I know Russian girls. They are disgusting sluts. All of them join online marriage sites to meet foreign men to leave their stupid piece of shit country called Russia. Will you do the same?
It is nighttime. The air is damp and thick and Hannibel’s McHairynutts’ appartment smells of decay. Many things have died here. Hopes, dreams, a conscience, self-respect and, ultimately, every last bit of human decency. Have you, reader, ever been to an abandoned graveyard? Well, it is a sunlit park of roses compared to Hannibel’s dark, smelly appartment. We, once again, embark on an adventure with our troubled, extravagant hero Hannibel McHairynutts.
Hannibel lifts himself out of his improvised bed that consists of a sole mattress filled with holes and a stained pillow that vaguely resembles a sandy rock. He shuffles to the bathroom scratching his itching skull with his dirty nails. He really needed that shower. He tries to light the light in his bathroom but he didn’t pay his electricity bills so the dark embraces him. He sits down on his dirty toilet seat and contemplates life. What is he doing? He feels like he’s stuck between two worlds. His minds wanders off to the petite Russian girl who works in the pub where he often drowns his sorrows. He’s never seen her not-working. She’s always busy and arrogantly ignores him every time he tries to make conversation. Sometimes he can be found sitting at that pub hours after hours watching her like a hyena watches her prey, drooling from his niffy mouth. And yet she never even gives him a second glance after she brusquely sets down his beer in front of him every time. He hates her. She’s a bitch. All Russian girls are. They fail to recognize the genius, the man in him. They are worthless. He often spends his time searching through his favourite porn site looking for videos with Russian girls. His obsession and greed drive him mad. But there’s nothing he can do with his toothless rotting mouth and slanting eyes, his foul body odour and bitten, dirty nails, his shabby, beer stained clothes and pube-like hair. He shivers in disgust. Alright, he’s no Romeo, but he’s really not that bad, is he? He lifts his ass from the toilet seat and flushes down. The toilet makes miserable whistling noises and halts all activity. It’s broken and it won’t flush. He exclaims in irritation and kicks the porcelain pot with his left foot. He shouldn’t have done that, he thinks, as he exclaims even louder in pain. He might just have broken his toe. Shit.
He goes back to his barren, dirty bedroom. The wooden floor, once so clear and shiny, is now the colour of the excrements of a dog with diarrhea. Bugs here and there crawl over the cracks in the floor and a dozen or so spiders are spinning their webs in the dark corners. Hannibel sits himself down on his bed and opens his fuming laptop. He, once again, types tumblr.com in the search bar and opens the blog that he hates with every inch of his miserable being. The day before he sat for hours, thinking about the most horrible insults he could possibly send to that blogger, his brain worked overtime and he had to take an ibuprofen against the horrible headache he got from thinking so much. He finally had the courage to go and check whether or not she had already answered to his masterly composed question. And she has. He reads the text but he has trouble understanding certain words. Bitch, he thinks, trying to subdue me with her fancy words and stupid attitude. In an energetic outburst he goes searching his apartment for a dictionary. He’s sure he has one. His mother once gave it to him in the failed attempt to try to persuade him to finish high school. He laughed in her face and thrusted his dirty laundry in her pale, skinny hands. She left with her head bowed. His mother annoyed the hell out of him, but at least she did his laundry. He, a 40 year old man, still can’t figure out how a washing machine works. So it’s good to have some help.
He finally pulls out the English dictionary out of a pile of broken videogame cases. He goes back to his computer and looks up the words he doesn’t understand. 2 hours later he has finished reading the text and tears of fury and venom run down his pustular face. HOW DARE SHE, he screams in his thick, high-pitched voice. He cries like a little baby and stomps his feet like an out of control toddler. The sight of it is nauseating.
He calms down after a while because he has to think about his next step. If he could play chess, he’d understand that he has lost badly. Checkmate.
He decides, after long reflection, to send another message. But this time, it has to be perfect. It has to be evil, he has to show her his true villainy mastermind. He feels the anger flow through his veins, his heart bumping with an electric dementia. He types the words “I know Russian girls. They are disgusting sluts. All of them join online marriage sites to meet foreign men to leave their stupid piece of shit country called Russia. Will you do the same?” and shrieks in pride and filthy enjoyment. This is perfect. He suddenly recalls the Fox News educational documentary that he watched when he was a little, fat, mouse-toothed brat. It was about mail order brides. He watched it with his pink, drooling mouth open, and couldn’t take his eyes off the dusty old tv screen. He was a dirty little kid and a slowly but surely developing psychopath. He thinks back to the website he visited full of gorgeous goddesses that were just a paycheck away. Only, he’ll never be able to afford them. Almost crying of desperation, he slams his meaty, sweaty fist against the shaky wall and hits send. In his accelerating anger, he throws his old Acer computer towards the opposite wall, clearly not thinking about the possible consequences. He grunts in indignation and rage. The world has always been so unfair to him. He has never even had sex…