The Möbius twins lived behind the Waymart, the eldest, Martin, had curly hair, the youngest, Max, short wavy hair. They plundered the bins behind the Waymart looking for other people’s half-eaten food, some so half-eaten it fell apart in their hands: old sandwiches and pies, soggy mince meat tarts and half-digested cake, half-full pop cans and milk cartons, the dross and leftovers of people with full stomachs and notched down belts. Martin slept with both eyes closed, dreaming of a full stomach, Max with one eye open, thinking of a way out.
The Möbius twins, by way of Wallsend by way of Evington, came from a long line of Nyírség Catholics from the village of Szilágyság in eastern Jókai, know for their strong opinions and even stronger dislike of Protestants and Calvinists. Their great-great great grandfather, a solemn man with a stern outward appearance, was a member of the Jókaiesque’s Brethren, a group of Dadaists who met every second Sunday in the basement of the Church of the Holy Sinner. Between 1878-1933 their great-great great grandfather worked as a porter for the Nyíregyháza Railroad Co., a job he took to support his heavy drinking and fondness for Egyptian whores and ball the jack, a game the Dadaists played every third Sunday, the first and fourth being reserved for pinochle and gin respectively. Their great-great great grandmother, an angry wretch with a full head of shoeblack hair, worked as a scullery maid for the Baumgarten Arms (27½ Unikornis Könyvkiadó, beside the Catalan Apothecary) the only hotel in Szilágyság that offered roasted mutton with mint jelly on the dinner menu.
The day before the sky fell the Möbius twins found a whore’s glove behind the aqueduct behind the Seder Grocer. Martin stuffed the glove into his coat pocket, saying to his brother ‘…this ought to be worth something…’. The twins headed northeasterly towards the elephantine mountains, over the ridge and across the valley below, their thoughts on old sandwiches and pies, soggy mince meat tarts and half-digested cake, half-full pop cans and milk cartons, the smell of burnt hair and piss assaulting their senses.
The Witness witnessed a boy jacking a ball running waywardly across the sideways, a look of bewilderment on his red russet face. The boy, stopping to look both ways, ran sideways, his feet shuffling like a card deck missing a Jack, his face getting redder and redder, the ball and jack swiveling out of control in front of him. ‘…young man…’ hollered the Witness, as he was a good 27½ rods behind the boy, ‘…can I give you a hand…?’ The boy, his face now redder than a plucked apple, said ‘…go fuck yourself, fucking witness bastard…’. The Witness, his face redder than a flaming bush, lowered his head and trundled down the sideways, the boy yipping and laughing as he went. The Möbius twins, standing under the sky, the sun getting heavier and heavier, motioned for the boy to come hither. ‘…what’s with the ball and jack…?’ asked Martin, Max squinting, his eyes focused on sun, which was hidden behind the Waymart clock spire. The boy, stopping to catch his breath, wheezing, said ‘…beat it fuck heads, before I cuffs you both up side of the head…’. At hearing this, the twins, huffing and wheedling, headed southwesterly, the sun falling like a Black Sicklebill into the grave of night.
The Möbius twins, by way of Wallsend by way of Evington, came from a long line of Nyírség Catholics from the village of Szilágyság in eastern Jókai, know for their strong opinions and even stronger dislike of Protestants and Calvinists. Their great-great great grandfather, a solemn man with a stern outward appearance, was a member of the Jókaiesque’s Brethren, a group of Dadaists who met every second Sunday in the basement of the Church of the Holy Sinner. Between 1878-1933 their great-great great grandfather worked as a porter for the Nyíregyháza Railroad Co., a job he took to support his heavy drinking and fondness for Egyptian whores and ball the jack, a game the Dadaists played every third Sunday, the first and fourth being reserved for pinochle and gin respectively. Their great-great great grandmother, an angry wretch with a full head of shoeblack hair, worked as a scullery maid for the Baumgarten Arms (27½ Unikornis Könyvkiadó, beside the Catalan Apothecary) the only hotel in Szilágyság that offered roasted mutton with mint jelly on the dinner menu.
The day before the sky fell the Möbius twins found a whore’s glove behind the aqueduct behind the Seder Grocer. Martin stuffed the glove into his coat pocket, saying to his brother ‘…this ought to be worth something…’. The twins headed northeasterly towards the elephantine mountains, over the ridge and across the valley below, their thoughts on old sandwiches and pies, soggy mince meat tarts and half-digested cake, half-full pop cans and milk cartons, the smell of burnt hair and piss assaulting their senses.
The Witness witnessed a boy jacking a ball running waywardly across the sideways, a look of bewilderment on his red russet face. The boy, stopping to look both ways, ran sideways, his feet shuffling like a card deck missing a Jack, his face getting redder and redder, the ball and jack swiveling out of control in front of him. ‘…young man…’ hollered the Witness, as he was a good 27½ rods behind the boy, ‘…can I give you a hand…?’ The boy, his face now redder than a plucked apple, said ‘…go fuck yourself, fucking witness bastard…’. The Witness, his face redder than a flaming bush, lowered his head and trundled down the sideways, the boy yipping and laughing as he went. The Möbius twins, standing under the sky, the sun getting heavier and heavier, motioned for the boy to come hither. ‘…what’s with the ball and jack…?’ asked Martin, Max squinting, his eyes focused on sun, which was hidden behind the Waymart clock spire. The boy, stopping to catch his breath, wheezing, said ‘…beat it fuck heads, before I cuffs you both up side of the head…’. At hearing this, the twins, huffing and wheedling, headed southwesterly, the sun falling like a Black Sicklebill into the grave of night.
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