DOOM 94 Read online

The thugs often went out into the countryside to relax. The air was better there, that’s what the tall one said. His name was Kandžejs. The short stout one, Kroģis, didn’t really care either way; it hadn’t occurred to him, either, that you could go somewhere else for fun. Unfortunately, the fresh air wasn’t enough for Kandžejs — he wanted to fish, too. This time he was incredibly serious:

  — You can sell pikes at five lats a kilogram. You catch fifty kilograms worth — that’s two hundred fifty big ones!

  Were we going to catch fifty kilograms of pike? Kandžejs brushed off my concerns:

  — Don’t piss on my parade, I’ve got this.

  And so we piled into the black BMW and drove off. We had a car. I didn’t get to drive a lot. Well, my dad had his Zhiguli, but that was different. The BMW was like freedom on wheels, where we could talk about anything, smoke and drink. We each had a bottle of Tērvetes beer in hand, everything was great, but when we reached the road to Eleja the devil started to loosen up my tongue.

  — A girl named Diāna from my class lives in that house.

  And I pointed to a small house. How did I know she lived there? And why had I said that? Whatever came into mind came rushing out of my mouth — that’s how it was around these guys. I kept going:

  — She’s pretty.

  And she was. But Kandžejs braked so hard that Kroģis cried out as he spilled some beer on his pants.

  — What’re you doing, asshole?

  — We should go say hi.

  And he turned the car into Diāna’s driveway. I grew pensive:

  — Do you know her?

  — No, she’s your classmate.

  I only knew her well enough to know her initials — D. M. Like Dark Millennium, a great band, old-school. There’s this one song on Ashore the Celestial Burden, I think it was ‘Beyond the Dragon’s Eye’, man that was a great song! Gentle and lulling at the beginning and then — boom! There wasn’t a lot of heavy drumming or bassline, but that voice could tear the roof off, and it was in that old style of singing where you could actually understand the words. Not like now, when songs are performed like they’re going to be hits. It was like being in a chamber theatre, where you were shown dark and curious scenes that appeared to be realistic.

  Kandžejs had already rung the doorbell and, great, D. M. herself answered the door. She must’ve been expecting someone else, or no one at all, because all she was wearing was a T-shirt and pants, red pants. It was probably meant to be very sexy, and I was mortified. But Kandžejs said:

  — Hi, Diāna!

  — Hi!

  Then she looked at me, but I said nothing. Kandžejs continued:

  — Jānis said that a pretty girl from his school lived here, and we couldn’t drive by without stopping to say hello.

  She laughed; Diāna liked what she heard. I was the only one here who felt stupid and was excelling at achieving a tomato-red appearance. The gallant gentleman continued:

  — The weather’s good today, and it’s supposed to be a lovely evening. We’d like to invite you to join us by the bonfire. We’ll have red wine and pike fillet with celery root. We’ll also recite poetry.

  Two more girls came to the door, whom I didn’t know and who weren’t as pretty as Diāna, but the charmeur didn’t miss a beat:

  — And your friends, of course, are invited as well!

  Diāna turned to them, well, what about a picnic? They wrinkled their noses. Diāna turned back to us:

  — Okay. But not right now, we’re doing laundry. Where will you be?

  — In Ruļļi. At the bend in the river.

  — Great. We’ll see you there.

  And she scratched her thigh, and I couldn’t look away. Then there was a goodbye overflowing with compliments and offering the girls some beer, then we were finally back in the car.

  — Now we’ve got something to work with.

  Kroģis voiced his opinion:

  — Her friends were pretty awful.

  — No worries, just put a paper bag over their heads before you bone.

  This was batshit. I was all ready to relax without any stress, but now we were planning orgies. I mean, that had always been a fantasy of mine, but it was a cause for anxiety. Because you only have peace when you don’t have anyone, at least when you don’t have any prospects.

  Kandžejs dropped us off at the romantic bend in the river and drove off; he was supposed to bring the car back to someone. Thug business. We were left with orders to pitch the tent, a stack of firewood (parquet boards) and an unlabelled, one-litre plastic bottle filled with clear liquid.

  Kroģis and I each took a swig of what was the best moonshine in Jelgava, and then did a passable job pitching the tent before we lay back to doze. It really was a lovely evening. If only those girls wouldn’t show up. No, but I did want some kind of adventure. But how would it go down? And what if I wound up with the one with the bag over her head? Kroģis was thinking more practically:

  — I don’t know how but our tent is full of mosquitos. The girls aren’t going to like that.

  We crawled into the tent and lit cigarettes, hoping to smoke out the insects. We smoked so much that we had to evacuate ourselves. The smoke hung in the tent in horizontal layers, just like girls like it. Then Kandžejs reappeared carrying a large rucksack.

  — Igarjoks dropped me off. I think I have everything.

  And he started to unpack it. The first thing he took out was binoculars.

  — To get a close-up of the ladies?

  — No, to keep an eye out for inspectors. All this here is strictly verboten.

  Then he took out another bottle of moonshine and two short sticks.

  Kandžejs brought the binoculars to his face, had a look around, and then the lit the tip of the cord at one end of the rod:

  — Davai, bitches, let’s catch some fishes!

  And he threw the rod into the lake. I watched to see what would happen, but Kandžejs shouted:

  — Hit the deck!

  This really was some stress-free night. I flattened myself against the ground and for the second time that day wished I could just crawl right into it. The first time had been when Diāna had looked at my tomato-red face.

  — Cover your ears!

  I did so without question.

  A small splash! came from the river. It hadn’t been so bad. My friends got to their feet, as did I. Kroģis said:

  — It didn’t work!

  I didn’t understand.

  — But there was some sort of splash!

  — The detonator worked, but the dynamite didn’t catch. Davai, let’s try again. Kandžejs lit the second rod and launched it into the river:

  — For the motherland!

  I dropped to the ground and landed face-first in a molehill. Staring down into the earth, I heard it again — splash! And then a silence so pronounced that I could almost hear the fish laughing.

  — What hole did you pull that dynamite from?

  Kroģis didn’t like it when things didn’t work the way they were supposed to.

  — Not one I’m gonna stick it back into.

  We got to our feet and looked at the river. Both sticks were right there, floating among the reeds.

  — Who’s going to go get them?

  That was a good question. None of us could walk on water. I asked a question worthy of Francis Macomber:

  — Can’t we just leave it?

  Kroģis snorted with professional disdain:

  — You can’t just shit up a river with dynamite! How would that look?

  And Kandžejs added:

  — A pike could swallow it, someone will catch it, take it home to fry it, and the whole pan will explode.

  Right. I looked at the river.

  — And it won’t explode now?

  — Who knows with shit like that. If it won’t go off when you need it, then god only knows what’ll happen when you don’t need it.

  Very well said.

  — You’re a metalhead, right?


  — Yeah.

  — Isn’t that, like, your style? To fish an explosive out of a river with your bare hands?

  It was. It was about as metal as it gets. If I were here with Kārlis or Death, or even Diāna’s group, I’d be happy to dive in after the dynamite. Because of that I asked:

  — Wonder where the girls are at?

  At that moment we heard a splash twice as loud as both sticks of dynamite combined. Kroģis had fallen into the river. He’d stepped on a piece of driftwood to try and reach out and hook the dynamite with a stick he’d found, and had fallen in. Now he was calling everything a motherfucker and threw the dud sticks up onto the riverbank. One of them hit Kandžejs in the back.

  — What the hell?

  And he picked it up to throw it right back. I begged them:

  — Guys, okay, let’s take five!

  They obeyed me and calmed down a little. We started a fire from the parquetted boards, and Kroģis stripped off his clothes.

  — Where’re the girls at? I don’t want to have to get dressed again if I don’t have to.

  He was scraping mud off of his pants with that the same stick. Kandžejs looked on in surprise:

  — That’s what you were using to poke around the lake? I’ve got fishing poles.

  — You have something inside that skull of yours, too?

  — I have everything we need to fish.

  He started to dig through his rucksack and his excitement was renewed.

  — Gentlemen, the girls will be here soon, but we still don’t have any fish. Let’s go, let’s go, get to work, everyone up!

  He took two telescoping fishing poles out of his rucksack and pulled them out to their full length. Phew, I thought, only two, I can sit back. But then he tossed them to the side next to the tent and started to pull out something odd and shapeless.

  — The putanka, he explained.

  I didn’t bother to ask. They’d already overpowered me today. The shapeless object turned out to be a net. Kandžejs looked at it like it was a naked woman.

  — Any pike that gets into this is there to stay. Davai, into the river, let’s go, Kroģis, you’re already wet!

  Both of these madmen moved quickly to toss the net into the river, and then stepped back to look at it.

  — I don’t think we did it right.

  — Well you’re the fisherman.

  — This isn’t the best spot. Let’s move it over there, past the bend.

  The iron weights knocked against our ankles as we carried the dripping mess past the bend.

  — This is the spot. We just need to stretch it across the river and then we can just sit back and scratch our balls.

  — How are we supposed to do that?

  — With your hand!

  — No, get the net across the river?

  — I have a boat!

  And he really did have a boat. A rolled-up plastic one. He just didn’t have a pump. But no matter, we’d blow it up while having a smoke. We’d exhale the smoke into the boat, it would be great, smoke rises.

  We blew up the boat.

  — The valve doesn’t have a cap. We’ll have to hold it shut by hand. We got into the boat, Kandžejs up front, holding his left hand over the valve and paddling with the right (because we didn’t have oars); Kroģis was in the middle with the net on his lap, paddling with both of his giant hands; I was in the back, covering the other valve opening with my right hand and paddling with my left. The water was fairly cold.

  Once across, we secured the net among the reeds, blew the boat back up, and headed back to the other side. After the net was secured on both ends, the voice of reason finally spoke through Kroģis:

  — I think it’s time for a drink.

  We needed it. Kandžejs took out a carton of grape juice, poured half of it onto the ground and topped the carton off with moonshine:

  — We have our red wine, we practically have our fish — everything is just as I said it would be. The girls are probably already somewhere nearby.

  The sun was setting, and it looked really romantic through the wild undergrowth. Like the Anathema album cover for The Silent Enigma. The bonfire was blazing, the wind was good and even the girls didn’t seem so terrifying anymore.

  — We should talk about something, Kandžejs suggested.

  — You think?

  Kroģis wasn’t convinced. He wasn’t one for small talk.

  — What should we talk about?

  — Jānis, you’re the genius. Tell us something.

  — Like what?

  — How’re things with metal?

  Now that I could talk about. I took a drink for good measure and said:

  — Grishnackh is supposedly writing a new album while he’s in prison.

  Kandžejs even seemed a little interested:

  — Where is he?

  — Bergen, Norway.

  — Ah, how nice. That’s basically a hotel. Have him write a new album out here. He’d probably only write СЛОН on the wall, nothing more.

  The idea that an imprisoned metalhead would be dreaming about слон — elephants — suddenly seemed very logical to me:

  — But why СЛОН?

  — Смерть Легавым Oт Ножа, or Kill Narcs with Knives. He could also write ПОСТ. Прости, отец, судьба такая, or Forgive me, father, such is fate. Usually you get it tattooed across your knuckles the first time you’re locked up.

  — Unholy burned a bunch of Burzum and Mayhem CDs at one of their concerts once. You see, Unholy were so underground that the latter two seemed mainstream to them.

  — What do they even sing about? I can’t understand them.

  I condensed my thoughts:

  — It depends, really. Black metal bands sing about the Moon.

  — The moon?

  — Yup, the one shining brightly in the sky.

  — It would shine even more if, say, we had Diāna to pass around.

  — Yeah, yeah, yeah. They also sing about Satan, demons. Queen Inanna. About raging through red clouds and holocaust winds. But mostly about the moon, and ice. Sometimes about steel vaginas. Maze of Cako Torment even sing entirely in a language they invented.

  — Very interesting.

  — Death bands sing about philosophical things. A lot about death. About eating corpse. Doom bands sing about broken hearts. Suicide is a common topic, too.

  — Glo-glo-glo-glo-glorrr!

  Kroģis gargled his red wine, unknowingly singing what was a pretty decent guttural growl. Then he said:

  — I don’t get it, though. You’re a good guy. Don’t even want to kill fish.

  A good guy. What would Euronymous say about that?

  — You like all kinds of pretty things and birds. Why do you listen to songs about a bunch of cannibalistic twats?

  — I mean... They’re also really beautiful. Like Impaled Nazarene, it’s about those iron... It’s really nice.

  — Don’t know. I didn’t like it.

  I had made them listen to my music whenever I could pull Kandžejs away from his thug songs. And it was strange; they’d obviously heard the same thing I did. Their ears couldn’t be constructed that differently from mine. And their hearts were the same ones that liked to relax by a bonfire. What facts, events, mental experiences collect in one’s perception to turn a single phenomenon into several? When the impressionists started to paint their colourful scenes, critics laughed — did the artist’s model spend a week rotting away in a bog, why is her neck blue? Their eyes were all eyes, and even now people’s eyes are eyes, but now the impressionists are liked by moms and wallpaper manufacturers. Was the same thing going to happen to metal? No, it couldn’t. Remember Kurt; we have to protect our sorrow with wry faces and choked voices.

  Kandžejs joined our conversation about aesthetics:

  — Speaking of cannibals, there was one guy in prison who ate himself. None of this corpse eating, he was totally alive.

  And then he elbowed me.
r />   — Cut out a piece of your thigh, fry it up and — davai! Or else slice open your hand, trickle a half-litre of blood into a bowl, dip some bread into it and eat it like soup.

  That was really something. Something Carcass or Visceral Evisceration might sing about.

  — Why did he do it?

  — A lot of reasons. Because there’s nothing else to do. And to prove he had balls. Could you do that?

  — We don’t have bread.

  But Kandžejs called out:

  — Where are the chicks? I’m filled with poetry!

  He started to recite:

  On the mountain there is a hut

  by the name of ‘Boozer’.

  Alcoholic beasts

  around its tables in their seats.

  It was a long poem, animalistic through and through, full of various unexpected turns. All I remember is that at the end one of its protagonists ‘took out his cock and shot himself’.

  I recited a poem as well:

  Beyond the window a blue autumn eve,

  and wind stifling against the pane.

  Every matter of the heart,

  Drinks eternity like milk.

  Kroģis got up and went into the bushes to piss. Then he suddenly tripped over the night air and went tumbling into the bushes. Kandžejs hooted with joy:

  — Kroģis is already dancing! Let’s go, alright, party!

  And we got up too and started to jump around with Kroģis in the middle, who’d forgotten why he was up in the first place and why he’d fallen; he’d forgotten enough for him to dance like people had danced at the beginning of time, waving his gigantic hands overhead. Kandžejs did the tango, his entire body filling our dance floor, which for some reason felt more vertical than horizontal. We no longer took turns speaking, but spoke all at once, losing our train of thought. Kandžejs opened the second jug of moonshine and another bottle of juice; a lot of it spilled onto the ground, and we drank and danced until the grass all around us was trampled flat, and Kroģis kept getting up and falling down and then he shouted:

  — Get your hunger sticks out of here!

  He was tangled up in the fishing poles. Kandžejs hurried to save an important lure or something and stepped right onto the tent, and blue cigarette smoke poured out of it. It all looked very picturesque, except that I didn’t really see it because it was already dark.