A dream (Naughty Err).
It was the opening night of Naughty Err’s “aFLOAT” exhibition and the gallery was drenched in fashion-conscious youth and detached breasts. Wobbly miserable blobs of fat travelled through the air, their bloated nipples twitching fervently. The curator’s piece stood aloof in the centre. It was a couple of of broken glass fragments from the bus stop and the audience tried to keep distance from its sharp corners. This way the place felt even more crowded than it actually was. “That’s my commentary on the isolation of our society,” the curator explained. “We tend to stick together in sight of danger, so there you have it. Certainly encourages conversation, don’t you agree?” I didn’t answer and slid between her large hips and a painting of a chinese doll covered in sperm. The far West corner was alive with booming metallic voice of Naughty Err.
The artist was wearing a tall cervical collar and smelled of anesthetic and chocolate. A group of 12-year old girls surrounded him, caressing the pack of breasts and moaning incomprehensibly. “Ah, you’re the one who wanted an autograph!” he said with forced indifference. “It was awfully kind of you to buy the Big Boob, you must be quite rich.”
I’d told him that I had no intentions of buying his floating breasts. The girls around stopped sucking on the nipples and sneered at me indulgently, all six of them. “I suppose you’d better come with us to the afterparty,” he said emerging from the cluster of ladybags and reached for my chin. He paused for a moment and laughed wildly in my face. The revolting stench erupting from his throat knocked me to the floor. I could hear their voices merge gradually into a horrid noise that reverberated mercilessly in total darkness.
Outside Err hailed a taxi and ordered us to get in. He was holding an enormous breast which must’ve been the Big Boob. Several smaller bosoms escaped the smothering closet of the gallery and drifted into the cold winter air with erect red nipples. I implored the group to let me stay outside for a while and catch my breath, but a couple of children dragged me to the taxi and pushed me inside, landing unreserved kicks on my buttocks.
Naughty Err sprawled his body across the back seat with the girls massaging his long bony fingers obsequiously. A little pocket of his collar popped open and dozens of grotesquely shrunk heads emerged from it with shrill cries of terror. They gasped for air and each died a slow and painful death. The girls chomped on fallen dead flesh and smothered themselves in unctuous red liquid.
As the last tiny head crept from Err’s neck, he dropped his head backwards with unnerving ease and pushed his fingers deep into the carotid artery. In a few seconds he fished out a metal fork and smiled with apparent satisfaction. “This fork,” he said as his head writhed itself back, “will protect us. As long as it vibrates.”
The taxi stopped outside the police station and once again I was pushed to follow Err, who stumbled feverishly towards the entrance, fork clenched in hand. “He’s often like that after a few recreational surgeries,” one of the girls said.
Ignoring the enormous line, Err walked straight to the register waving the fork and laughing madly. “This is all your fault, you know,” another girl told me. “He’s going to confess now and he’ll be put in jail. Endless rape follows. You’d love that, wouldn’t you.” She didn’t wait for a reply and pushed me towards the register. I tried to tell Err not to give himself in and that I’d pay for his Big Boob. He listened carefully, then pointed his long ugly finger at the fork.
...
“Very well then, you’ll be in for 46 years, limited access to violins and sunsets. Any questions.” I looked up at the lady who continued to describe me the details of my immediate imprisonment. “But I’m not the criminal, it’s the painter, I just came with...” Err was gone. I looked to the right and saw him standing by the door with a 6-year old girl and a pack of swollen breasts. He smiled at me placidly and merged with the invisible Baltic foliage.