English / 14.12.2021 / 3136
All of the island’s residents were either criminals or idiots. On Vaeroy, no one paid attention to one’s passport, visa, or any other minor details. You don’t cause trouble, don’t fight, and you’re ready to work with fish? Then you can live here
Brasileiro hanged yet another bundle of fish to dry. The undemanding Norwegians were devouring the sun-dried fish, following the will of their Viking ancestors from a thousand years ago. Moreover, the northerners completely ignored the rest of the sea creatures, they discarded them, concentrating entirely on their totem…
Or perhaps, screw that codfish? Maybe I should switch to herring? On the enchanting island of Vaeroy, there were only two factories, which were responsible for the jobs of all the 400 of the island’s inhabitants. One of them was decent— on that factory, people were obtaining and preparing codfish, and everyone wanted to work there.
The second factory worked with herring. It was controlled by two brothers with a controversial reputation. At some point, the company, which consisted of a hangar and some holey crockery, was owned by their dad. But one day, an incident happened. Two brothers and their dad had set off to the restless sea… Then, their dad fell overboard. There was no one to investigate that emergency. The only policeman there preferred not to leave his lodgings. At the same time, it never prevented him from knowing all the necessary information about all of the inhabitants.
The brothers, even if they did murder their father, had nothing to fear. All of the island’s residents were either criminals or idiots. On Vaeroy, no one paid attention to one’s passport, visa, or any other minor details. You don’t cause trouble, don’t fight, and you’re ready to work with fish? Then you can live here.
One of Brasileiro’s neighbours — a hectic Spaniard who liked to aimlessly wave his arms, allegedly, ran away to this island to escape the Russian mafia. The other neighbour — a German man, who was seemingly hiding from mandatory army service. Originally, he was hiding in Latin America. He wanted to follow the previously explored path of the runaway fascists. However, it somehow led him to Cuba… Thus, he roamed around the Atlantic Ocean, until finally coming ashore on the viking island…
Brasileiro went to the crew chief Frede to get his portion of cod. Frede had weighted out and served the fillet with pleasure. His whole look made it obvious that he was a true commander — a father to the soldiers, i.e. workers, and through him, the factory cared about its employees. It provided them with money and food. Frede liked to act important and feel his belonging to the white cast of top managers.
For the sake of harmony and balance at the factory, a few years ago, the responsible Frede was joined by the fraud Lorense. Allegedly, Lorense had the position of the factory’s commercial director. In reality, all he was doing was coming up with frivolous scams. In the recent days, he’s been proudly wandering around the factory. It means that yet another scam had failed, and he was once again responsible for the company suffering financial losses. Brasileiro heard rumors that it was Lorense who had sent a batch of cod to Nigeria, where the sly Nigerian officials declared the shipment to be below their country’s standards. They took the fish away but refused to pay for it. A classic African fraud scheme. A fraud scheme Lorense had fallen victim to, Lorense, who himself lived by the motto of «Fuck one over without shame — one like you, the same» (*). Most times, his own policy worked against him. So, just like any other fraud who had just failed, Lorense wasn’t moaning, he was glowing. Glowing with a smile which bared all of his twenty uneven teeth, he was going towards the chef’s office.
Now, the chief will give his pocket fraud hell— in a quiet, Norwegian style. But he won’t fire him. After all, Lorense is a rare kind of entertainment available to him. The chief can’t read, he isn’t interested in music or cinema. His only passion is codfish. As a ten-year-old boy, he used to collect fish heads. Using a knife, he used to cut out their tongues, which were known as a delicacy in Norway. The waste from the production was sent off to be sold in Nigeria. The labor of separating the tongue from the head was seen as dreary, so the fact that the guy was doing it and making money from it gained him respect from the other islanders.
Years later, the chief took a credit without any trouble and built a modern factory. His deputy Frede was running around the production plant and shouting — that is, pretending to monitor the production process. Lorense was acting out the role of a fraud and losing money in obvious, foolish scams. Brasileiro, on the other hand, was working alongside other
underdogs — just hanging fish day and night in order for it to dry. He was waking up early, coming back from work late, and Sunday was his only day off. And tomorrow was one of those days…
(*) An adapted version of a rude Russian rhyme-play. Literal translation: “Fuck a passerby over, the passerby who is like you.”
— I remember myself from the age of three...
— But I have memories since I was two.
Friends were arguing about who had the earliest memories. And I realized that I don’t remember myself in childhood... Not that I don’t remember anything at all. I don’t remember winter. I only remember summer and the moment when that summer of my childhood ended.
— I need to self-determine myself! — our interlocutor started with a banality. Ilya and I experienced a toothache. From the depths of memory rose the shadows of businessmen who had lost their lives in attempts to determine themselves, or rather to put a label on themselves. In the meantime, our vis-a-vis was throwing the names of the great ones on the table:
— Nassim Taleb — this is the second writer after Nikolai Mokhov (Nikolai Mokhov's ego is growing like the bitcoin exchange rate during a hype), John (well, of course, Grinder, co-founder of NLP), Castaneda (no wonder our interlocutor practiced tensegrity)...
And then he told his story. And his story refuted the theories of many respected authors, including those mentioned. I would write this story down with a pen, roll up the paper, and put it in a bottle, go out to sea on a yacht, and throw it into deep waters. But I don't have a yacht, and I don't have a pen, so read the letters electronically...
- I feel on top of the world... I'm so excited! Like I'm in love! I'm in the flow! This is energy, isn't it?
How do you answer this question? I do not even know... Oh, I've just remembered a story about this! A young man made a million, lets say dollars. So he decides to celebrate. He goes out to restaurants and clubs throwing money around like confetti and stuffing cash down girls' underwear. He is in the zone, and he invests the rest of the money in a new business. So he asks in the middle of the party...
— How do you gather the energy?" - readers have been asking this question for four years. And recently we couldn't stand it and responded with a little sarcasm:
- Excuse me, but where are you going to store it? — we wrote in the chat.
"Mmmmm..." the person responded. And then we gave in to memories and fantasies:
— There was an article somewhere... Something about an energy piggy bank… Maybe an energy bath?...