and stooped he crawled on his four up the hill through saplings poking out of charred ground. He got buried in ashes up to his waist. He was panting. He turned around and tears welled up in his eyes as he saw the little tots huddling together by the well. The obnoxious runt was shouting filthy swear words, helplessly clenching his fists and then he threw his knife. It stuck in the goat that bleated and twitched. Then it suddenly became silent. As quickly as he could the man treaded away. His soul was fading away. In a tiddly moment, while the goat was encumbering and pushing him down into the incinerated soil yielding beneath his feet - a burden greater than the entire world, it seemed to him that what had happened to his wife and children was kind of unnatural. Moreover, it was leaving him breathless and squeezing his throat. It was gripping his heart so strongly that he was drowning in an extremely strange pain, perhaps because of empathy with the goat. He stroked its smelly knotted-up fleece and unwaveringly stepped out. It seemed to him as God's greatest boon that was beyond his power to change things."


"It is beyond his power to change things," she was justifying him. "The roughness is part of him." She was an amazing coloratura prima donna with an amazing coloratura voice having a long deep tone without any side whistling. A few hours ago she finished singing in the La Scala Opera House and Mary, as always, could hardly believe that this great diva with the world at her feet took her to a hotel to make love. The staff there was at attention. There were ovations and a suite strewn with bouquets. A man was sitting on a chair. He was large, rough and uncouth. He stripped the diva naked and balled her on the floor right off the bat. One day Mary lost her virginity in the same distasteful manner. Now she closed her eyes. At that time it was done to her thrice. Three times in, three times out with such an eenie weenie divine wankie that even afterwards she remained a virgin. "That was great!" puffed the wankie. "Oh, what a strange organ!" she flicked her finger at it. She did not care to remember those things of the past. The diva rolled Mary down to the floor and tore her panties. The man started hammering Mary. Then he swung his huge arm and slapped her. The coloratura prima donna gave out a deep coloratura hiss of delight: "Oh, my skull is totally peeling away from it. Give her another smack. Let the brain blow out of my head." She parted Mary’s butt. "Joseph can’t really change that. It's always so wonderful. Oh, master! Overbless me! Let me cum to pieces!"

After tying up Mary with chainlets like a cute little package, she placed her under a Christmas tree as if a present and filled her up to the limit with Ben Wa Balls. Then she gave her shapely butt a nookie. The guy followed the suit. "Also press her love button," insisted the diva. "Your lovely bushy eye is opening up and telling me all sorts of things," the diva snuggled up to her. Mary was lying there twisted. She was like a stone turning stonier with sparklers bursting above her head. Christmas time! The same as when her mother caught her in bed with her own sister. She threw them out of the house. No one could understand that and no one could even experience that, only them two. Mary fled to a station. Her mother found her even there and full of anger and abasement she tore everything off of her while shouting. That night Mary’s sister swallowed all the pills she could lay her hands on, and there were quite enough of them.

A train brought Mary to Germany. She did not even realize how she got through the Iron Curtain. Perhaps God wanted it that way, but He did not actually want any miracles. So it must have been something else. Somewhere in some little castle she started living with this opera diva. "In order that two souls understand each other, they do not have to be shaven," told her the diva the first evening. There were water lilies everywhere and Mary, spellbound by the atmosphere, let herself be carried away by sex even though she did not care for small and fat lovable women. "I’ve always wanted to have a dong that I could ball all those girlfriends of mine with, and yet it's turned out that they're balling me."

"Oh, you can't do that," smiled the diva. "I’m a very prudish lesbian. I'm simply like that. Come to terms with it."

There were also all sorts of other people present. Every evening two beautiful creatures had a performance. Their non-tittied tiny bodies were trembling with excitement. When no one could stand it anymore, they pulled out their gadgets huge like canons from under their flowered skirts and squirted out into all directions together exactly at the same time down to the second. All the audience got sprayed. Women were falling into faintness and men into them in a daze.

Mary was especially wary of one young and clever homosexual in particular. He was running around from one person to another with a syringe full of fresh sperma. He wanted to impregnate Mary. He pretended as if he also was at least one of the few chosen ones who make merry with God evening after evening. The homosexual gave her little butt a serrated smile. He was pruriently jealous. "What are you flashing around with others here for? What will I look like in front of others? Doesn't that matter to you?" And he went up to Joseph. Mary overheard the homosexual lecturing him: "You're a cuckold and a dickhead."

"No, I'm a carpenter and a Christian."

"I know at least fifty who are after your Mary."

"I'm a carpenter!" shouted Joseph and slapped the homosexual so hard that the latter flew out of the window. That evening the people present did not experience the homosexual’s gay presence until the following day. Upon his arrival he pretended to be very ill. He was languishing and faltering around; he could not even make a single step without help, and when he was passing on to hereafter, he gave Mary the beautiful flowered cup. "Nothing happens by chance, even though the first sight can blind anyone," he said. After the funeral the diva whispered to Mary: "I’ve lit a candle for him. It was slightly bent by you." Then she stroked Mary’s butt.

Now years later, Mary was sitting in the wheelchair. She was already old, uncomely and somewhat paralyzed. She was smelling the flowers on the cup. Everything was hidden inside of it: all her life, coloratura prima donna, water-lily morning, her friends, sister and mother, and everyone was making love in the cup, kissing each other's pussy and butt, and slapping each other. So far Mary had no children, and this morning was supposed to change everything.

A limousine brought her to the Center of Genetic Manipulation on Trencianska Street in Nova Dubnica, formerly Fucik Street named after Fucik, a former fighter against fascism. Many, many years ago, Mary started leading a team there that was engaged in a research of the human genome. Just for fun they took the first DNA smear from the Shroud of Turin at that time. It was just a diversion in an otherwise boring daily toil. There were millions of unsuccessful experiments, but this morning a tiny tot still with a faint childish halo was extending its arms toward Mary. Immediately she felt the magical power emanating from its small hands. "My little Camil," she burbled. "My dear little Camil!" She did not know what to do.


He did not know what to do. God had been looking for someone exactly like Mary for thousands of years. He even disguised Himself as a misguided homosexual and ran around with the syringe in order to finalize the Immaculate Conception even though He could have done it as always, because He had a divinely tiny one.

God was already sick and tired of it. "Now I'll go bowling," He ordered Himself and He started bowling. Loneliness was already getting to His head. “It’s forcing me to talk to myself! For ages, eternally I have been able to do whatever I wanted. But what should I want in this realm of crappy perfection? Even with sweet Jesus I had no luck. A melancholic can never come up with something as normal as putting a bullet in his head. The melancholic has a sense for a lot of blood, just to cut his veins by the circular power saw or bleed on the cross." God opened a children's coloring book. Even the handsome hedgehog did not want to talk to Him. It turned its back on Him. "Why do I have such an ill fate?" asked Himself God and flung a bowling ball against the wall so hard that a piece of plaster broke off right under a painting by some Miró. "Well, Miró for instance," a thought came to His mind suddenly. "He used to let himself be inspired by spots. First he would spatter the canvas with colors and then he rubbed the colored mist with toothbrushes. Sometimes a face could not be told apart from an ass even at the second glance." But that was not the issue here. And that is what all was so good about it.
 Smrt kozy smrt kozy Miroo 

God loved Miró, because Miró knew how to draw out the enormous complexity of the man. "But what about me? If only I could be someone else," He daydreamed. Then the world spun with God.

Then the world spun with Mary. She was constantly holding little Camil closely to herself. She could not break away from him. "When I inhale your breath, my lungs become inundated with your essence!" She felt an awesome power in her hands. Then she grabbed God, lifted up the divine freak into the air and spun Him along with the heaven upside down. "Look how his little birdie's waving its tiny wings!" And God, as usual, pretended that He always has a reason for everything that happens.

"Father, forgive her for she knoweth not what she doth," cooed baby Camil.

"It's easy to swear at God," remarked God. As He was there upside down, the whole world seemed to Him completely inside out. He did not understand it at all. It absolutely did not rhyme to Him. "Since He's so good-natured," He continued.

Then Mary started speaking. Her Bible stories should have been enjoyable and fun. She wanted to tell many of them to sweet little Camil. She began with the first one – Death of the Goat.

>From: editor < This e-mail address is being protected from spambots. You need JavaScript enabled to view it >

>To: “Me“ < This e-mail address is being protected from spambots. You need JavaScript enabled to view it >

>Subject: Death of the Goat and children's games

>Date: 07 July, 2002 7:77 AM>


Dear Jerry:

I know you're leaving but I'm gluing together one more story. I don't know whether I should add this to the book. The story could be called The Children's Games. It starts like this: once there was a man who was losing everything – his family and wife. He needs to go abroad to find a job. He gets so wrapped up in work that he stops existing; when someone is trying to call him, he says that he does not know anyone by such name.

There are children’s games and there are adults’ games. Some games he could not stand although he could put up with his child jumping all over his belly. Some games he adored. In the beginning, the child would start the game by closing its eyes and shouting: "Where am I? Come and find me! Now you can’t see me!"

Then they stole his daughter and did bad things to him. Maybe it is a new kind of pastime. He was living on the outskirts of a city and dying. He had to do something. He wanted to write some important things or take a photo of Death. He was still feeding off of hatred, and he was old and feeble with nothing but emptiness in his life. He was as forceful as a nail of butter. He used to go to sleep in the morning and wake up in the evening, always the same sadness. In the beginning he wanted glory and wealth and he believed in it so much that it finally happened. Then he won a big prize. Now as he, all stricken, tired and smeared by life, was coming to a podium surrounded by cameras and flashes everywhere, there like an angel in a silverish circle of light was sweet Simone standing on the stage. With her eyes closed she was saying: "Where am I? Come and find me!"
Smrt kozy smrt kozy kravka

Last Updated (Thursday, 02 May 2013 19:58)