Gert Groetrek en die fokken dose - Deel ses.
Die Duiwel.
In his dream she smiled at him until he became afraid. Then sweetly said, “Gertjie, your thigh is calling.” Gert’s thigh was back from the Dead, wrapped in a blistering hangover. His eyes struggled out of the dream and its panicked claustrophobics; stumbled into life. Gert punched his thigh, out of habit. It almost hurt.. In response, Gert almost smiled.
Then he saw it. Shaking his head slowly, in protest, he moved the obscuring cardboard to the side. It was the bread. Eight fucken slices. Gert scanned the park. Mumbling to himself. His park. It was time to move. “Fok. Fok-fok-fok-fok-fok.”
She was the reason Gert had left the others, five years before. Well, from our point of view. Gert’s sense of time had long reverted, with certain exceptions, to that of a four year old. Tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow. And yesterday. That was pretty much it. The rest was the landscape of moments. “Hi mister.”
Gert spat in the direction of the omen. Bundled up his stuff. “Mister, I have to go soon. I’m happy you’re ok.” Gert heard something. Turned around. Hob-wobble. Creak.
The smiling face of a black. A child. “Fokof man.” The kid frowned, still smiling. “I have to go mister. Bye.” Gert creaked off. Making his way. “Berge toe manne. Berge toe.”
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