The epic tale of Jerry and Tom

Now hear the tale of Jerry, the parcel-carrying man, who despised his illicit employment and also received the welfare assistance. He was not virtuous, nor was he just in his dealings, yet among the heroes of Absurdistan he nevertheless strode along as if he himself were one of those ignorant representatives of the people, crowned with strange glory and rewarded with undeserved riches.

Whiskey, oh whiskey, was his most loyal friend, the flowing nectar of the wretched, in the fight against boredom. A drop full of happiness, purchased for a few coins at the discount store. The divine drink of Hades also cleansed many a rusty kettle. So Jerry enjoyed the simple stories of state television in his drunken stupor, which in his state of desolate sobriety would have wrung many a bitter laugh from him.

In the rusty vehicle of the parcel service he drove through streets of dust and lack, but always with a wry grin on his lips, which smelled of cheap gall. Gladly also enjoying the beloved drink to soften the burden of work. But alas, the nectar of Shiddl also brought many a serious illness. Jerry, driven by the residual alcohol, did not show up for work, abusing the blessings of sick leave. However, the giver of the work overlooked those afflictions of the phantom, since there were few volunteers and many preferred to receive only the assistance of Absurdistan's welfare.

Oh, the parcels, those precious loads, were not considered sacred to him. Much rather, Jerry thought, would they be safer in his hands than with those foolish recipients who understood nothing of how valuable their treasure was, or even their wallets, which so carelessly slumbered in open houses. His gaze wandered listlessly, but watchfully, into strange rooms. He saw the hidden treasures and snatched them like a wolf that had found an unguarded lamb.

But he carelessly left his work, claiming that no one was there. If he lacked the desire to continue the toil. With a mischievous grin, he praised his own deeds. He summoned the neighbourhood, ringing all the bells at once, just to see the confusion with cheerful eyes. Leaving parcels on the street, without owners, without destination, surrounded by dogs and laughed at by the gods of chaos.

But Jerry took care of the sweet, lethargic Tom, whom he loved. The animal was covered in fat, but remained loyal at his master's side, purring, eating, shitting and sleeping while his master plundered the taken packages. So Jerry lived, unnoticed and unloved in the shadow of the city, but he was content, so much so that he laughed at the absurd game of life that did not include him.

In his sleep he lay, Jerry, the never noble hero, on the damp bed of rotting sheets, his breath heavy from the after-effects of the cheap nectar. He awoke, buried in his dreams of fog and frost, and his brain still resonated with the afterglow of intoxication when the morning hour tore him relentlessly from slumber.

But with no gold in his pocket and only half of the month gone, bitter poverty forced him out into the world, to the work he did only reluctantly, so that he might return to whiskey, to gambling, which had not been kind to him. With a heavy head and limbs as tired as stone, he dragged himself to the door and shuffled out, to that miserable place he called the place of work.

Oh, what a cunning game began there in the morning sun, when Jerry, with his tongue heavy and his words sluggish, cheated his simple minded master out of an advance, the stupid, pale master of the office, who fell into golden dreams and took Jerry's request as the truth. What's more, an unwise minion lent him money, and Jerry laughed to himself, like a wolf in the night, for those coins, as surely as they were given, were never to return.

He did as he usually did, rummaging through the packages, hoping to find the treasure that would redeem him from the hardships of life. And lo and behold, a package, large and heavy of a special design, shimmering like a treasure, fell into his hands. ‘Astaroth’ was written on the cover, and ‘Hermes Trismegistos’ – but what did Jerry, who had never seen the light of education, know of those names that fate had written in stone?

And so his working day ended, like many before – with stolen goods and the hope of a fat profit. He returned to his cave, his dwelling, a grave of rubbish and stench,and opened the package with trembling hands, as if he himself were a child under the Yule tree.

But no gold or silver, no jewels did he find, but a black and heavy book, with a title that revealed nothing: Necronomicon. Oh, Jerry, who did not know the curse that weighed on the pages like the hand of death! For Astaroth, the demon from ancient times, had damned those words and cursed them for anyone who dared to read them without right.

Then Jerry opened the book, and the darkness struck, like a bird of prey seizing the lamb. His form, once plump and lazy, became tiny, crooked, and naked as a mouse, and the disaster began. Tom, the lazy cat, whose stomach rumbled like a storm in the night, saw Jerry, now weak and small, and the chase began through the stinking halls of the clutterbug.

Nimble as the wind, Jerry fled, but Tom, in his heaviness and cunning, pursued him, until finally, after endless chase, the cat's claws seized him, and the animal's teeth, which had once been dormant, tore him away. And Jerry, now in the belly of the cat, met his end – or so the doomed thought.

But oh, the curse of Astaroth, how terrible it is! Forever, in a loop of time, Jerry must now suffer and die, again and again, cursed to the end of the world, as a mouse, hunted, caught and devoured, by the cat he once fed, until the stars go out and the light fades away.

And so ends the story of the perpetually inebriated petty king of the thieving parcel drivers; that nemesis of all postal deliveries, the hero who wasn't a hero, the fraud who fell victim to fraud, the man who damned himself and and who is eaten by his cat forever, cursed by the dark art he didn't understand.

© 2024 Q.A.Juyub alias Aldhar Ibn Beju

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