Chapter 1: pleasing Botchi
Botchi awoke with a start, utterly vexed with the notion of I, a problem that had persisted for 15 years now. Shrill and pummelling bourgeois lounge hits of unrecognisable key filtered dreamily into his ears from the room adjacent. Today was going to be a nightmare. He began urinating, caring little for its destination, but luckily found the armitage.
The memories of the night before trickled slowly into focus. Botchi chewed on his clenched fist as they did so, clamping his molars around his wrist and then also shredding the skin that surrounded his nails until his right hand resembled his left. The memories of the week thus far had not been to Botchi’s liking. He reasoned that a spot of breakfast would eradicate any immediate afterthought, so tucked into a full continental, magically and lovingly prepared and on the dining table as he entered the drawing room. This had to be the work of his flat-mate, Kluzens, a typist journeyman originally from Prague. Kluzens was a mystery to all that weren’t involved with fonts, this being the only topic of conversation, save minx, he could or would engage in.
Brandishing his freshly licked breakfast plate in the remains of his hands, Botchi began to howl abuse at Kluzens like an unanaesthetised dog during castration. His anger at the previous evening’s disastrous outcome had been turned over in his narrow mind twice too often. On top of that, the breakfast Kluzens produced had been rancid.
“Was ist das, Kluzens?” sinking into his cockatoo German, “Es ist sheisse! Kluzens, du bist eine nincompoop, ja!” The fact of Kluzens’ orphanage subterfuge was still as yet unbeknown to Botchi, whose arrogance was concealed beneath a closet full of simpleton’s clothing. “Kluzens?”
Warbling into the symbolically mauve kitchenette, through the crack in the door Botchi did see not one shadow but three. A droplet of sweat clung pathetically to his furrowed brow, terrified of amalgamating into the pool of spittle surrounding the cool box on the tartan linoleum. Shuffling midget sounding footsteps faded away outside the back door, which hung strenuously to the top hinge, desperately loyal to Botchi till the last, protecting his morbidly obese frame against the mounting storm out there. Kluzens, apparently, had departed. In the middle of the fold down formica table was an intricately enamelled lithograph print.
“Botchi, hope you enjoyed breakfast. The main ingredient in the croissant was arsenic, you bordello. Say hello to Pertunia for me when you get to the Bracklewurst Ordinance. May the freedom from your body be my way of apologising. May you have a painful death. Au revoir.”
Kluzens chuckled maniacally to himself as he sauntered across town towards the labs. He’d finally exacted the sweetest revenge for Botchi’s querulousness circa 76. He really had split his fish come to think of it. An era deteriorated into deepest pastures of old as Kluzens’ pace increased with the storm. He was desperate to find shelter, shelter of a friendly kind that would replicate his favourite bosom and would also accommodate his ambiguous past. He reached into his pocket and clasped the letter tightly to his under-developed chest. The convoluted syntax troubled him, yet his immediate concern owed more to predicaments of new. Besides, he was ravenous, obviously having not partaken in breakfast, and he relished the thought of devouring freshly skewered limpet creamed mutton thighs, the speciality at ‘Foe’s Point’. His starvation was clouding his judgement, and he at last cornered 35th Avenue onto Hosbourne Drive to find the Point bustling and welcoming. Nourishment followed, and Kluzens felt a renewed interest in the diametrically overt can of worms that had been opened within the first hours of the day. Casting his mind over the decade-long sequence of events, he struck mental gold. His thoughts tailed off as a corpulent waitress wobbled over to his table.
“Coffee, or brine sir?”
“Brine”
“Brine?”
“Brine”
The waitress’s unusually soft Polish accent failed to arouse Kluzens, (who expected more of a wailing Finn), and he felt rude and obnoxious. She was obviously used to this trait, and wobbled back off down the aisle, through the swing door to the potting shed, scooping a number of generous dollops of hardened brine into his tankard. Kluzens looked out through the window at the sleet dancing down on Hosbourne. He watched with engaged detachment as a large red coach sped through the chilly scene, a tsunami-like burst of icy water shooting from under the wheels onto the pavement. This allowed Kluzens to regain his train of thought, and presented him with the course of action.
