Translated by Ieva Lešinska
/../ Incredible, I know, but he found that shirt in a used clothing shop. A real miracle. The rest of us rushed to dig through the piles. I even made a list for Mum of shirts that she should buy as soon as she sees them: Death, Cannibal Corpse, Anal Cunt, Brutal Truth, Carcass, Hypocrisy. She did not find any of these, she brought me a shirt with Michael Learns to Rock on it and pictures of three smiling guys à la Zack Morris. My rebellious nihilism notwithstanding, my heart almost broke to pieces, I felt such a surge of love for her. That didn’t mean I could ever wear that shirt, however.
So Death found an Obituary shirt in a used clothing pile and paid 50 santims for it, and still he was not happy. He seemed to be a little superstitious and felt he had bought a disaster in the shape of this shirt (that, of course, did not prevent him from wearing it all the time). So now again he said, “I told you! I told you! I always have bad luck when I wear this shirt!”
We had just been kicked off the Jelgava-Riga train. For nothing, really. We did not have tickets. Having made comments about our hair, the team of conductors kicked us out, hair flying. The train continued on, whereas we were stuck here, in Olaine.
“What are we going to do, gentlemen?”
Death looked at the train, which had already disappeared from sight. As usual, Edgars had a plan: “We could kill dogs and sell their pelts!”
He was certifiably crazy, no doubt about it. He lived next-door to Death. Because of his craziness and excessive love of horror movies, he got the nickname Zombie.
“Soon the locals will sell our pelts.”
We trained our eagle’s eye on the town that spread before us, overgrown with bushes. Not a single soul seemed to be around. Yet the bushes looked suspicious.