Stories From The Head

The Rhythm Of The Babska “Gadonk, gadonk, gadonk”. The babska ran endlessly through the night. Pissen had worked at the factory for several years, and he’d listened to the babska hammering away for countless hours. “Gadonk, gadonk, gadonk”. Pissen’s job was to make sure that the babska was constantly loaded with mønja-oil, and that all homosexuals stood clear of it when it started. The first part of the job was damn difficult, seeing as bringing mønja-oil into the factory was prohibited. The second part was much easier. Homosexuals were, in Pissen’s experience, a good willed people, eager to spread happiness all around. But the mønja-oil, that was hard. Pissen usually smuggled it into the factory by using a hollow dwarf. No one took notice of dwarves anyway, so the babska was constantly well equipped with mønja-oil. The management turned a blind eye to Pissen’s activities as long as he arrived at work at exactly 04.48 a.m., and left again the next day at 03.56 a.m. In his spare time, Pissen slept, and wrote letters to his pen pal Jimpa, whose interests included music, friends, hang-gliding, and violence towards maggots. Pissen also went to faraway places looking for mønja-oil. One day, at 07.38 a.m., Pissen started thinking about his job. He loved it, there was no doubt about that, but something wasn’t right. “Can I go now”, the mønja-oil-smuggling dwarf suddenly asked. “No” Pissen replied. “You stay here and watch the babska. I need to go see somebody about something. Something important”. “Gadonk, gadonk, gadonk”. The babska hammered away. Pissen took the escalator to the eleventh floor. He arrived at exactly 07.44 a.m. He swiftly located the door marked “Do Not Enter”, and did just that. After standing outside for about two hours (it was now 09.52 a.m.), he entered the office behind the door marked “Do Not Enter”. It was empty. A voice sounded from behind the southern wall. “WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING HERE?” Pissen immediately took control of the situation. “...eh...well...you see...I want...to see the manager...” The wall started cracking up. Pissen threw himself behind a small sewing-needle as the wall crumbled, and a sinister shape appeared. It was a man. A tall muscular man, who flexed his muscles tirelessly. Blood ran from his eyes. “I...AM...THE MANAGER!” he roared. Pissen ducked out from behind the comforting sewing-needle. “Oh...nice to finally meet you. he said. “I wish to ask you a question. What exactly do we produce at this factory?” The manager looked at him. Or, to put it more accurately, he looked at Pissen’s crotch. “That’s none of your business”. Pissen stepped closer to the manager. “Well, I really want to know. Or I might have to take steps. Drastic steps...” The manager vomited, turned to Pissen, and said in a frighteningly low voice: “Pissen, you little shit. You just watch it. We know about the mønja-oil”. Pissen backed away. This was not part of the plan. “But...it’s my job... And I do it really well”. The manager smiled. “Oh?” he said, removing a small panel from the wall. “Look at this then...” Pissen looked at the screen which appeared behind the panel. His blood froze. Right there, beside his beloved babska, sat a homosexual in a wicker-chair, reading a fashion magazine. The manager left the office, and several surgeons entered. “Gadonk, gadonk, gadonk”. The babska grinded away. “Damn!” thought Pissen. “Well, I guess I deserved it”. The operation ended at 13.22 p.m. It was successful...

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