The Zombie Marxist Cookbook

How now, grey cows! It is not an embodiment of beauty we ask you to pay attention to this time, like a dead terrorist, or a Swedish statesman, but I’m repeating myself. The reason we have gathered around this ancient and insane pastime is not a dead pornographer or a healthy rat. Why are we here, then, you might ask. Why indeed? All we’re about to see is a common man, most common, alone in his room, dreaming of future conquests. See for yourselves, and then, judge.

TANNER  There is no future in Finland's dreaming, but for me, the sky is the limit. There are so many options, I'm damn near paralyzed. Since I left those poison pills, I feel like a superman. Not a man, a stick of dynamite! Calm down, easy does it. What do you wanna do? Search your soul, sonny, for the answer to that once-so-dreaded question. What? Are you afraid? Imagine yourself in a supermarket.

A poet, a philosopher, a king? All three in one, please. Is that possible? Of course it is, all you need is an iron will.

Still, I couldn't call myself a Christian, if I didn't claim some responsibility for my fellow man.

Brothers and Sisters! This country's going to Hell on an express bus, and the Left Alliance alone is to blame for that. There's something rotten in the state all right, the state of Norway. Why Norway? I'll have to return to that. Meanwhile, the turncoats of Lost Alliance are assembling at Tampere as we speak, stuffing shrimp sandwiches and coffee down their throat, and no doubt, later on, as the informal sessions begin, who knows what else. Up their nose, up their sleeve. Degenerates, that's what they are. Never seen a day of honest work, they haven't.

You can't satirize them, they are a satire in their own right. How did the best minds of LA choose Tampere, of all places, as the location for their party conference? The last stronghold of Just Finland to fall in 1918? They are sending a message, that's how. It is happening again, the poor are sent to the camps, and we're okay with it, that's the price of joining the major league, the government. Nowadays the camps are called suburbs. It sounds more civilized, somehow.

Let me tell you, though. Watch out! There will be another war, soon, a Revolution, and this time we won't rest until we're done. Capitalism will be crushed, at long, long last!

He picks up a thick book, opens it. He is looking for a marker or a pen.

The suburbs of Paris are leading the way. Freedom or Death! We are going to win.

The only thing he finds is a bottle of ketchup. He starts writing on the wall with ketchup, glancing at the book every now and then.

Or was it the suburbs of Madrid? Anyway. Patria o muerte: Fatherland or Death. Venceremos: We Shall Overcome. One day, the day after tomorrow. You have my word on it.

He stops to look at his artwork. He has written, Patria o mujer, but doesn't seem to mind.

Patria sounds fine, Fatherland doesn't; honors are due to Elizabeth Nietzsche and the German death squads who terrorized this country in 1918. Helsinki went berserk, as the rumor spread that the storm troopers were closing in. That was their intention, I guess. Propaganda bred hysteria. They got what they wanted, and then some. Now we are taking orders from the Krauts once again. It has to stop. Stop!

He bangs on the wall he has written on.

Shut the fuck up! SHUT UP! They've been blasting that poisonous black metal for two days now. All I hear is the bass, but I'm listening to it all the time: even in my sleep. An activity I haven't practiced in a while, incidentally.

Stop it. Something rotten. Every time a politician opens his mouth, out comes excuses for inaction. And it's always us. The blame is collective, the merit theirs alone.

Their expressions will change for sure, the second my book comes out. Although not dealing with politics directly, my oeuvre will work like a bomb brought to the parliament, which I would deliver personally, right now, if it weren't the middle of the night between Saturday and Sunday, if I'm not mistaken. I might switch on the laptop. Might get drift of the time and the place. Then again, CIA would pour their propaganda all over me, falsified bits and pieces. There's that possibility—can't believe anything that comes through there. The duality of hearsay is strained indeed. “Do not leave the town.” Fuck you, Pig!

He bangs his head on the floor.

Die.

He does it again.

This is how the Russians pray. They pray for the herd of pigs inside of them, pray for them to run off a cliff. Since the safety net has been torn, there's no catcher in the rye.

He shakes his head.

Amazingly enough, it works.

 He collapses in a heap on the floor. Blackout.

Who the hell are you?

FLOWER  Flower Shore.

TANNER  What?

FLOWER  Flower Shore, that’s my name. Parents were a couple of hippies.

TANNER  And so are you. Not a couple, a single, I presume. How did you get in?

FLOWER  Through the door. It was open, in case you didn’t notice.

TANNER  It is closed now.

FLOWER  Yes.

TANNER  Thank Jesus.

FLOWER  Thank me instead. It was I who closed the door. Jesus had nothing to do with it.

TANNER  What do you want?

FLOWER  I came to the rescue.

TANNER  Pardon?

FLOWER  You've hurt yourself.

TANNER  I have? Have I?

FLOWER  There's blood everywhere.

TANNER  Oh, that. It's not blood, it's ketchup.

FLOWER  Really? You've been eating? Anyway, there's a terrible vibe in here. May I open up a window?

TANNER  You may not.

FLOWER  Suit yourself. Rot away in your fumes.

Tanner starts rolling a cigarette.

Read your stuff.

TANNER  And?

FLOWER  You're one angry man. We could use a guy you.

TANNER  Who is we?

FLOWER  The friends of East Timor. 

TANNER  The friends of what?


[TO BE CONTINUED... HERE.]