From the West!

  Stench of urine, hooch and cabbage on the staircase was taking the breath away. Worn lastrico and a gallery of antisemitic phallus interpretations on the walls disgusted all over again. As usually broken elevator made me admire whole four floors of cocklike artistry, paired with breathing with an atmosphere lacking oxygen even more than Himalayan peaks. With a bit of a pant and a feeling of irreversibly lost health I have pressed yellowish and partially broken doorbell. I wasn’t pretty sure if it triggered any effect though, as shouts coming out from the corner flat would easily top a TIR horn. Ferocious knocking truly outraged plywood substitute of anti-theft doors, which pathetic clatter failed dismally with the racket on the floor. Without unnecessary rush I pressed on hideously screwed handle. 

  The door have given up easily and then I saw… (no, not the thing that the tainted western mind would be thinking about), the view that was such a disgusting cliche. The impression was close to deja vu. For the, kurwa (which is unfortunatelly not translatable in any language or any context, ever, never and KURWA), hundredth time my brother was utterly wasted. I found him, kneeling on the floor and rubbing his occiput. There was, therefore, something unsettling in this image of eastern downfall. Smell of hooch was losing against the scent of industrial linoleum polish after passing doorstep of his postcommunist chamber. And the gaze of him, who kneeled as Henry IV under the walls of Canossa, was undoubtedly less misty than you could suppose considering assumed state of blackout caused by water-ethanol mixture. 

  Muttering speech which consisted of meaninglessly combined “western rot, lack of friction and my fucking head” wasn’t enough to figure out what has happened here. Here in the lair of a guy soaked with eastern culture so much that oppressed potatoes begged for granting an asylum in his household. Gesture of hand thrown into the air has pointed kitchen direction. I stepped over a plastic bag and entered the kitchen. Nothing out of ordinary was going on there, except maybe a bottle of coke standing on the top. It might have, or even should have drawn attention of someone who knew my brother. 

  Bottle of brownish, saturated with carbon dioxide fluid couldn’t have possibly been dragged here by his own being. He wasn’t expecting any unwanted guests and Jehovah witnesses stopped knocking his door a long time ago. What’s more it was the middle of the week. Something was undoubtedly out of usual. As unusual as appearance of honest politicians somewhere in the democratic world.