Monday, August 16, 2010

Oskar Hörbiger

Oskar Hörbiger has no place in common society. A rogue, a mountebank, the scoundrel is not to be trusted: putting faith in him is like believing in {fairytale} happy endings, proof of man’s abject stupidity. One-time owner of the Bejel Linen Co., general nuisance and gadabout, the cunt should be thrown to the dogs, if they’d have ‘em, which they wouldn’t. The original owner of the Bejel Linen Co., Girolamo Pétasse, transferred ownership to the cad Hörbiger after falling ill with the whooping, which he died from two months later, alone, febrile and shivering in the tinsmith’s shed behind the livery. Dr. Mudstone pronounced him dead and signed the death certificate, warning the tinsmith that he best fumigate the shed before returning to the anvil. Dr. Ragama, ignoring proper practice, gave the corpse an enema, running the hose over and through the transom and attaching the tin nozzle to the rubber gills. Then the Dr. prescribed a good scrubbing to exfoliate the dead hanging skin. The internist Dr. Salcedo, who happened to be passing by that day and is renown for his skill at straightening bent and twisted legs, which he achieves by bending them over a pommel, offered to dispose of the rotting corpse, donating it to the burn ward of the hospital at Coláiste Cliath, which admits corpses and the half-dead Wednesdays and Friday evenings. Nonsense! Girolamo Pétasse died from rickettsia, his knees locked together like widgets. The night before he died Dr. Mudstone prescribed y vidrio o plástico de analéptico for recurrent excremento de apariencia anormal, the patient having shat himself twice before anyone noticed.

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"Poetry is the short-circuiting of meaning between words, the impetuous regeneration of primordial myth". Bruno Schulz

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