farmer I was working for. It was at this time that I first got interested in religion. I suppose the paraphernalia interested me, the cloaks and vestments and candles and rituals and crossing oneself at every opportunity; it was more or less the same as the army, except in the spiritual world all the killing would be done by a higher power.â He raised his paw, to make a distinction: âAnd interestingly one would not be killed until after one had already died. I am speaking of damnation, of course. God would fling one into a burning pit if one had not done oneâs duty. I liked this, it freed humans from the awful necessity of butchering each other; at least thatâs what I thought at the time. I went for it hook, line and sinker. But before I could act on it I was arrested. They put a gun in my hand and told me to start patrolling and shoot anyone I saw. It seemed reasonable for a while.â
âMaybe you should write a book about your life, Günter.â
âI can see you are laughing at me, Michael. In fact I did write a book. It didnât do very well. I think it was banned, either by the Russians or the East Germans. My theories were no crazier than theirs, but humans always get murderous if anyone comes up with a different theory, especially if it involves any sort of religious ideas. God help the man who expresses any kind of opinion about the color of Godâs beard. Wake up, fuckers, God does not have a beard and beards do not have a God to attach themselves to; they float around aimlessly in space. Most wars have been fought over details, Michael. What sort of trousers you should wear? Should you eat cow hocks or boiled fish? Is it correct to play a mandolin? Should you wear your hair long or shave your head?â He growled. âIt makes my teeth itch; it makes me want to sink them into a larded, pompous ass.â
âAnd then?â
âWell, after I took holy orders in Rome I had even more problems, most of them because I wouldnât respect some shit because of his cloak. You know my name should not be Günter at all. It should be âWill You Excuse Me If Iâm Fucking Unimpressed?â Because thatâs been the theme of my life. Always.â He lay down his head. âAnd now I donât care anymore. Iâve seen the progression of the human race, I remember those beautiful mountains when I was a young man. A few years after the war, a lot of shits with skis started showing up in the winters. The landowner cut long swaths through the trees and put up ski lifts. More and more shits started coming for the skiing, crowding the bars, eating cheese fondue and drinking copious amounts of beer. The amount of fucking going on was mind-boggling; they were worse than hogs. Maggots were hatching like locusts, spilling out everywhere.â He rolled onto his back and sighed pleasurably. âI wish people could try and appreciate how lovely it is to lie still and smell the grass.â
âI guess they want to be a bit more dynamic.â
âYou know,â said Günter, âI knew a guy once; he was a filthy guy covered in tattoos and he lived in a cave and he only had two brown teeth left in his mouth. Do you want to know what he did for a living? He made soap, thatâs what. And he scented it with flowers.â
âI donât get the connection.â
âThatâs what we are, thatâs who I am⦠and you too. Weâre the filthy ones who make soap, but we never wash ourselvesâ¦â
12 .
In the morning when Michael woke up he vaguely remembered having been massaged in the night with essential oils, rose and something like lavender and sandalwood.
âFor protection,â whispered Ariel with a smile, adding, âWe are safe here. Purissima knows how to handle them.â
Michael looked at her. âWhat happened to you yesterday?â
âItâs all so unnatural,â said Ariel.
âWhat
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