Krakow Melt

by Daniel Allen Cox

  One size fits all.

  There was more Ninio hysteria: hand-painted cardboard signs that said, “SUCK MY TRUNK,” “I LIKE IT ROUGH,” and “SCREW PEANUTS, GIVE ME COCK.”

  That was the day I fell out of love with slogans, when I realized that such short combinations of words were never meant to carry so much meaning. Polish verbs are resilient, but the nouns simply melt under the pressure.

  “I’m not putting on the damn T-shirt,” I said to Dorota, throwing the rest of our ice cream on the cobblestone street. It melted almost instantly and settled in the cracks. “This is not what Ninio is supposed to be about.”

  “You know, they’ll try to make us put it on.”

  “We’ll tell them we’re both recovering from elbow surgery. Can’t lift our arms higher than a ‘fuck you.’”

  Elephants in musth go nuts, it’s thought, when their temporal ducts swell and exert immense pressure behind the eyes. Imagine the pain from an abscessed tooth, but instead behind the cornea, pushing insanity with every throb.

  Pedały do gazu

  I was livid that Ninio was becoming a maskotka, and that I was now marching for God. I had long refused to be part of any Divine Plan, and I didn’t see the point in borrowing and redressing arguments the church had devised. Subversion is cowardly that way. Sure, Ninio could help the gay cause, but his silkscreened image could do little for transphobia. And it was anathema to atheists.

  Why couldn’t Ninio simply fuck other males because he wanted to? Why did he need permission from above?

  We quickened our pace, and the bullhorns squawked louder than ever. Perhaps we were feeling the pressure of the crowd, who now easily outnumbered us five to one, and who were getting nastier with their comments.

  Dołoymy wam to, co Hitler zrobił z ydami

  Tomek, an acquaintance I knew from the gallery scene, cut through the ranks to us.

  “Well, if it isn’t S. Mok Wawelski, the art star. What are you cooking up next?”

  “I have ideas for London, but San Francisco has post-fire details that blow my mind,” I said. “Listen, did you know this was going to turn into a Fags for Jesus parade?”

  “Radek, don’t isolate yourself. We’re in a position to score some victories this year, but you have to understand that it’s going to happen collectively.” The bumblebee buzzed past us, disguised as an elephant, fluttering his wings in time to the wave of fists punching the air. “We’d be fools to think we can do it alone.”

  “By ‘we,’ do you mean me?”

  “I know what you guys are up to,” Tomek said, motioning to Dorota, “and there is concern that this is causing division in the community.”

  I hoped I had misunderstood his slant. He pulled me aside, away from Dorota.

  “Your friend is straight,” he continued. “Have you ever thought about how this makes some of us feel? And what do you think she’s really after?”

  At first, elephant keepers thought that musth was sexual. Then they found the killing grounds where elephants had separated rhinos from their limbs and turned whole crashes of them into goulash for vultures.

  “Fuck off,” I said to Tomek, to keep myself from hitting him. “I hope you’ll be happy when we win the right to be as fascist as our oppressors.”

  The shock on his face was priceless.

  I rejoined Dorota.

  “What did he say?” she asked. “I think he has a crush on you.”

  “He’s an idiot,” I said.

  “You know, I missed a class for this,” she said, punching me in the arm. I usually liked it when she erased the physical boundaries between us, but in this case, her timing was wrong. “I guess our elephant rescue plan just tanked.”

  “We’ll find something else. Don’t worry.”

  Dorota punched me again, or so I thought, but it wasn’t a fist. It was a half-full can of Okocim beer that someone had thrown. The crowd was pressing in, narrowing the street into a sliver, and forcing us to march single-file. Our lead banner was scrunched like an accordion, and some of the onlookers coated our path with gobs of smoker’s phlegm. It began to feel like a march to the gallows.

  Dołoymy wam to, co Hitler zrobił z ydami

  Dołoymy wam to, co Hitler zrobił z ydami

  We’ll do to you what Hitler did to the Jews

  I saw Tomek blotting his bloody temple with a rainbow flag. He was the first to get beaned by a rock. I felt sorry we had quarrelled. After all, we were fighting for the same freedoms, just in different ways.

  A hooligan smashed a bottle high on a brick wall above us, and I was done, for the day, with sentiment. I helped Dorota pick the shards of glass out of her hair and throw them back. Senseless, yes, but we were trapped. Then came the sweet whiff of human shit, the stench of bowel movements gone wrong. The crowd was pelting us with paper bags loaded with excrement, sealed, no doubt, with the kiss of death. The unicorn got covered in diarrhea.

  Musth, some say, is a myth, the biggest grift in the animal kingdom. The fact is that all animals have pissy moments and need to express their rage on the nearest available sack of organs and bones.

  Our bodies told us that this was no time for parkour. We could’ve leapt over cars, vaulted fire hydrants, and taken to air on the hands of our enemies, but it would’ve made poor news footage.

  Pedały do gazu

  Pedały do gazu

  Gas the queers This slogan wasn’t aimed at her, or course, but Dorota was the queerest girl around, and I knew she felt the hit.

  She pelted it back. Dorota gathered every slimy piece of feces she could find—wiping it off marchers, herself—and slung it wildly at the crowd. She even jumped over heads to aim curveballs at the neo-Nazis on the fringe. Her enthusiasm caught on, and soon we were all elbow-deep in this stinking revolt, fighting for our centimetres of cobblestone—and winning them.

  Then sirens, and the beautiful sounds of police beating their riot shields with batons. Rescue. Only they came right at us, hitting and kicking faggots and dykes and gender-nonconformists and the bisexual threat, pounding us into pockets of solidarity and then breaking us up until we were alone and defenceless. Pulling our hair and dragging us down the street. The police arrested Tomek and a number of others, but not before detaching their earlobes from their heads with savage rips.

  To please the crowd. To make the show worth losing a lunch hour for.

  We were forced to run away. I would describe the expert parkour moves we executed, but all things considered, it’s just too shameful.

  ZOOMIE AWARD FINALIST

  Whoever shot this video a) knows their way around the Elephant House at the Pozna Zoo and b) knows the hottest camera angles for porn.

  High-angle shot:

  Ninio is lifting his trunk at another elephant across the play area. “I’m coming hither,” the move says. He struts over and corners the object of his lust. Her name is Elvira, says a clip-art bubble.

  Dutch tilt:

  A shot overused in sci-fi flicks, underused in the skin trade. The camera simulates Ninio peering curiously into her pussy. Meaty, wrinkled labia protrude. Skin has superior texture in this flick, and the resolution catches all.

  Establishing shot:

  Looking at Ninio’s tectonic head as if from inside Elvira’s cunt. A curious image with an unequivocal message: come pound the sweet fuck out of me.

  Whip pan:

  The camera pivots breakneck to Ninio’s cock. It’s a four-foot brown stalk with a curlicue bend, and it’s snapping into a frenzy. Pre-cum drips in goopy ropes, enough sperm to father six million pounds of baby elephants, says a text bubble.

  Extreme close-up:

  Elvira’s eye, a drippy orb. Subtle camera movement catches, in her black-hole pupil, the reflection of Ninio mounting her from behind.

  Zoosexual cinema is governed by a screwy set of laws; like many vices, it can be consumed but not sold. Only the best films merit black-market circulation. They must be unerringly artistic and have glints of pathos, or
they will never ignite word-of-mouth.

  Bird’s-eye shot:

  Is there a camera crew? If it’s only one person running from shot to shot, then it’s damn impressive. Ninio hugs Elvira’s back with his front legs and she farts a massive gust of wind under the exertion. Nothing makes an elephant porn movie go viral like a five-second raunch clip, because nobody does raunch like elephants.

  Low-angle shot:

  Extremely dangerous shot, with risk of trampling. So, so worth it. Ninio’s dick is the god of all phalluses, and it jerks around trying to find Elvira’s snatch, slapping her enormous MILF butt and hot thighs. It finally docks into her, stretching a gape and forcing out a bubbly queef. You’d never catch a noise that subtle in the wild.

  Moving Dutch tilt:

  The following could be cut-in footage, because the lighting is slightly different. The average consumer, however, will never notice.

  Disoriented pleasure. Elvira doesn’t have to shake her head back and forth, because the camera does it for her. She trumpets her body joy in cascading echoes, and we see inside her luscious mouth. It’s wet and cavernous, with harmlessly round teeth. Cardinal rule of pachyporn: always hint at a blowjob scene for the sequel, even though it’ll never happen.

  Preggo vids will make you a mint, if you know how to film with maternal sensibilities. Unfortunately, Elvira isn’t packing any embryos.

  Bird’s-eye shot:

  Ninio straightens his back, pushes his head up, and thrusts the rest of his meat into Elvira. One lurch is all it takes. The camera catches a touch of moongleam in his eye. He’s there.

  Extreme close-up:

  Ninio pulls out and dismounts. Semen and paraurethral fluid gush out of Elvira’s pussy, splattering the lens. It’s all good in the new school of cinematography. Then she pisses a river, Ninio sucks a few litres into his trunk, and he sprinkles it over them both.

  But it’s not the fancy-footed grip work, or the incontinence, or the near-constant zoom-ins on Elvira’s rawhide pubes that will make this film a bestseller. It’s the last clip-art bubble:

  “Gay icon? I don’t think so.”

  We’re looking at a street-corner smash, and maybe even a Zoomie nomination.

  CAPTAIN JACK BONAVITA

  To the Gentlemen of the Great West Life Insurance Company, Esteem’d Claims Officers:

  It was, no doubt, with Consternation and Regret that you learned of the Fire at Dreamland Amusement Park, that besmirch’d Day of 27 May. ’Tis a Day, to be sure, that I should wish to wipe clean from my Mem’ry, were it not for certain pressing monetary Considerations that I must call to your Attention. Allow me, Men of Finance, to proceed with a brief retelling of His Almighty’s inscrutable Whims on the Night previous to said Day.

  In accordance with our Policy of mark’d continual Improvement, and to restore Coney Island to the Heights of Fantazy and Rantipole (a Challenge our honourable Competitors at Luna Park failed mizerably to achieve), the Directors of Dreamland assessed, in sage Turns, the Need for last-minute Renovations. These were carried out dutifully on the Night of 26 May. In great Anticipation of Opening Day the following Morning, Labourers set upon the Hell’s Gate Concession to caulk it capably with Buckets of hot Pitch.

  As you surely have heard from my Colleagues, between Sunfall and Sunrize, an Occurrence of unparalleled Misfortune happen’d. ’Twould appear as tho’ the Lightbulbs began to pop in a pell-mell Fashion. The Building caught Fire instantly, and the Flames spread with Haste to nearby Constructions. Notwithstanding the 1,750 Tonnes of Asbestos and other fireproofing Materials, the Amusements burn’d for their frames of Plaster and Lath.

  ’Twas to fight the devilish Conflagration of the Dreamland Tower that Fire Companies from across the Borough arriv’d to join the Combatants already assembled, and all of Brooklyn turn’d up to watch from the Sidelines. In the Blink of an Eye, numerous Assets were consum’d, among them Chilkoot Pass, Canals of Venice, Revels of Japan, Coasting through Switzerland, Destruction of Pompeii, Shoot-the-Chutes, Parisian Novelty, and Hiram Maxim’s Airships. A formidable Twist of Irony can be observed in that not even those in the Employ of the Fighting the Flames Concession were able to tame a single Lick of Flame with their Fire Hoses.

  Compassionate Gentlemen, no Horror can compare to that experienced by the Beasts shelter’d in the Animal Arena. To circumvent the Rise of a general Panic among the Antelope, Lynx, Wolves, Bears, Lions, Zebras, and Baboons, I, in my Wisdom, freed them from their Cages and kept them trotting in the Roundabout with smart Cracks of the Whip. Only Little Hip, the darling Elephant whose Antics are regal’d as far away as Manhattan, refus’d to leave his Cage. I implore the Officers of the reputable Great West Life Insurance Company to note that I took all reasonable Actions to coax out this Prize of my Coterie, to no Avail.

  Little Hip witnessed the Dreamland Tower fall upon the other Animals as in the frightful Reverie in the Book of Revelation, Chapter 16, Verse 8, which you well remember from your Catechisms: “And the fourth Angel poured out his Vial upon the Sun; and the power was granted unto him to scorch the Men with Fire.” That day, the Wickedness of Mankind brought a Scourge likewise to innocent Beasts, and Sorrow into my Bosom, I assure you.

  The Shetland Ponies and Victoria, the Pregnant Lion, managed to run to Safety. Disaster, however, showed its ghastly Face when the scarlet Fire envelop’d the hapless Zebras and Lions, who scattered with Manes aflame through the crisped Gates of Dreamland, sounding their Death-Screams askance into Brooklyn, seven of them in total.

  We are here put in mind of Revelation, Chapter 17, Verse 3: “I saw a woman sitting on a scarlet-coloured beast full of names of blasphemy. It had seven heads and ten horns.”

  The Platypusses, sick Aberrations of Faunae that they are, were braised uniformly out of this World by the Grace of God. To prevent further Displays of this shocking Nature, I mercifully produc’d Lead Bullets from my Pistol into the Skulls of the Horses, Pumas, Hyenas, and, yes, the remaining Lions, bringing their Nightmare to a Close.

  Only Little Hip, judicious Officers, would I not shoot. Surrounded by inescapable Heat, he trumpeted his last Breaths with great Noise before bravely succumbing to Hades. After a careful Examination of the Facts, you will no doubt ascertain that I employed all measures within my Power to preserve the Life of this expensive Attraction, as the Pachyderm is not obtained cheaply through any of the common Asian or African Routes.

  Gentlemen of the Great West Life Insurance Company, it is with this Letter and the faithfully enclosed Receipt that I justify my Claim of $723.18 for said Elephant. Far be it from my Intentions to amend our Contract with a Coddleshell, but I have also attached Documents that demonstrate the current Tusk and Penis market Value, vis-à-vis a post-mortem Standpoint.

  May Mankind never again witness such a Tragedy, we pray.

  Only you have the Wherewithal to compensate for what the Lord has wrought on this wretched Creature.

  Truthfully Yours,

  Captain Jack Bonavita

  Animal Trainer

  TINNITUS

  The bells had already started to ring.

  I was in the back seat of a cab in Nowa Huta, headed to the Człowiek Obcy Gallery for the Great Fire of London when the radio announcer delivered the news in a broken voice.

  Panie i Panowie, umarł Papie

  The driver stopped the car in the middle of the street. It was night.

  The radio fought with the bells for our attention.

  Panie i Panowie, umarł Papie

  Panie i panowie, Papienie yje

  Maybe he knew his listeners needed to hear it from different grammatical angles for it to sink in. But we had all known this was coming. The commentator could’ve said it any way he liked, and it wouldn’t have changed a thing.

  A flash mob blocked the street, and the driver hit the brakes. It was easy to see the masses of people in the dark because they were phosphorescent. They moved as a single entity, slowly, protecting tiny fires and spreading them from ha
nd to hand. They carried lit candles plucked from dinner tables and birthday cakes and emergency kits, and windproof candles in red plastic cups that they had no doubt hoarded for occasions like this. The driver backed up to the last intersection and rerouted the trip. I was going to be late for my show, not that it mattered.

  The bells were gonging wildly, but there was no melody. The dissonance spread over the roofs, one church catching it from the other, until all Kraków was sonic chaos. People poured out of restaurants still chewing their last bites, and stumbled out of hair salons with lopsided bobs. Supermarket staff crawled into the store windows, tearing down advertisements and crying into the wadded up, high-gloss paper.

  Kurva.

  We came to another impasse, still stuck in Nowa Huta. A crowd gathered around Arka Pana—The Lord’s Ark—the first church in our dear Soviet suburb. The driver could’ve jumped the parking lot median and slipped out the exit on the other side of the crush, but it was clear he wanted to watch for a few minutes.

  Watch, I thought, but told him, “Go.”

  [It is midnight, 1960, in the City without God. Bishop Karol Wojtyła stands in a barren field, his arms stretched heavenward, giving a midnight Christmas mass to no one, speaking the liturgy in foggy puffs. Behind him, the residents of Nowa Huta are afraid and peer furtively from the windows of their apartment blocks. The bishop knows that the cold may paralyze his throat and that the police may ask him to leave. Still, he continues.]

  Tinnitus is often described as a ringing in the ear corresponding to no external sound, but it can be much more. It can be the slooshing of the ocean or an insistent breeze, the chirping of a grasshopper you can’t seem to kill. It can also be much less: an occasional click. Church bells can touch off a variety of sounds, long after they quit swinging.

  But the bells were still raising thunder, and we darted down a side street to look for another way downtown. People were now draping their windowsills with yellow and white Vatican flags garnished with a single black ribbon to signify mourning. Behind the flags, pictures of Karol Wojtyła ripped from photo albums and picture frames and magazyny, printed dot matrix from the Internet, and painted lovingly in oils. Few pictures showed him wearing vestments; now that he was dead, he was allowed to be human again. People were allowed to scream and tear the hair off their arms and beat recycling boxes with trash cans.