Page 79 from: Read it online: issue 6!

beck’s

79recyclinginternational.com | November/December | 2020

Fotobijschrift

KaderKop
??

Body talk –
or just imagination?

In my coronavirus state of being

half asleep and half awake, my

organs are starting to talk to

each other. Listening to them,

I’m sure I will die soon.

I already had diabetes, an aneurysm,
high blood pressure, high cholesterol
and cancer metastasis. Now though, as
an unpleasant surprise, I have been
diagnosed with asthmatic bronchitis,
infections in my body and, on top of all
that, I have tested positive for the coro-
navirus. I have also infected my dear
wife Helga, my companion in isolation.
We have the same symptoms: head and
neck aches, a sore throat, stomach
pains, no appetite, loss of smell and
taste. And we’re tired, so tired that we
sleep most of the day, usually for at
least 16 hours. It’s not a nice deep,
soothing sleep. It’s a half awake, half
asleep state larded with hectic, night-
mare drifts from reality. In this middle
world, I can hear my organs talking to
each other.
‘Who are you?’ I hear Mr Cancer ask.
‘My name is Mrs Corona,’ a squeaky
female voice replies. ‘You must be an
ignorant ass that you haven’t heard of
me before. I thought anybody would
know me by now.’
‘Ah, you’re the devil in disguise,’ replies
Cancer. ‘Yep,’ she answers triumphantly,
‘I’m an off-white sphere with yellow pro-
tein particles attached and red spikes
emerging from the surface, creating the
distinctive corona or crown.’
‘So you’re just an ugly woman,’ snorts
Cancer, ‘I hadn’t expected anything else.’

‘Get lost or I’ll infect Manfred’s body a lit-
tle more so he will die because of me’,
Corona shouts in a shrill voice. ‘Not if I
get to him first,’ Asthmatic Bronchitis
butts in. ‘Let’s team up, Corona, and we
can make breathing so hard for him that
he has to be hospitalised, wear an oxygen
mask and eventually die.’

‘No’, says the pandemic queen of the
North, ‘I work alone, no partners and
certainly not a temporary low-life like
you.’ There is silence for a while. Only a
rumble from Sir Stomach can be heard.
‘He’s also lost his appetite,’ Stomach
rumbles. ‘For more than a week, I have
been longing for that wonderful feeling
of a well-filled stomach. I’m half-empty
now and that does not feel fulfilling.’
‘That’s nothing compared to what’s
happening to me,’ says the dry-oily
voice of Luke the Liver, ‘He has com-
pletely stopped drinking alcohol. That
has not happened since 1966, when he
was 15 and I can assure you my health is
going down by the day. Soon, I’ll be as
dry as rock in the desert. I currently
think that dying is almost something to
look forward to.’
‘Well, I must say that I’m getting better
all the time,’ says Lucas Lung. ‘Thanks
to Mrs Corona, his cigar smoking has
fallen from 15 to five cigars a day.
Which is a pity, because over the
decades, I have become totally addict-
ed to nicotine, tar and the other 7 000
chemicals such as cadmium, nickel,
arsenic and benzene in tobacco smoke.
I really hope he gets back to his daily
ration soon.’
‘You want to kill all of us?’ shout the
others. ‘If we didn’t need you to survive,
we would kill you instantly, like we did
with the appendix years ago.’
At this point, I wake up with a shriek. I sit
up and notice that sweat is running down
my forehead, temples and down my
neck. Next to me, I see Helga sleeping
soundly in Morpheus’ arms. I slip out of
bed so as not to wake her and go to the
living room. I pour myself a double single
malt Scotch whisky and light a giant
Cuban cigar. Then I put on Life of Brian,
my all-time favourite movie by Monty
Python’s Flying Circus. Life isn’t going to
get me down without a fight.

Manfred Beck

‘ N o t i f I g e t t o

h i m f i r s t . ’

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