Holiday Inn Büchner

Act 

II

CARL BILDT is back.

Let's move on. Let's move to the Serbian Republic of Krajina, which hasn't collapsed, just moved geographically, in the opposite direction than the Soviet Union did. 

I've been watching the tapes. What disturbs me the most is the crickets. Or cicadas, whatever they are. You can't see them, you just hear them. The day begins to dawn, the shells keep on raining, and the crickets never miss a beat during the battering of the town. You could make a tourist attraction out of it. Come to Croatia. Here the atmosphere is invincible. Nothing can break us. The Serbs tried. They took Knin. We waited a couple of years, then took it back. Here, want to see? The crickets sang the glory of our return. Of our offense. Which was a defense, if you remember any of your history. At least you remember the article in Helsingin Sanomat. Like in the good old days, when world was all red and gold, and United States was the boogeyman. Always. Ante Gotovina, Operation Storm. Ring a bell, anybody?

[Read this, then cut your wrists.]

I knew it. The only answer coming from the cicadas. It's a ghost town. Everyone is gone.

We need a volunteer. Somebody, anybody who would like to participate in a reconstruction of a work of art. All you have to do is lie in a bathtub.

[Don't cut your wrists. Read this instead.]

Why? When it comes to Art, you don't ask why. You shut up, and do as you're told! You become friends with failure. Failure is the essence of art. You embrace the abyss, or else you'll always try to stay away from it. You become mediocre. You become nothing.

We're going to do a rendition of a famous play here. Julius Caesar by Shakespeare, maybe? No, I don't think there's a bathtub there.

Danton's Death by my boy Georg Büchner? Nobody has ever written anything quite as insane as he did. He predicted everything 120 years in advance! Still, no bathtub there either, as far as I recall.

But we're getting close. I think the fellow I'm looking for is mentioned in Danton, once. His name is Milan.

We are living in the Middle Ages, 3-D. All you need is rewind. Not erase. I'm warning you, do not erase! Heed this advice as if your life depended on it. It does.

Here's the Dentist:

[He starts applauding while the video is still running.]

Ha fucking ha. As in horseshit. A rat. Feeding on horseshit, that's what you are, Babić! You're a rat. You started this craze of copping a plea and ratting your brothers out, and sooner or later, just wait and watch, the whole world is taking part in a joint criminal enterprise, JCE in the Hague lingo, after your ass. You poor thing! Well, of course they are. After what you done to them. Of course they are, I am. How many years off of your sentence did that pretty little speech take? Huh? No answer. Surprise, surprise! And that's the worst part. You're dead, you chickenshit, and no one can come after you and have the pleasure of ripping your balls off and feeding them to you, you spineless dickless skunk, you.

The whole world is a criminal enterprise, if you want to look at it that way. A conspiracy against those who aren't as clever, as cunning or as sexually attractive as you. And we're in it together. Yes, lock us all up! Babić is the only one left to roam freely. Yeah, because he's dead. Hung himself from his leather belt in Scheveningen, the detention center in the Hague, while he was supposed to give testimony against another one of his old buddies, Milan Martić. Oh, no. I did nothing. It was the Martićevci. I didn't know what was going on. You cunt!

Covering up for someone’s crimes makes you an accomplice in said crimes. Right? You become a member of a Joint Criminal Enterprise. The favourite term of Miss Carla of the International Dog and Pony Show in the Hague: the joint criminal enterprise.

Which brings us to Syria. Let’s read the papers. That’s the latest craze in the theater where I come from. These days, all they do is read the paper on the stage. It becomes cheaper, I guess.

He takes the Kindle device from his briefcase again.

There’s no place like the Silicon Valley. Which reminds me, I don’t read the Swedish papers any more. I don’t need to. If I must find out what’s happening at home, what my fellow countrymen are thinking, I just check out the editorial in The Nation.

[Cont'd as Zombie Marxist Checklist.]

Wrong island, Daddy-o!
Hamsun lived here.

On the boat to the first island,
I had tried to work. Bollocks.



There's a text missing
HERE:
about Hamsun, dogs, and women.
Let's blame
the Russians,
once again.

Yes.




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