Failed fiction

Failed fiction

based on some "written cries" on Kreuzberg’s advertising pillars

Text and Picture by Amelie Kuttner

You see me sitting here on Kottbusser Damm, in front of No 23, the
locked, dog-pissy front door behind me. It’s fucking early in the
morning, the streets are still shady, calm and mine. I stare
suspiciously at the roofs across the street. Because, you know, as soon
as the first rays of sunlight cross the ridges of the roofs, it’ll be
just horrible. Noise and crowds and dirty stinking pigs will take over
my streets. Fucking old Kreuzberg will be alive again. Ah! It hurts!
Sunshine! The sunbeams crossed the roof! Another fucking day in fucking
old Kreuzberg begins. Ascension, in Germany called Father’s day, Men’s
day. Nobody goes to work, nothing but drunks hanging around in the
streets, trying as hard as they can to pick up as many bitches as
possible. I squeeze my eyes with disgust. I can’t bear it. Why is it
that Ascension isn’t called Descension – to Hell ? Kreuzberg is hell. I
can’t bear it anymore. Basta! I’ll show you your damned ass, Kreuzberg,
your dark underside! Advertising pillar by advertising pillar you’ll
get into it – as they often say. On every billboard you’ll see the shit
that is going on in idyllic old Kreuzberg. I am the living example.
Listen, for just once in your life, to the slogans I’ve so carefully
prepared for you, just this one time, please!
But in the world of noise nobody listens to written cries. Kreuzberg is
death and dumb. Kreuzberg = Hell.

I’ll write this in very big letters on the first pillar. So that
you can read it from over there on the other side of the street, while
you sit drinking your first latte macchiato at the posh Italian cafe,
extremely fucking expensive, drinking your second latte macchiato,
having an organic meal, talking about good old revolutionary times. Et
mes derniers copains boches voulaient… And me? Nobody wants to speak
with me. I am the beggar. I am a fucking beggar. Why is it that the son
has to go begging now? Because in Kreuzberg there aren’t any human
beings anymore, just pigs and spies, leftist Aryan pigs. I am an
"Untermensch", not even worth a penny. So tell me please: Where is the
nearest left-wing gas chamber?

You are shocked? Sitting in the fucking posh Italian cafe, having your
third latte macchiato, reading this fucking slogan? Kreuzberg = Hell.
Haha, are you irritated? I take some extra big letters: Will he get one
of these gawkers and goggle-eyed cows to put down ten pennies
voluntarily? So that the entertainer can pick them up? Will he get one
of them to do that? Perhaps one of these women wearing red? Sitting
over there? When will the first female German sponsor arrive? Will she
come? Just in case, there is the number of my bank account: 353078-101,
Postbank.

Hey! There is a potential female sponsor coming! I’m excited: it’s a
nice bitch. She reads my texts, looks at me. I’m writing more
ambitiously: Aren’t you becoming aware that what is written here is
meant for you, pig? She is still reading, smiling. When Dad lit the
fire, he was smiling, too. My Dad was the famous APO-Member Fritz
Teufel. When the devil’s son painted all the pillars, the German women
smiled. I turn around: she’s gone! That fucking goggle-eyed cow has
gone without giving me a penny! Why is it that the Ascension isn’t
called Descension to Hell? Why the hell’s she gone? I decided to write
on the next pillar: Father’s Day 2001: Now we’ll be freer than ever.
Nobody depends on pig-girls anymore. The German Aryan girls (of my
generation) are like deep brown cow-dung, goggling, spoggling, always
longing for some "Fuehrer". That’s because of the He-ducation.

Pretty bitch, you’ve missed the chance to really "reach" me! A few days
ago a woman called me and said, that it’s quite hard to "reach" me.
Strange. You could have had the chance to get to know the devil’s son
in person, while painting advertising pillars. You know, it was me, who
was the first to be arrested during the squatters’ riots in December
1980. They put me in handcuffs on the Fraenkel-Ufer-Street. Some idiots
from Western Germany probably heard that a house is empty. I helped
them carry their mattresses into the house – Ich Idiot! Okay, this time
it was by accident. But you know, in 1981 it was the devil’s son, who
tried to reanimate the squatters’ community. He looked for people and
spontaneously organised a demonstration called "Spring is waking up –
stop boozing – Schluss mit dem Suff!" But this wasn’t the real reason
why the police removed people from the occupied houses on
Fraenkel-Ufer-Street. No, the devil’s son saw what actually provoked
them so strongly:

A few days before the eviction, the following happened: I am
looking out of a window on the second floor. Somebody rings the bell. I
don’t remember the scene exactly. Down below, in a halfway left(ist)
direction, a masked person is standing on the balcony. With both hands,
he picks up a gigantic stone. From the left a police wagon approaches
at walking pace. The masked person throws the stone directly into the
windshield of the police wagon. It shatters. For a fraction of a second
I see the driver open his eyes wide with fear. Then he steps on the
gas, high speed, and the wagon vanishes. For a moment, time seems to
stand still, but I know: they will come back. They will come en masse.
The question remains: Why did the police wagon drive so slowly? Why the
hell did the police wagon drive so slowly? 

So isn’t that a nice story? Why the hell don’t you give me a fucking
penny for it? What about your fucking leftist solidarity? What about
Kreuzbergian ideals? Why is it that the son has to go begging now?
Because in Germany there has never been a reason to say "please".
Because Germans still wait for a "please" even if their face already
tells us "thank you". Because in this country there are just pigs and
gawkers and nothing else. I painted a whole advertising pillar, from
top to bottom. And you over there? What about a penny? But the leftist
Aryan pig keeps asking: "Give – what for?". Haha, you are wrong, Aryan
pig! I write on the next pillar. This time it will be: what against?
Against you. Go to Hell!

I’ve written a lot. People keep smiling. Nobody cares. The noise and
the crowds, the cows and the drunken pigs, they are ignorant to the
beggar’s written cries. It hurts. It’s really hurting horribly. I write
down the following: Hi spy, what might the beggar write next? He writes
that these German spies and gawkers are just fucking disgusting old
pigs. Deaf and dumb, nothing but ignorant pigs.

My finger hurts. I’ve written enough. I wrote down the whole truth
about my life in fucking Kreuzberg and Kreuzberg’s fucking downfall.
You could get into it – as they often say – reading the advertising
pillars. You are better off – not me. So please don’t hesitate to
contact me: Gifts can be delivered to Kottbusser Damm No 23. I’m
sitting in front of the dogpissy front door at Kottbusser Damm No 23,
waiting for gifts. I’m staring at the ridges opposite, watching the
sunshine vanish. I’m horribly tired. Nobody cares. Nobody comes to
deliver any gifts. Nobody tries to contact me. I painted several
pillars for you, fucking old Kreuzberg. What the hell for? I start
shouting at the noise, the drunks and the goggle-eyed cows they picked
up, at the crowds in the cafes and in the blinding sun, all occupying
my streets: Fucking dirty Aryan pigs! Go to Hell! You are reading my
writings and still smiling! I’m waiting for you, but you don’t care!
Now everybody speaks about me, but nobody speaks with me! Hello, you
leftist German ass, don’t you have a tongue?! It’s no written cry
anymore, it’s my pure voice, shouting. Why does Kreuzberg’s son have to
go begging now?

Amelie.Kutter(at)plotki.net

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