Pozna city counsellor Michał Grze of the right-wing Law and Justice Party was beside himself. And he was beside a UK Daily Mail journalist when he said, “We didn’t pay thirty-seven million złotych for the largest elephant house in Europe to have a gay elephant.”
Only they did.
Grze hadn’t planned on building a shrine to the biological basis for same-sex attraction, but that’s how it turned out. And they could spray all the peanut extract in the world, but Ninio would still be a fag.
I planned to whisper into Ninio’s ear never to lumber away from a 93.3 millilitre ejaculation of semen. That the fastest way to male pachyderm orgasm was a prostate massage through the anus.
The macaws tore a complaint as we passed them. A wake of buzzards were gnawing on a pile of rat carcasses.
Aside from Ninio, I was excited to visit the namesakes of the songs on Pink Floyd’s Animals album. Unquestionably, 1977 was a good year for disobedient “Sheep,” “Dogs,” and “Pigs on the Wing.” Yes, these are farm animals, but far from ordinary. I couldn’t wait to point out their quirks to Dorota.
A float of crocodiles chattered their teeth. Capybaras brayed. Really? I probably had the sounds mixed up.
When I was a kid, my wind-up Animal See N Say went wonky all the time. The recorded animal sounds rarely matched the pictures. “The pig says ‘moo.’ The dog says ‘ribbit.’” I pulled that cord thousands of times and learned again and again that life in the animal kingdom was a fluid affair.
We continued walking through the menagerie of tourists and found the sheep pen. I was lucky the zoo was proud to showcase barnyard specimens because we caught the woolly bastards in full rut. The rams were tearing each other into pieces of souvlaki, fighting over the right to mate.
“Dorotka, look. They’re wearing marking harnesses so they can draw on their fucks with a crayon. The keepers have to know who did who.”
“How stupid and territorial,” she said.
“Think of it as art.”
Granny Smith Apple green means, “You’re my slut-hole.” Wild Blue Yonder means, “I like looking at the sky when we fuck,” and Razzle Dazzle Rose is, “Love you, too.”
A gulp of cormorants flew overhead, shitting on strollers and stealing ice cream sandwiches. The małpy were picking wszy out of each other’s fur. Baboons flashed Crayola ass shows of Hot Magenta and Cerulean.
The sheep says “meow.”
There were no dogs not posing as timberwolves.
We passed the pigs. I was about to explain to Dorota that a pig tongue has triple the taste buds a human’s does, and that if a pig were to fly, other pigs wouldn’t be able to see it. Swine, the darlings, are incapable of looking up. But I kept quiet, unsure if she believed even half of what I told her.
“Where would Ninio go if he escaped?” she asked.
“He’d probably wander southeast to Moldova, and then the Ukraine forest. Fossils show that the Tiraspol species comes from the area.”
“How do you know all this?”
“That’s what the tabloids say. They propose that the zoo kick him out.”
“What if we break him out?” she said. “You have a lot of experience with fire.”
“You want to see me in jail, don’t you?”
“No, but we have to take action before someone poisons him.”
It thrilled me that she was getting infected with my love for fire. I ached to know exactly how much, but you can’t just ask someone that question flat-out.
“Are you proposing a controlled blaze?” I said.
“Don’t be gutless. We’re not here to do half-assed work.” She dangled her complicity in front of me like a piece of gorzkiej czekolady. “As long as we don’t kill any animals. Let’s survey the area first, then discuss the details.”
“Unless you’re going to scope your way out of a rescue mission.”
“Sweet Dorota, I’m not afraid of fire, and if you want me to prove it to you, I’ll light your hair like a fuse, right here, right now.”
“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.”
“Yes, Augustyna, this is known as parkour, a vicious extreme sport born in the suburbs of France and now running rampant across Poland. By all accounts, these homosexuals are quite athletic, but parkour is evidently not made for high heels.”
“Ha, ha. Have a happy mingus Dyngus, Piotr, but please stay inside. You wouldn’t want to get wet.”
“We’ll see you all tomorrow night.”
TV Polska 2 jingle
MUSTH
For the first time in my life, I was actually hoping to see the police.
Dorota and I were walking through the streets of Kraków on a day almost like any other, slurping from a shared mity czekoladowe ice cream cone. But there were subtle differences: that day, the sun was blocked by a giant rainbow flag, and we were marching with a few hundred queers who were either half-naked or wearing extravagant costumes. Except for me in my navy overalls, it was Pantone overload. We were happy to give the March of Tolerance some legs, but angry not to see any cops there to protect us.
We marched behind a truck-sized banner that said NIE LEKAJCIE SIE. To get this made, we were told, the organizers had to commission a discreet printing service, one that had specialized in samizdat during Communist rule. (As you can see, they forgot the accents.)
We had no floats. This was, after all, an illegal parade. Lech Kaczyski, mayor of Warsaw and leader of the Law and Justice Party, had been the first to ban a Polish pride parade. When angry Warsaw homos demanded an audience with him, he said he “refused to meet with perverts.” That’s okay with me. I wouldn’t want to meet with Lech, either, because I wouldn’t be able to stop myself from play-wrestling him to the ground and writing my name on his forehead. I have no problem being called a “pervert,” but if anyone’s going to violate my right to assemble, I want them to know exactly who they’re fucking with.
Unfortunately, Lech’s institutionalized hatred caught on, and it was no container of cherries.
Conver
sation gradually broke off as we left Universytet Jagielloski and marched through the Stare Miasto. Chanting took over:
Nie lkajcie si
Nie lkajcie si
Kraków is a small town with ancient ideas. You can feel ridiculous shouting slogans to a garlic peddler sweeping the dust off her square of sidewalk, even though you know she’s part of the problem. Not joining the parade, we’re told, is her crime.
Nie lkajcie si
Nie lkajcie si
Do not be afraid
How edifying to hear this yelled in your ear by a queen wearing purple leotards and flapping a pair of chiffon bumblebee wings. We were an unstoppable force of human unicorns, fairies, and seahorses— as well as a disproportionate number of birds—screaming at old ladies. Really, though, we were behaving like elephants in musth, a condition in which they experience a sudden 6,000 percent surge in hormones.
As noon rolled by and folks left work and school for lunch, we attracted a thicker crowd of onlookers. Some appeared friendlier than others. Smirks were hard to read, unless they were accompanied by the following chants:
Pedały do gazu
Pedały do gazu
Zoologists cannot properly investigate the musth phenomenon, because even the most docile elephant, when in that supercharged state, may kill any human it sees.
Dorota and I spotted the first T-shirt about thirty minutes into the parade. A guerrilla team was throwing this latest fashion item to the marchers who begged most for them. The front had an icon of a pink elephant, and the back said BECAUSE GOD MADE ME THIS WAY. KRAKOW STAMPEDE 2005.
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