Spring 2024 - Recrudescence

“Little Fluff”

Miskolc abattoirs with 400 piglets crammed on top of each other. His truck had crashed. The piglets, already mangled, bones broken and crushed, all died. On the driver, not a scratch. What deranged entity would drive 400 squashed, squealing, broken little lives to their execution?

The answer is: a human being.

One of us.

April 24.

There’s no let-up on this. No winkling out. My one strategy,

stay empty. A blank.

To an extent, I already have. I did so by blabbing about it. After breakfast, I told my sick ‘Cinke-story’ to my hotel buddy, Miki, the head waiter. After the years of my visiting the Lövér, he listened to it with the obliging pathos of a measuring squint on his face. And I got what I deserved. ‘What comes through all this,’ with ardent banality Miki waffled, ‘is the stifled pain at the deaths in your own life. You’ve put your own un-mourned feelings on the baby bird’. ‘How sweet’, I, the liar, gagged at the emetic cliché, and stuffed my real response of ‘Idiot!’ to Miki back into my festering self. Miki’s palm-off was gooey and false. My fury is not because of un surrendered mourning for the humans lost to me; it’s a black wrath at the Universe Creator who had, if not organized, acquiesced in this. This bird’s call for its life had drawn my soul’s sword at Him. ‘You!’ in me to Him I said, ‘You had better reveal something not known to me! For neither truth nor justice mean a thing in the outrage of this, Your heartless ordering.’ Never a namby-pamby agnostic, to God, He, by now become the viper at my bosom, I roared, ‘Hey! So where’s Lucifer! Is Luce you?’

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