Krakow Melt (12 page)

“You’re cute,” she said.

Geese gabbed and a mob of emus painted the fence with urine.

“Does Ninio live in a spaceship?” she asked, pointing straight ahead.

There it was. The Elephant House, swooping arches forming a three-storey dome, a pine and glass hill rising out of the earth. It was as opulent as a brand-new football stadium and as combustible as a helium balloon.

Grze
had whined in the
Rzeczpospolita
, “We were supposed to have a herd, but as Ninio prefers male friends over females, how will he produce offspring?”

He was being polite, of course. What he really meant, was, “Spending thirty-seven million
złotych
was supposed to guarantee the future of the species, not provide panoramic viewing for a depraved theatre of anal sex.”

Yes, the Elephant House was now sheltering the enemy.

It was crazy nice. There was a lake, a waterfall, and even a fake African village with restaurants and coffee shops made of thatched huts. The apex of the dome had a nave and transept, which made it look like a distended version of St Mary’s Basilica.

Hypothetically speaking, it would burn quite evenly.

Ninio was built like a war elephant, with sun-weathered skin impervious to a variety of spears and harpoons. Throughout the history of battle, punks like him were sent ahead of the troops to trample mercilessly through the lines of the “other,” wielding unbreakable tusks to gore and disembowel with, lodged in 7,000 kilos of unmovable meat.

It could be a personals ad, if it weren’t so intimidating.

In case you haven’t noticed, I spend hours reading up on all kinds of shit.

Dorota dangled her milky hand through the bars of the viewing gallery. It looked like a white candy cane with all the red sucked off, save for the pomegranate she was holding.

Ninio saw it and trundled over. It was a combo too delicious for a warrior to resist. Dorota’s arm was as bad as gone.

In the Battle of Gaugamela, Alexander the Great sent a phalanx of fifteen war elephants ahead of him and his army. The Persian troops trembled so beautifully that Alexander later made a special sacrifice to the god of fear during his victory dinner.

Dorota took a bite of the apple and let the juice trickle down her finger.

Ninio broke into a gait.

Jazzberry Jam means, “Stamping you to death will be hot as fuck.”

In a country where the biggest anti-gay argument—parroted by the masses—is that “homosexuality doesn’t occur in nature,” Ninio is the equivalent of an atom bomb. Gay activists wait day and night with handycams to catch him boffing other males, but the ground crew rigorously keeps them separated.
That
kind of footage is capable of destroying the country’s moral foundation, whatever that means.

Dentition is spectacular: twenty-four molars out of twenty-eight teeth, replaced five times over a lifespan. Will grind your bones into a fine dust before swallowing.

Ninio reached us, plopped down on his big behind, and sniffed Dorota’s hand with a curious trunk, brushing her wrists with bristly hairs. He grappled the pomegranate gingerly and let go, tried it again, and backed off. Only at Dorota’s coaxing did he finally take the fruit, and then he sat there playing with it like a ball.

Some soldier.

This kid was not going to eviscerate anyone, nor was he likely to cock-whip any of his buddies in the near future.

“What do you think?” she said.

“
Il est tellement mignon
,” I said. “It’s a shame that pine burns so quickly, because it’s going to give him such a fright.”

PLATINUM

Dear girlfriend (that is, if you don’t mind),

I am now writing to you from the
Smocza Jama,
the Dragon’s Den under Wawel Hill. Sightseers keep asking me for assistance, and I suspect it’s because of my overalls: they think I work here. Why can’t I successfully co-opt this blue-collar fashion item? You have yet to see me launch a serious attack on dressing norms, that’s why. I’ll update you when I have news on this front.

Years of heavily perfumed tourists have flushed out the dank of ages, but I can still feel the mustiness crawl over my skin. The stalactites have been broken clean off the ceiling, yet I can sense where their pointy tips would be. Too much light. Philistines and their halogens.

There’s no question:
the Smok Wawelski lived here.
Dorota, this is the only fairy tale I believe in, and I’ve collected scientific evidence to back it up.

The tour guide is yapping about the history of this cave, but as you can understand, I’m not listening. We subscribe to the alternate histories, which are far more fascinating (not to mention accurate).

Allow me to continue
The Legend of the Smok Wawelski
. I’m sorry if my retelling lacks imagination, but the Soviets were much better in that department.

Chapter 2

No longer was the great dragon satisfied with young virgin girls slathered in apple butter. Through a series of clandestine communications, he demanded to have the Princess—the King’s daughter—as his next meal. The Smok threatened that if the King declined this wish, he would burn Kraków down in a single exhalation of fire.

That day, the King sent prince after knight after hero to kill the dragon, but they were either cremated, or the dragon sent them back with the words ROYAL HYMEN, PLEASE carved neatly into their chests with a claw. What could the King do?

[Illustration of the
Smocza Jama
. This one is drawn in fine HB pencil, not in crayon like the last image. At the edges, the recesses of the cave are shaded with cross-hatching, quadrants of lines that get closer and closer until they blur into underworld black. In the middle, the Smok is about to swallow the reader, with tonsils the size of
pyzy
coming right at ya.]

Real-world update. I just licked the cave wall. It’s definitely limestone.

A thermal analysis performed at Kraków’s Institute of Inorganic Chemistry and Technology has revealed that limestone and platinum, when found together, can fuse as a result of sulphation.

Kryptozoologists point out that dragons could’ve easily created fire by grinding platinum in their back molars while belching methane. Kaboom. It’s not so far-fetched; cows flame-fart over cooking fires all the time.

It’s the fire tetrahedron—which sustains all life on earth—manifested through the mouth (and sometimes ass) of beasts. Can this be a lie?

Lick that. (Not you, girlfriend, and not that.)

Someone just asked me for a flashlight, and I nearly strangled them. Of course, you don’t believe me. We both know I wouldn’t hurt a
lecie
.

Chapter 3

Just when the King had lost all hope and was dressing his daughter for destruction, a ten-year-old boy named Dratewka appeared. He presented a
wizytówka
that read “Shoemaker and Amateur Dragon-Slayer, Esq.” He promised the King that he would be able to kill the Smok and save the Princess. The desperate King decided to give the runt a try.

Dratewka, wizard with a needle and thread that he was, took the skin of a dead sheep and stuffed it with sulphur, curry, chillies, and peppercorns. He gave krypto-sheep a set of maple legs and propped it up in front of the
Smocza
Jama
. (Dorota, I am now standing in the very spot where he placed it.)

The Smok was expecting the Princess, but couldn’t resist this plump appetizer. He swallowed the sheep whole. Instantly, his belly rioted against such strong spice, and he was overtaken by thirst. The dragon ran to Kraków’s Wisła

River and took huge gulps of water. Still, nothing would quell the burn, so he drank and drank until the river was empty. Finally, with the entire Wisła in him, his stomach popped like a balloon and he died instantly. The elated King gave the prepubescent Dratewka his daughter’s hand in marriage.

Now, hold on. I’m a firm believer in the
Legend
, Dorota, but there’s no way I’m buying that last bit. The water would’ve shot out of the Smok’s ass, for sure.

I remain unconvinced of his death.

Faithfully yours,

Radeki

MINGUS DYNGUS

TV Polska 2
jingle

11:55 am – Special Interest News Piece

“We’re back, and now we join our Kraków correspondent Augustyna Dobrowolski, who reports on a bizarre Easter phenomenon in the Stare Miasto. Augustyna, can you tell us what’s happening?”

“Thanks, Piotr. As our viewers well know, Easter Monday is a day for raincoats, but
not
because of the weather. To celebrate Prince Mieszko’s baptism on this day in 966, men splash women with water across the country, and almost everyone gets in on the fun.”

“A time-honoured tradition.”

“Yes, Piotr, and according to the legend, women who are splashed will marry within the
year
. Some of them, as we know, go
looking
for modern-day Prince Charmings armed with water pistols.”

“And some run
away
from them, ha, ha. Augustyna, what’s different about
mingus Dyngus this year?”

“Well, witnesses earlier told me about two individuals armed with super-soaker guns—I want our viewers to picture what are almost mini-cannons that can hold litres of water—and surprisingly, they’re spraying the
men
.”

“Do you have any details on the shooters?”

“Yes, one of them is a woman and the other, if you believe it, is a man
dressed
as a woman, in a blonde wig, dress, and high heels.”

“Oh, that’s not surprising, Augustyna, considering what is scheduled to take place in downtown Kraków next Sunday. Gay protestors are planning a
so-called
March of Tolerance, despite not having a permit to do so. Police are concerned that these agitators may incite violence.”

“Piotr, I’m told that residents and shopkeepers in the area are
quite
concerned for their safety.”

“Yes, indeed. Now, Augustyna, I understand there’s a twist to this story of the cross-dressing
bandits
. Can you tell our viewers what this is?”

“It’s such a bizarre story. We have reports that after squirting unsuspecting men with water, these Easter vigilantes have been
jumping
over objects, not running, but literally
leapfrogging
over anything that gets in their way.”