Furor and disgrace of published titles

 

"PATRIOTIC EGGS"

"Why are you sittin’ here like a moron, Mircho?“ his mother stepped into the barn. She was a small stooped country woman about fifty, wearing a peasant dress on her skinny figure. “The cow would pop off and would bellow itself hoarse, and what is he doing – Keeping cool on the cart!!!”, she spoke with resentment but as she came closer to the man in the cart her voice softened and she felt genuine anxiety while examining his face and bent head.

“What’s the matter, son? What did this yokel Donyo tell you, er?“ Miroslav picked his letter up from the ground and began reading aloud – it was a standard text and he started reading in an even voice “... you, as an ex-horse groom from 16th Squadron ... are invited to a veteran reunion meeting ... in Sofia on June 14.“

The old woman wiped her hand in her apron and gently stroke her son’s hair. She asked a question with a mild rebuke in her voice. “What on Earth has happened, ya Mircho? You would go to Sofia to meet your old pals. You should feel happy about it, son, why have you grown so pale!”

“Yeah, yeah, I’ll go, won’t I? Give me the dinner, my stomach’s rumbling“, the young man answered his mother in a nervous voice still staring at the ground.

“His belly’s rumbling, yuck...?! The cow would burst its udder with milk and he wants to gnaw! You’ve gone nuts, sonny! You need a woman, a woman’s what you need. It’s her you should be telling your laying table orders! It seems you’ll die a bachelor!” – and her warm motherly feelings flew away as fast as... "

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“Kashka(wall)well”

“I presume you would be interested in the fact that today, before going to work, I went to the “Bulgaristar” diner and ate two portions of half-done veal tripe.

“Get up, Miss Oldman, - the inspector commanded and ripped off the skirt of the rising girl with one swift stroke of his hand. Then he took off her bikini, produced a diaper of the size of a little baby pillow out of a yellow package signed “Highly Sterile” and pushed it between her thighs.

“Sit down, Miss Oldman!”, he said and pointed at a wheel chair positioned behind her, which was pushed by one of the sergeants. “Car 057 to get to entrance B23! Quickly!”, the Special Operations Commander bawled out in the microphone of his mobile... ”

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"The Picture"

“Zhelinovskiy’s eyes – as red as wild, flying, Zanzibari tomatoes – looked jadedly at Zeze bitch, which had been “standing and sitting at the same time” for 7 hours and 28 minutes (this phrase can be regarded as an acme of language opulence of one of the Balkan languages), she had been sitting at the same place, where she was found by Clair’s team. The young woman beside him was asleep. He decided to do the same. He went to the bathroom automatically and automatically had a quick pee, at this moment he heard Willy-Willy’s voice: “Colonel, colonel, she disappeared!!!”

Sprinkling urine on his pants, Zhelinovskiy dashed to the room. The first thing he saw was Clair’s glazy stare, he turned round, caught a glimpse of the wry face of his a.p. (acting personality ), then he saw his belly, and the picture on the monitor began flickering chaotically until it disappeared without a trace... “

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"Modo"

“It is also reported about a kind of an island called Ebati-E-Bati in Kiribati! Here are your maps – And he hurled down a thick, shabby pasteboard folder in front of the startled Private Ham. “You must find out the bloody island and – “Aaah, aah " and he sipped again from his chief glass of milk.

“Aaaaah, new assignment, er..? – and it was just for a second that a bright beam managed to go through the black career of ex-Captain Lu Ham. The milky colonel, though, proceeded in the same vein:

“As you have been dealing with the Spanish trace, fuck off, and should you vanish without a sign, you fucking trace finder!” – And again the Senior police officer took to anger, thunder and lightning.

“You have to find this island on the map, and get in touch with our Kiribati colleagues, then send them a description of your Spanish woman and a query whether she has been noticed in Ebati-E-Kiribati by chance. Is it clear? ... “

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"Le Metteur en scène"
(Bulgarian title of the original saga – “The Director”)

“ ...It’s difficult for me to respond to your jocularity, Mr Volant! You’d better tell me whether you believe in premonitions and forebodings; can you discern symbolic messages sent towards your personality by friends and envious people.”

“I am not en-te-rest-ed in them at all, sorry I’ll use a joke again, I believe in no words beginning with “pre-“ and “fore-“ prefixes! I can sense obscene implications, but never admit it, because if I do, I would descend to the level of hypocrites, who are eager to compare their pitiful brains with me, the greatest symbolist in our family of wine makers!Ha–ha-ha!!!

We keep stumbling in our conversation today? Shall I call you some other day or what?

As you wish, Miss! I do not intend to make any commentaries about this book. It is so sincere and honest that I’m ashamed of having written such rubbish!!! I would have to wait in order to give rise to something mo-O-re interesting.

“Till when – eeen, een, een! Thrum, thrum, thrum! Bla-bla-bla!” I’ll use this quotation as an end to our citing meeting, Mr. Joker! ... ”

Fragment from a cultic interview with Pip Volant, made by Irene Windscreen, journalist and interpreter.

 

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"Ciao!"

“Do you need any sepulchral bushes, buddy?"- snapped at me Simon...

“The sheriff sent me to buy a bunch of bloomed dope for his young daughter’s sixteenth birthday”, my words were by way of saying “Mornin’, old buddy!”

Perhaps this dialogue is our first encounter with a kind of eccentric and sometimes cynical, but on the whole positively enthralling storyteller.

Namely, he is just a storyteller, not a writer or a philosopher because he is a side-standing, self-centered and apathetic spectator, often being a mocking voyeur of human roles in a theatre of different styles, various actors and numerous theatrical sceneries; and that’s why he thinks about life ‘as a ferocious and vulgar live-show’.

And now we have no choice but to hear some strange words “Chusse - chusse, laga muse...” – a threat, a blessing or an ominous spell, pronounced by a strange person standing near a high tree, on the edge of a precipice, sitting on the back of a mutant horse.

Chiao!

Just for now.

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