13

They are the personification of fleetfoot life. The girls too. Not for nothing are they friends. Friends who will slander each other after they've written their doctorates and are competing for the top jobs. While all about them wretched Life, feeble children with ruined teeth and vertebrate and vertebrae animals they nurture for the slaughter, blink at the downhill racers and can only dream of Olympic golds themselves. Austria, you export factor, you'd be better off exporting yourself, entire! Send the whole package to the world of sport! We read the paper, when we poor creatures can take a chance for once too. Don't moan, do something! This village isn't spread out before you in the meadows just so that you can step in the dung heap.

Michael laughs loudest of all. After all, he's taken on the most of all. He may take on this woman on the downhill slope of her life a second time, or there again he may not. Yelping with curiosity like a child, he hauls out his droopy rod. Just slipped out, didn't it? The girls, who look so superficial in magazines that make them into pictures, screen off the couple that blew in from the cold, they laugh and drink and tangle together into a tight knot. In the snow there's a two-litre wine bottle and a flask of cognac. No matter what they get up to, they're attached to the mountains, and will stand there together, rooted to the spot, till an avalanche hits them. Their hopes won't be dashed. Their sex is not yet in ferment. You can drink them warm, straight from the cow. No matter. Amid the squawk of their inner voices, Gerti and Michael slip into a plantation of spruces. They are a kind of island in the grove. And there we have it. Michael demonstrates, that his member is not yet properly erect, and Gerti's vagina is clearly visible in the silk, as if she were hoping she could still make it somewhere in a boat with that big a hole. Lord, what a noise the people over there on the slope are making, as if they were all one single loud yell. We can't hear any of the stupid foolery of Gerti's clitoris, which she'd like to have rubbed. All this pack of pricks have probably just been unpeeled from their plastic skins by Mother Nature! The universally valid organ is displayed to Gerti, her hands are wrenched away from her face and sex. Both are filled to bursting with angry songs, I see. The lads hold her living hands together above her head. In that position, nobody could wave to her family via the TV screen. The woman stretches out to Michael. Her face gradually crumples, as those standing about her notice. And yet it speaks of love. There are songs that say love is the noblest of our celebrations and pledges. The silk dress is shoved up to the waist and the panties, which she was perfectly satisfied with, are shoved down. And now well tickle the darkness till it collapses upon us with a crash. Friends have been sent round to our place to help. To make sure the labia the woman has about her person are forced apart first. To rummage in the depths, stirring things up in the ant-hill. It's as busy as a station toilet at night when the winos are shooting the breeze, stashing and slashing because they're tanked up to the eyeballs again. So now these footcloths, these doormats, all four of them ours, are parted. Making Gerti howl. So they generously fold her shut again like a brochure. Negligently. But let's just poke a finger in and then snuffle at it before the wayfarer disappears down the drain. We didn't realize how far the shadows extend into this living creature.

Through this tubular entry here, to be exact, which yet awaits proper discovery, yes, right here behind the door of shame, the hairs of which are being tugged and tucked and plucked. Pop music grants the listeners' requests, Gerti's legs are straddled as wide as possible and the Walkman is held to her ear. Now she has to lie just like that. Her cunt is plucked at regardless, it's juicy, her husband normally goes in and out of her with rapid strides. He comes from afar off, we can hear him clearly. It's unbelievable how you can stretch and flex the labia to change their shape, as if that were what fate intended for them. For instance, you can pout them into a pointed pouch. And from the higher ground the hills are bowing down from Gerti's dress. That hurts, doesn't that occur to anyone? Right, and now laugh a bit, and pinch, and thump, that's it. These kids get about in the world, they like doing so and they talk about what they do. Any permanence in the hairdresser's beautifying treatment is already- no longer apparent. Behind these mountains, Gerti has collapsed, a butt of ridicule like her entire sex, who switch on the electrical domestic appliances but have no say where their own bodies are concerned. Just as grass subsides humbly beneath the cutting blade. This flesh parts as in a game, and then it rests, and in sleep is rewarded still more: this is truest of the young girls, when they laugh their own teeth tear their faces open. Their hair doesn't need special preparation yet, it can be enjoyed the way it comes. They are in love with someone or other. Just as the eagle hatches its young far far up, practically in nothingness – having first had to shlepp the eggs the whole way up. And those who are older detest kids. And a pair of trousers is eased down a little way.

Well now, let's not go so far, slaves ourselves, as forcefully to take what is ours from Gerti. Seeing that the wind and this whole loving band have immoderately made an immodestly blown up cloak of her. They totter about aimlessly, there's not much to it. Now I don't know if Michael really does have to show that his mother and particularly his father endowed him handsomely as far as his member goes. He struts his stuff, but it doesn't quite rise to the occasion, his freshly-squeezed sex with ice cubes floating in it. He brandishes it in front of the woman. Did you hear thunder just now? So why not get out of the way and let me have a look at the video people wrathfully plumping up their genitals? Over there on the substitute bench is where you belong, where no one can see your scrawny arse and sagging bitch dugs as you labour away, blowing on the glow. Rub in the creams to rub out the distinctions between yourself and decent Grade A human beings. Go and pour forth your woes to the Gentleman one storey higher, but don't wake the dead! Apart from a swift jet, nothing comes from Michael's sting, people are drawn to him from over the fields. The mountains overhang the lake, the hands row alone. These girls stand and watch, the voice ceases to pour from their cracks, they claw at their own curls, their own wily sex that can tempt, they are ready and willing to wrap any man in it who might chance by and whom they have learnt to assess by his haircut, his clothing and his vehicle.

Michael's whole small-page ad is plugging loud specialist products. On TV the senses smoulder in little heaps. They are intended for consumption by our youngsters who sport in the snow or in the water and barely need to take a breath. Yes, this young man really is a fine rascal. Poor Gerti. Tested so wrathfully in the school of life. Mutely they look at each other. Consider each other food. The mountains are motionless, so why take the car to shove them apart? To be merry takes little. Isn't it enough for you to go playing by the river banks and the saving banks and buy yourself a place in the gilt-edged network of the sports trade?

One more word about these girls. They have just arrived (I almost said: just come) within themselves: luscious bushes of pubic hair grow like lush rhododendrons on their gentle slopes, a breeze of health comes off them, they who dwell so pleasantly in themselves and are watched through the windows of magazines. Now they lean over the woman. Heavens, they're drunk already too! At the drop of a hat they'll be off. Where were they sent from? And what do they talk to their divine little diaries about? Where do we want to be – in the curls in their laps, perhaps? Thus the mountains, where the trees ruffle, see us. Today these people will be moving on to a birthday party, where they will look at the other little well-built guests. Like children, blown in and blow-dried, they will dangle from the belts of our envious looks, ladies – ladies, you whose charms are wearing thin, you who submit to the charms of TV soaps. We can't contain the water within us once it's boiling and wants to overflow. Let's be honest, we resent their faces of many colours, while age is fading our own to the one standard likeness, no matter what costly waters we cannily wash in. So why don't you take a rest as well, on your narrow bank! Each to his own, my little dears! But these aren't the limits of our company, purely a recommended retail price, if you please.