Katja from the Punk Band Read Online Free PDF

cabinets that he once had and so all he has left is a stripped-down cocktail cabinet, the sort that you sit down and lean over to play. The protective glass that once topped the device is gone, as are the original legs, which have been replaced by concrete blocks stolen from a nearby building site. The hatch that allows access to the circuit board within is also gone and he can feel the heat from the machine emanating against his knees.
    His left eye has swollen slightly from the impact of Mischa’s punch and he takes comfort in the fact that the pain from his stomach is at its least powerful when he bends over as he does when he plays the game.
    In the background, a TV is playing an old black-and-white Soviet propaganda cartoon from which he takes a strange comfort.
    He’s mumbling curses to himself as he jams the control buttons and joystick, dictating the elaborate revenges he will commit upon the dealer Kohl.
    “. . . shove that blowtorch up his . . .”
    Slaps the two control buttons one after another.
    “. . . fucking motherfucking blind motherfucker . . .”
    Grits his teeth and just avoids dropping another credit as a pixilated laser beam shoots past the ill-shapen spacecraft he is controlling.
    “. . . show him how to . . .”
    And there is a knock at his door.
    He doesn’t hear it at first but then it repeats and he stops playing.
    A tiny explosion erupts below him as his spaceship is destroyed and the funeral march sounds, midi-style.
    “Open up, Nikolai.”
    “Oh fuck.”
    Kohl.
    Nikolai jumps back from the machine as if he has just received a shock from it and his neurons start firing randomly once again.
    “Nikolai!”
    And he’s looking around for an exit; the window that opens out onto the stairs that are stapled to the side of the building and lead down to the dumpsters below, the aged garbage chute that has been blocked since before Nikolai moved in a year before and whatever it is that blocks it, it stinks.
    He’s going round and round in circles, a dog chasing its tail.
    And then the door bursts open and he stumbles backward, into the games machine and over it, tumbling to the floor with an almighty thud. He tries scrambling to his feet but Kohl has grabbed him already and Nikolai raises his hands to his face defensively.
    “Don’t! Don’t!”
    He is pulled upright into a sitting position, his back against the apartment’s rear wall.
    “Shut up, shut up,” Kohl snaps.
    And Nikolai struggles but Kohl has a firm grip of him and he can go nowhere, do nothing.
    “What the fuck?! It’s only been a few hours! I don’t have . . .”
    And Kohl slaps him, lightly, just to quieten him. Nikolai bites down on the rest of the sentence and it becomes a senseless gargle.
    “Listen.”
    In the background is the sound of the cartoon, the comically exaggerated noises of a fight between a cat and some other indistinguishable creature. Perhaps an American.
    “This place is a shithole,” Kohl says as he looks around. He lets go of Nikolai and stands, walks amongst the trash that litters the room. “Haven’t you ever heard of drawers? Clothes hangers? For fuck’s sake.”
    And Nikolai watches, still reeling from the dealer’s sudden entrance, as Kohl starts picking up random pieces of clothing that have been left lying about.
    “Where are these meant to go?”
    And Nikolai doesn’t understand at first, holds his cheek where it still stings from the man’s slap. “I . . .”
    “A closet? A rail? Anything?”
    “I . . . in the bedroom.”
    And he watches as Kohl takes the pile he has collected and disappears into the bedroom. A moment passes.
    “Jesus Christ!” Shouted through the open doorway. “This is disgusting!”
    And Nikolai is still too confused to feel ashamed and he thinks that this must be what it is like to have a mother when you are growing up. “I’m . . . sorry . . . ?” he mumbles weakly.
    He gets to his feet and tentatively looks into the bedroom. Kohl is shoving hangers from