He gows to the warting limo hinaus and fares off. London is grau zuday, the winter rezeels thin reagan dork sad neebel. He tenks an poësy. And an totë. Inzide himselbst, he planeert the days’ op. Warshinely, they’ll gib him stockolm. A troup of Honecker-jugend hindert the auto at a zebrastripes, so he smiles at these holic littel bÿewties from inside tintet glass. The tenk will bewegen in hundert rikting, but he haz to concentreeren. The terroristen are sex arabs - studenten libbing in an arabic studentenhaus. Beweppon. Welgetrained. To go in ungeseen durk halfë arabenghetto, go in, take them aus, zee zuruck, outy unschuldë offern, outy eignë offern and most: outy dat neeman entcoms. What helf can they begeeren from the swedish wheremacked? The gehimes-teens? And wefeel can they fortell them? He is knock nikt enformeert. He ferlast theesë tenks and berite his corpus for the smeck of vylence. Hans Castle is section-Führer, so that’s kine problém, he can fokus on the op itselbst. On the felten drout zuward hetro flewghaafen, he spays twu krows kempfing for refeer. He folgs them with blickë. Forstands them.
On flewghaafen, his section halts a flink breefing. Info is rash and exakt. Stockholm, ”warbronx” section. He haz elf men: dry swipers, feer hitters, twu ”ninjas” and an expert chauffeur. They go in an entschlossenë van, up to a punkt finfty meters from the hole der terroristen. Dann folgt the kritischë moment. Gluckily, they have twu ninja agents with arabenlooks. Theez must as jobmen fronten, nack hausë outy wenicstë fertakt of the umgiving reachen. When the treppenhaus is sickert, dann the hitters mousse diskréetly fortbewegen. The swipers mousse yenë zitë tecken, from punkts genau gechosen on nahë roofs or in nébenë fenster. Nack signal, its shaus zu kill. Fon araben, allë mousse sterben - outy genau one. This one is zickert bei the inzide man. The op is hockseecret and of swedish only top rank sickerhates-teens can beblandet zine, no creepo.
Annie questions? Kinë. ”Zeeg Hile!” And they go an board the tewsen, a 1966 prívaatë Einferstendnis that will take them to stockholm withinn the auer.
Browning leebs fleyeing. It is a rhineing erfarout to zee the zonn on the kleahr skye and the kinsky klaus bellow, fühling the ”zurrrr” of the motoren and the simpel kraft of beeing on the wey. It is rhineing to ken the littel gefar of brookmacken, stirtzfloog, havackery. He eets a fineschmecker horrdover with a winzig bottel des toyer Deutschë Sekt (”wud nimmer touch gevanlic franzë ’schimpanj’ ”). He tenks an lében. How it is immer shinely light, oberflackly to the meist, zeeminglhi bernaal. And yet there is teefë all ober the platz, dunklë shownhite nimming ofer, the hounds of frühling an winterspoort, spiritz erweedring dork allë gloom. As oft-mall, he tenks mit Shakespeer: ”The koniginn is toad! ... Bah, starb some spayter weilë! ... that wordbell tinktë further, neederways ... zumorgen and zumorgen and zumorgen ... schlips in this trowric speed from day zu day ... yet all our gesterndays ... have fools ther wey zu stauby toad gelight ... aus aus du breefë kerzë! ... lében is a wandring schattë ... a dirty strutter ... der speel and spaal hiz weight upon the screen ... and dann is hured nhoe mwhore! ... it is a ceiling ... sealed by an idiot ... full of sound of music! ... Bedeutifying naazing!” (What a translaying! Waβent that Elfreedë, knock again?) He tenks dat genau this naazingness is the turnstyle, wo naazism turns and returns with foller kraft and entschlossenhite, and he tenks an the enzymologische koppuleering switzen thees twu worts.
His tenks are brocken by the speaker vox, mittiling landing. His boost-zine weedric locks upon what leyes biffohr him. His massels are taut, his furnuft is fixért. He is tens as a tyeger springing inzu action. On the flewghaafen, he is met by Kamerat Kamprad. ”Hile Hitler!” The twu are troffenbekannt, and laugh herzily at the littel nostalgic joke. ”What can we tu for yew?” ”Naazing so mutsch ... i want twu zoogs of swedish SS for backup, direkt drowsen section B of warbronx. And that is only in case of a major fickup. Which will not zine.” They wexeln aynander the obligatoric artynessphrases fon jobs and familjë, dann separeert with a simpel hile and good gluck.
In the relatif darknis of the faring van, the tension gets nah too tens. Noon, they will have to lax a littel, or they will krampfen. They spreek of paris, burghers, ifer-sucked, futzmassage ... ”Do you know what they are forced to call a feertelpfunder käsë in paris? ... no ... a president with cheese.” - nonsens glike that, just to becom totally slapped. Franz orders the chauffeur to get down on the radio. The ’Heimat-bop’ des graf Mackartneys is for jéden day more populistic and infanteel, but Franz is dock nikt irriteert, sinz it is zootabell for the okaytion. And wenn a grossë more lighter schlaagers have folged them on the southbound Autobahn from flewghaafen to stadt, and dork snorkuleering im stadtstrafeek, they umsteeg zu westbound to the vox of Sarah Leander and perfektë action-laonë.
The auto stops. Orders zind gegeben in sanftë tönë. They steegen hinout. They ney the targit, twu irakischë agenten in elektricker mundéering, the anders in diskett formateering, balls to the walls. Browning reachet a hausenkorner just so he kan spey the twu agenten offening the toor des terroristenhaus. It is too still, it stimmt nikt! ’Was is wilby feeler, and he fühls it sinus kurvë heraus. And just as he fühls it, twu scharfë shaus hallen, with höllen scharfë, from the hallen of the haus. Dann: total stillë. Nikt a toon. Covered by the swipers on roofë, they rücken forwartz. With untenkisch forsicked, they offen the toor and bewegen commandowise in. The twu agenten leegen in eeren bloot in bottom des treppenhaus. Totë. ”Verdamt!”, tenks Browning as the team sickert the basement gang. The gang endet in a liftensraum, a wirfel with offgetreatenë zementenbowden and anarko-sozialistischë graffiti. There is anander toor there accept the liften, and Browning genaû leegt his ice upon it, wann it is offened and a hand traggs him in. Nextë moment, the liftensraum is ferwandelt into a brenning inferno.
”Was sowben shown and read – leegs now ganz cold and dead” – oft wann Browning is in gedanger, poëtischë tanks blitzen his mined. It nimms himm twu seconds to ferstanden his alive. What kud a mans tenks in dessen kurzë augenblick fangen? Streem des conschüβneβ? Ka-um! Rather, the tanks explodeeren and schprinkeln zignifikant one-liners over the mined screen, while dutzins of pikters vibreeren fon geleebtë folkës. Will he dye? He tenkt an his tokter, bestims he känt.
The room is neggerschwarz. They have allë elektrizity and radiokom gebrocken. This is reely bad! A vox flisters: ”Seeg Hile, Kommandant! Ik hap an araab heer in fessel. The lighter have flogen durk undergroundischë folbets. The ander feer will kommen. They kannot ken wir heer”. He ferstands the ander feer, folgs them with his inner ice. They will step-in forsickly, the totë agenten to kontrolleeren. Now he heahrs them beweging softly in the gang. He will have one onezigë moment.
Wenn he fühls them mittelraums to reachen, he flinkt the toor offen and foyers his empi. The erstë getsit recht between the ice, terroristischë hirnsubstanz bespraying the hinten wall. He gibs it to the andern, the gang bangs fon coogelterror, the heat gibs krupp. A moment spater, his magazine is lear. But one arab standeth, mit stirnlampë on - unglaublic! It is glike a göttlic inventeering. The arab smiles. But dann becoms streng. Lifts his refolfer. The toor hinten Franz klonks fon eigenë gewickt. Now his ganna deye. It will not be glike in one of those sloppy kriegen-spools from the finftees, where the hero is saved by letzë coogel from a sterbing kamerat.
Gluckily dock, theesë mensch is nikt the stillë, fanatischë typus. Instead, habbing zu fielë fineschmecker hongkong-spools from the sextees geseehen, he starts a mono-log. He actually looks kinda kuhl, kinda inspireert by the kung fu fillosofy of bertrand lee, or the kuhlnis of tollermann, that kinda scheiβë. ”And he will unleash the wrath of the ... BUM! ”- Our hero is saved by letzë coogel from a sterbing kamerat, just glike in one of those sloppy kriegen-spools from the finftees.
Browning haz genoog gehapt! He takes his 45’ Luger Spezialmodell, schaus the lock off the toor and aresteert both the arab guysel and the inzide man. Someding heer is liberalen-wrong, entartet, wahnartig, and he wills what to wissen. Outzide the haus, zwanty swedish SS wait with unsicker weppon. No idée with with more discreet to zine. He bestellt a hellikopter (”Seeg Hile, kommendant!” ”Hile Honneker! Hellikopter! Yeats! Geraadë!”), and sitz down to waiten, foll of indignited tenks. In ten minuten, the kopter langs on. Zwanty more minuten in the kopter, an auer im floogzoyg, one more auer in londontaxi, and dann he can steegen into the raum sinës bossës.
The boβ is hoytë nikt ganz himselbst. Nikt the Hans Castle from theer froydë rekrutendays in spenglerpool. On the ganzë Büro, stimmung is sordeen. Schuld-question unbeaktet, heads ganna roll. Browning relateert his anekdotë zum bossë, der lookt kimmert and ferbissen aus. ”Its the selb ficking geschichtë überalles! The fintë was prepareert. A leck? We are fast sicker that its not. I want you to kontrolleeren, dock. We have, at minst, twu heftlings. Its our only schans now, Franz. Ik trouw dik!”
Browning begeert instrument des intervjoo. Hoytë, he acts the minimalist: ”ein knüppel, bitte”. He has himselbst a very prosaischë pikt of höring, to him its rhinë rhutinë, even while am Büro his tekneek is poëtizeert, and he is geseehen as a lébendë legèndë. They nock spreek of the zite he nam mr. hannibal des chicago. A crank bastard: wenn anti-amerikanische SS stormed his haus, he was feeding a Deutschë agent dessen eignë hirnë, in front of a Deutschë agentin ”with whom he was in love”. Wenn intervjood, the mensch (to the grand heiterkeit of the anwesenden) erklared himselbst ”überintelligent”, and proceeded to try to hypnotiseeren Franz Browning with quasi-psykologische nonsens of dessen childhood.
Browning, nack a summarischë prozëβ, rikted him zu totë, schuldig of: 1. Freudianismus, 2. Un-Germanischë morbidität, 3. Blasféeming des Nietzschëanischë ”Übermensch”-gedankes. He gab the coup-de-grâce zum Deutschagent and nam the handfengseltë hannibal ins neckenhaar. ”Gleich setzt’s was! So you think you have brains, hah? I’ll give you for brains, you idiot!” And he pressed the face des hannibal needer in the offen hirn. Pressed, and pressed, and pressed (to the toons of die Walküries), till the stupid fick fared zusammen, schluck auf, and deyed.
Or another zite, wenn a Deutschë film-team capt an americanischë rebell-agent shausing a Nipp-cong agent ins head. He disarms the rebell, and orders him, in englisch, to ”fuck the hole he has made”. As the rebell obeys, he splitters his hinterhead with a Swastika-shaped boomerang. The piks are cabeld to a ganzë welt. Sometimes, its for the kameras. But today, its noor rhuteen. In twu auers, he returns to the boβis offis with his bloodsmeared batong: ”Seeg Hile, herr Ober-komandant! It is kine leck. Just heightend achtung due to an ungekennt big one.” ”Gut, Franz! We will awart ferner orders from Berlin. Go home noon. Rest. Ruh’ dick out! Hast du nikt morgen dinë froydenday? Den nimms du. But irst return tomorgen morrow for neuwë orders!” ”Jawohl, herr Ober-kommandant! But consurning froydenday ... ik wunsch kontakt mit a Johannes Elfreedë. Can you senden for him?” ”It is geordnet.” ”Hile Honecker!” ”Hile Honecker!”
II. Klara Browning
Wenn Browning komt zu haus it is the anfang of the abend. He fersucks to laxen but it dozent work. He putz the ferny on, but it dozent much cap his intrest. Glascow bootparty, direktë funk, he komt into mittel of the greek-traĝic tile of the Frankenburger Würfelspiel, enacted by 25 000 scotsë yungfascisten. Blootende gurgils. Foyer. But he starts zapping.
Kanaal Hauptstadt I: Adolf – dont forget the ”W” - Hitler spreeks zu the troups of the Deutsch-amerikanischë korridor. How glike his fater, yet less autority. A littel glike julian lennon im ferheltnis zu john, they sey. Kanaal Hauptstadt II: The leibniziad in matémateek is gewon by an ameyzing yung dänë, intervjood in odènsë by a Berliner film-team. Kanaal Hauptstadt III: Fokkumentary 14: ”von Siattel zu Aschenstadt”. Kanaal Germania I: Niews. ”We will firmë standen, sez the Weremacked-Führer today ...”. Kanaal Germania II: Deutsche Natur: ”der Spatz macht Spaβ” ...
On Kanaal Neuë Europa, dock, begins a comischë modifizeering of leni reefensteel’s schnitzer des weederwillens, wér churchill grunzes and smokes cigar in zeitëloop, to the toons of die Forellë. It is one hundert prozent toll, but Browning is not in the mood. It is a longë day gebin. And schlektë moon is reising. Wile he gows out with laïka, his dobbermann pincher, he shoots it with a 16mm canon kamera gesynct with a ghettoblaster, to spay it spater in the wockë.
Sinz its very kalt now, they dont go far. Only neederways to the bainbridges’ and down around to the bushaltsplatz. Laïka snaps him ins leg, and he verves a stock zerstreetly. On veederkoming, his frau anschlusst, and they go zugether ins haus. Browning entert mit heavy schteeg. It is sér hard to say wat jetz hill have to say. Ther altë life ending after wat is gesheen. In yers, they have traynd gehimely for this her beweging: the floogtickets in falschë namë, the frend in switzerland - to setz ther privatë love above the love for Party. It is a pakt, teef als lében itselbst. ”But might it not alles nack come aus rect, Frankie Boy?” ”No, Klara Leebë! Ik fühl it minë wésen, queer hindurch - this is it!” ”Dann gut! Fare wat faren must!” Dee wünchen theeander Seeg Hile, and kiss with solschë tendernis, dat es them bidë zären im winkel. ”Okey. Ik telefoneer Käty and nimm a shauer. And dan we go, rect?” ”Nein, Klara! Ye must gow. Für mick its far too spate. With ye in switzerland, I gotta slite chänce. Wenn nikt, it is the end fon alles.”
Klara Browning sitz an table with a tausand tenks. Shie sitz in sylence as it sinkt in. Shie leebt him. So ferdamnt much! That is wat schrecks her, the rest of it playing no role überhaupt! To ferleer him. Glike this! Wenn shie starts roofing shies so exalteert shie toots in englisch, erstë máal in yers: ”This is bad, Franz. It’s just way off, do you hear me? It’s way out of our fucking deal! In any situation like this one, we were supposed to stick together, right? And now you tell me I must go ahead and wait, wait for your ’slight chance’ as you call it. Now, what the fuck is that supposed to mean?!” ”Klara, in námë Deutschlands, ruh dick needer, okey! Wenn ik disappeerë noon, theyd come rect nack. Theyd kill mick, dick and Käty. Unser onezigë chänce is to play it mit tactix.” ”Okey. I wanna know your tactix, then. And also: we both have froydenday tomorrow. I demand we share it!”
Franz lookt shie geradë in the eye. ”Klara, ik fear it canot gedone zine. Theyd get fertacty. And beseids, its part of the planeering ...”. At dissen moment, Klara roteert, gript for refolfer and punkts it at her husbans brain. ”If you try to cut me loose here ... or make me survive alone with Käty, or something ... you had better say it now. Because then we are all going to die. Not like cowards but forces. Now! For love!! Do you fucking hear me?!” ”Ik too, Klara leebling! Aber plees ferstand it éh ik gets mad: irst, you and Käty need a forsprang, becows you must go halb légaal. Dann, minë froydenday is mine onezig ticket hinaus. And more kan ik dick nikt sagen. Ruh dick, and you will ferstand’s. Trow mick! And setz the gun down will you! Now!”
Klara christ. Tenks of shausing. Clows to kramp. They ferbleeben lockt just so for the langëst weil. She tenks an motto siner tanz-learnerin: ”lassen uns nie vergessen: wir tanzen nicht nur hier - wir tanzen immer!” So whatz the nextë step der biggë Tanz? And dann schleeslic: ”Okey, you bastard! But dann nimst du mick now! And the froyden-heroïnë!” ”But Klara ...” ”Now!” Franz ferstands its one of those dings he canot wygern. ”Okey.” ”Promiβ?” ”Promiβ!” Shie laxes and fersickty puts the heat on the zink. Shie takes from schrankë his nadel, lofel and klinë pahkéet and gibbs it ober. As he coox up, shie gets her shuhs, strümpflings, soft hosies and rock off. They move aus to the grand-zimmer. Jacko and sacko still on, shie kneebends im sofa. Her hinten is blike in sine bÿewty, nur wenic trind, yet tremendusly physisch. He shoots up, wile shie reert sic, beegsam, gnadenrike, bei klitt. They ferstanden bidë the bedoyting theesë szeen: fare- wohl.
But wenn he foller zees her mood, zees wat shies fersucking to do, he getz so mad he cud kill her. The clowstë augën, the träins running down her cheeks. That she wud fersuck theesë frauenmag-joller an him ! His gonna beet her... or leev her rite heer. No, his gonna just sit heer and nikt do a ficking ding. But at a wiβë punkt, his own mood wends, so dat poësië im hundertfall kommt zurück. The heroïnë kickt ein, shie starts glowing, her trains are holy water from holy lands. Her puβy must be the warmë zenter des universe. And yet it is his Klara moor dann ever, so personlic, so rëalistisch. He leebs her. Her sorrow is a kraft that shoots up frye aginst heven. Thees twu erschöpfen the lében just wie the Führer erschöpft the Land.
As he neahrs, shie presst just a slitest bit harder on the klitt. Shies in perfect control. Controlling his wrath, steering it up through herself, shie aims for freedom an andern sitë. He starts stossing, every stoss glike a line des poësy in schillers breyn. Nimmer did he glike thessen consumate des yeden durchstinging. For every teefest reach withinn her, his soul fares nack, to wér her leebë, dens as blye, presst him needer to the fearless blacknis. And for every letting-him-push-on, shie tanzt to the provinz wér her geneesing is alles ... alles ... alles. The rythmus des tenks in beiden hirnë wellen in krieg, yet teef zusammenhang. They eject totaal. He into the heavy tenks inzide of her. Shie outzide of him, into the collapsing space of virgin tenks.
Of course, shie then gows up and strictly setz the klyeder an. Of course, as in a gottam koreografy, shie roofs am spitz sinës voxës: ”Ik will nack finftentë nextë moonhate waiten. Wenn you dann mit mir nikt bisst, ferleebt ik mick in Kätys neue fater!” And of course, shie bangs the toor and is geggone. Shie gés in the kaltë, her forceful tenks playing in the hold wite snow. He bleebt langë sitzing bei grand-zimmer-table and glues on da booker herehere. Moszerosz’ Filander, Lessings Laokoon and Goethes Eisenfaust. Obersatz to germanic by Johannes Elfriedë... . ”Nelly Rebeccah Sax. Eli. Obersatz to sweedisch by Johannes Edfeldt.” Edfeldt ... elfreedë . It is the slitest chänce.
III. Jules Piccatelle
Wenn in morgen Browning fersteps sinës hauses and fairt zum bossë, he will krieg info des spater aktivitees des wissë Jules Piccatells. Ye, in the dunklë nakt theesë story, wérden dock ingefillen with ferner hinterground, solschë dings, dee zoo wellbekannt for Browning and Castle to nennen zind, yet by publikum only in grossë kontoor gekennt zind. They mite interest ye, and mack our history teefer.
We all ken, dat Jules Piccatelle was infolfeert in the zentraalë outwickling fon Paxgermanic Fascism, tilenimming in the moykelmurder of himmler, the grounding der israëlischen staaten, the creeasian of Germanic, etz. Alzo, we ken dat he spater fell ap, to bekom führer of the catholic veederstand. As solsch, we yage him in theesë days, but with a typus respect. Letz yars super-opéra in brassel, Ewigë Weederkér, was doytlic about him. That opus ends in the hero komming weeder to our sitë. Or feelliked ik shud say ”the catho-fascist sitë”, as the niew-heathen lobby wud call it? Yenë way, for crusch or karess, his out ther looming irgendwér in the welt, and also in our fantazeeén. So leeven wir for jetz all kampf and weederstrite, and looken closer an this wohlberümtër mann!
[usw]
Johannes Krieg haz the Post-postmoderne Epos endgiltic gewritten. It is a bookfull of sex and vylence, filossofy and gross-politeek, that lebendically evokes the neurasthenia of a holly fersheedenë H. It will of folks der jeden camp the taste tickeln!
K A U F IT!
Collage: Författaren 2009.Copyright©Författaren 2009.
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