Whatever the Welsh Losser we have known and loved and gone missing in New Jersey had for The Ferret, Welsh Losser, his overbearing brother from Seattle, has it far, far worse
Welsh Losser, the taller, stronger, slightly better-looking, and smarter older brother of Welsh Losser, who’d escaped recently to The Garden State of New Jersey in the United States of America, seemingly having been forcefully intimidated out of his place in Kyiv by his brother from Seattle – although theories on this differ, and differ greatly – is taking a moment to kick his feet back in the PR office of Penmanship International, located in the prestigious Pechersk district of downtown Kyiv, where Welsh Losser, the inferior-in-every-way brother, had up until recently occupied the seat as a top executive.
“Well, it’s a good thing I’ve displaced Welsh in the position he’d so bragged about, myself being so much superior in every way and him being such a loser – nya-ha… Wonder how he’s getting on in good old New Jersey, to which he’d obviously escaped, for fear of me.”
Knock, knock, knock…
The door opens without Losser’s say-so. It’s Seth Sundance.
“Who are you and what are you doing here, disturbing my thoughts and any other processes I may or may not be presently engaged in?”
“Seth Sundance…”
“Oh, yeah… the loser former publisher of the Kyiv Poster, so this makes even less sense, because, why you of all people should come here and what the hell do you want?”
“You don’t belong here. You’ve disturbed the delicate balance of things and undermined the natural order. It’d be better if you left.”
“It’s none of your damn business, Sundance. Now get out!”
Seth Sundance leaves.
No sooner than Sundance leaves, without even knocking, a pasty scarecrow-faced loser in a soiled sleeveless undergarment stumbles in.
“And who are you?”
“Ich Oim Sweaty… Sweaty Tank T –”
“Yeah, yeah, I know – Sweaty Tank Top, former loser publisher of What’s Off magazine – once this city’s only long-standing third-rate weekly English-language show announcer and entertainment rag. So this is even better. Unlike Sundance, who at least sold the Poster to cut his losses, you lost What’s Off without selling it at all. What a fucking loser!”
“Aye – an’ ye canna stoy, na neither tarry nor remain, i’ dees wee fair shire, for wi’ th’ kettledrums o’ me warriar ‘eart a-beatin’ an’ me bagpipes a-roar –”
“Why don’t you shut the fuck up and get the hell out of here before I squeeze your cheesecloth neck and watch the curds curl out of your drunken face!”
Sweaty Tank Top leaves.
Both times cool and tough though he was, Welsh Losser is nevertheless a little shaken. He steps out into the middle of the office and falls on his knees.
“Dear God, this is me, Welsh Losser, and I ask that no one else invade the triumph of my peace. Grant me, O Lord, the answer to my prayer…”
Immediately, another figure walks in. It’s The Ferret.
“Heh-heh…”
Welsh Losser gulps large air. He opens his mouth in awe and wonders at the sight, exclaiming, “Thank you, O, Lord!”
Using his brother’s black book, he’d tried and tried to locate The Ferret, but had been unable to find him. And now, there he was, The Ferret, standing right in front of him.
At the moment Losser is just a little taller than The Ferret, as he’s still in prayer pose, on his knees.
“Heh,” says The Ferret, “you’re a coward and a bully.”
“No… no…”
“You’re an interloper, a usurper and a phony, an imposter and a fraud.”
“Oh, please don’t call me such names, little one.”
On his knees, Losser inches closer to The Ferret, who moves away in disgust and disdain.
“He had more guts than you could ever dream of! Heh. He passed through death and came out the other end as PR Man. And what about you? Heh. You don’t hold a candle to him. Heh-heh-heh-heh…”
“Please stop. I’ll do anything so you’re not angry with me. Anything…”
Within reach again, Losser puts his arms out toward The Ferret, who hops away, inwardly fuming with rage.
“Heh, I’m gonna fuck you up, heh, fuck you up.”
The Ferret turns toward the door.
“Oh, no, please don’t leave. Please…”
“I’m gonna fuck you up, I said, fuck you up good. Heh-heh-heh.”
The Ferret leaves.
The longing eyes of Welsh Losser – the stronger, smarter, better-looking older brother of Welsh Losser, who disappeared somewhere in New Jersey – follow.
Losser spends a great deal of time like this, time of which he completely loses track, staring out the door, but at least now, no one interrupts him. He tries and tries to picture The Ferret there again, hoping to make him materialize through the sheer force of his will – but everyone knows that kind of thing is nonsense. It’s truly amazing the lengths an otherwise rational man will go in his mind in the insanity of his desire. The things he will think, the things he will convince himself of, and if these fail, the things he will do.
It has turned dark.
He says: “What’s the use of it all? I don’t believe in You or anyone. Life is meaningless.”
Leaving the door of his brother’s former office open behind him, Welsh Losser hits the Kyiv streets, wandering aimlessly around in the biting cold.
Without knowing where he’s going, he somehow foots it down to the bohemian district of Podil, where there are a lot of small, 1,000-year-old churches.
With his hat still on, he ducks into one. The church women look at him hard and disapprovingly because of the hat, but decide not to say anything because they guess he’s crazy and hope he will soon make his way back out, as they always do.
It happens there is no one up toward the front of the church, with only a few people in the back section quietly saying prayers to icons and lighting candles.
Up near the altar, Losser sees a priest in his black robes, folding his vestments. Losser’s arm reaches around the priest. He clasps his big hand hard over the priest’s nose and mouth, until the priest is dead.
When the priest’s body falls limp into Losser’s chest, Losser drags it by the neck and head out a side door into the night, dumping it behind a wall.
Filed by Mr. Chuck “Nuthouse” Jorgensen, December 29, 2015