“I…” Lena stuttered, looking at Wart-face and Dragon Lady.
As if recognizing her concern, Grandfather looked at them and said, “Thank you, you two. You have delivered my granddaughter to me safe and sound, but she will be staying the night here. I’ll drive her back in the morning.” The two nodded and left, but not before Dragon Lady fired some more poisoned eye-darts at her.
“They aren’t so bad, once you get used to them,” Grandfather said after a few moments.
“I’m sure they are both wonderful.”
“Oh shut up you brat!” he laughed. “She’s a cunt. Everyone knows it.”
“A cu… a what?!!” Lena giggled in shock. “I didn’t know you even knew those kinds of words!”
“I’m four-hundred years old. I know every word in existence. And I can use them too. But if you use them, I’ll be cross with you—you aren’t old enough.”
“Cunt.” Lena said, smiling mischievously.
“Well,” Grandfather sighed as he stood, “I was preparing some fish for us. Freshly caught! But I suppose I can enjoy it all by myself.”
“Okay, okay, okay!” Lena said quickly, “I’m sorry! I take it back! I’m sorry!”
“Oh, my goodness!” Grandfather said, as he walked towards the kitchen, “Do you smell that?! I’m going to just love eating this right in front of you.”
“No, please! Please! It smells so good!”
“Well… I suppose…” he called from the kitchen. “If you truly are sorry!” before emerging with a plate covered in steaming, delicious fish.
The two dug into their meal, attempting to devour it while talking at the same time. Despite the aged wisdom of her beloved grandfather, he still talked with his mouth full. She laughed at this. Here was a man who couldn’t be bothered to give the slightest of cares when he didn’t have to. She began to gather the distinct impression that this man was using her as an excuse to slack off.
“Don’t think we’re meeting for you,” he laughed, as if sensing her thoughts. “My wife always has her damn sister-in-law over. Chew with your mouth closed!” he said in a high-pitched, unflattering mimicry, “Don’t make my Sister think I made a mistake in marrying you!”
“What?!” Lena howled. “Really?!”
“Oh, she’s so mean to me,” he confessed. “Making me wear clean clothing… making me clean off my desk… my desk! That’s my desk! Mine! And she makes me clean it!”
“That’s an atrocity!”
“She’s lucky she’s pretty,” Grandfather laughed. “And smarter than me, as well. Believe it or not, she’s the brains of the operation. As all good marriages are, I would reckon.”
“Really?”
“Oh yes. One of these days, when you find some lucky young man to marry, you will quickly realize that you are smarter than him. All women are smarter than men—it’s the way we are meant to be.”
“Well, then why even have them around?”
“Because men are better at breaking things than women. It’s men’s job to do things; it’s women’s job to tell them what to do.”
“Some of us women are pretty good at breaking things.”
“Oh, sure you are,” he conceded. “And no doubt those of you will find those rare men who are capable of thinking. But in general, men are dumb beasts that need a woman’s touch. I’d wager that if our governments were run by women, a few things would get done around here.”
The conversation shifted and the two talked about utter nonsense for a while. Every now and then, Grandfather would walk over to the record player and put on a new album. Lena recognized a few—The Ramones, obviously, and a few tunes from some of the others—yet many of them were completely new to her. After a few switches, he put on a record that had a scratched-up label on it. When it started playing, she recognized the voice of Johnny Rotten, even though she vaguely recognized the song. It was distorted and crackly, with far too much noise going on in the background.
“This…” he said, walking back over, “is one of the coolest performances ever given in modern history. In Britain, they have this yearly celebration called the Queen’s Jubilee where they hold a procession on the river Thames… the river that flows right in front of Parliament and most of the important government buildings. her Majesty and her royal entourage board several boats—you know, caviar, wine, jewelry and so much more ridiculousness—and float merrily down the river, too much aplomb from the crowd.
“Well, anyway, you have to understand that in almost any other era, the Sex Pistols would have been swiftly arrested for sedition, just by merely existing. Especially after all of their artwork which was directly inflammatory towards the ruling class. Yet, in the golden era of the 70’s—and I use the term ‘golden’ loosely) all they really received for their antics was being banned from the radio. Well, now we introduce the Sex Pistols’ manager, Malcolm McLaren, who came up with perhaps the dumbest, most irresponsible idea ever had: the Sex Pistols would join the flotilla—without permission of course—and follow her Majesty around on their own boat, playing ‘God Save the Queen’.”
“Wait, they what?!” Lena gasped.
“Of course, you don’t know this. There’s no way a story like this would ever make it into the GDR! But yes, they certainly did do exactly that. When the boat docked, McLaren and several of his fellow punks were swiftly beaten up by the police and thrown into the back of a police van. Nevertheless, that singular stunt got the Pistols on the airwaves, and solidified the entire Punk movement in Britain.”
“That’s unbelievable! We would get killed for that here.”
“Yes, you probably would. But that’s why I’m here: to help you know where that line is.” Then, with a wink, he added, “And to occasionally help you skirt that line for the amusement of your dear, elderly grandfather.”
“Why, though?” Lena raised a concerned eyebrow. “Why in the world would you want to do something like that?”
“Like I said, it’s amusing! I have my duties, and I accomplish them. Beyond that, I’m a lover of novelty just like anyone else. It warms my heart to come up with moronic ideas, and then see a bunch of actual morons pull them off for me.”
“I’m insulted, Grandfather.” Lena pouted.
“Oh, don’t be.” he added, with a wink. “But you are a moron. Anyone under the age of 35 is—it doesn’t matter how smart you are. This leads me to our next subject of conversation, however.”
With this, he stood up and walked over to one of his desks, rifled through a stack of papers, and emerged with a few newspaper clippings. He walked back over and handed them to her, before stating, “Read them out loud.”
“Uhm…” she said, as she perused the clippings, “Social Activists the world over are mourning the loss of Nicht Zustimmen’s drummer, Vortecx, a gay man, who was brutally murdered in a West German alleyway last Friday.”
Lena paused to look up at Grandfather, “Murdered? Vortecx was murdered?”
“Just keep reading,” Grandfather said, solemnly.
Lena stifled back emotion as she continued reading, “The University of Michigan is holding a candlelit vigil, while across the Atlantic, the University of Oxford is holding a silent protest. Feminist Spokeswoman Jenni Germane was quoted, saying, ‘If you needed any further proof of the kind of malevolence that alternative sexual expression is receiving, look no further: Vortecx was gunned down in a country that is supposed to be our ally—two steps forward, three steps back!’