matinee from Matchbox-Hungary; With a bow, socks and ganexica.
The black bike boy will also have a place behind the bridge, but no, he has to show up here, on our playground, on our farm. Right below Rocket Climber, we try to do justice to the desperate debate between Virco and Kismisaros, which revolves around matchboxes. I am interested in the whole driving school, because I know little, but most of the boys very much the father of Virco and Kismesaros. Ferkó got this little Ferrari from the West, which according to Ferkó, his father smuggled it home from Jugó when they got home from the IBUSZ trip, which makes the matchbox even more exciting, and it’s no wonder Little Butter’s teeth hurt so much.
What is a matinee?
On Sunday mornings, we feature excerpts from a novel, mostly by contemporaries, with great lyrics and stories. If you like, the author, title, publisher, or library or library direction is at the bottom of the page.
You can find the Matiné harvest here.
But whether a blue Lamborghini is enough to trade, the debate continues, and Virco would like more, says a hundred forints, I listen in cold weather, with a bit of luck, four football teams came out, a six-round mini-cycle, because I’m interested With a button soccer game, but I’m alone in the yard though, that’s right, I rarely go out, you can play soccer in the apartment anyway, for example in a well-painted toy Cabinet door, not between rusting swings and climbing frames, not even on a table Cracked concrete table tennis. So a red Ferrari is worth a hundred forints, Kissiszaros asks, a hundred and a blue Lamborghini, Ferco replies, Now I can’t say anything, a Lamborghini seems to be of great value in itself, even if it was not smuggled from Jugó, but bought in a store In dollars, so it’s western too. Hence expecting even that much money to donate to another small car, a small tower soccer team, is frankly unthinkable. However, the tension is not, I really feel the two cars on the seat, the two boys are sweating, they are two wolves, after a hundred blue Lamborghinis, no one is talking, no one is moving, not even us, witnesses, I feel like it’s no longer just about two little cars.
This silence is broken by a creaking and creaking sound. Let’s look, it’s the black bike boy. He is a huge man, suddenly blond, freckled, with cut-out eyes, the blue of his eyes burning so cold that one should swallow in fear, at least if that person was me. He’s a huge guy, he just wears a sweatshirt, broad shoulders, muscular arms, and he’s tall too, of course he might look like that because of the bike. I stare at him, Kismissarus and Firco stare at us too, still a little around the rocket climber, but no one is moving.
“Nice boxers,” says the black biker boy, so, with just one swallow, no one dares to fix it. “Nice boxers,” he repeats, sticking his head toward matchboxes, then looking at the little butcher, “yours, right?” , he nodded at the matchboxes again. “To her and I,” said Virco, at last, the black bike-riding boy turned to him in surprise, “who asked me,” roaring at him. “It’s as if we’re in a business meeting, that’s a Ferrari,” said Firco, “his red,” the most ridiculous of us, but his courage seems chiefly fueled by the closeness of the butcher and the butcher is now very close, the butcher filling his room for a stolen cigarette. “Nice boxers, brother, that red, so it suits me very well,” said the black cyclist, his mouth extending into a wide grin, my hands clenched into a fist in my pocket, I saw mouths open so wide he smiled, Gyuri’s mouth like that, when he walks up to give you Coke, preferably his hand on the seal ring, or shake your hair, in the ear where it hurts the most, and the smile of the neighbor’s postman Besta is like that when he hits the dog with a chain if his barking bothers him. My hand clenched into my pocket, and the black-bike boy got off the bike, just let go of the bike, and leaned to the side, in the tall grass, who knows, because it wasn’t mowed, the rear wheel spinning freely, ringing and pinching near the black cyclist boy, who already seems to be Not tall and broad, right and muscular, he no longer stands above us, and yet he seems to come closer, and stops over matchboxes, hands clasped, palms open, looking at the calf.
I look at Virko too, I’d better close my eyes, and see none of everything, or not be here, to play soccer at home on the painted closet door, Szokolai bothered to look at him, we’ve been friends since we’ve been in Preschool age, that’s what it would be like, I don’t know yet until we get married. I look at Firko, Firko shivering, starting to sweat in his temple. The black cyclist looks at the matchboxes with his head, then at Firko, waves his head at the small cars, then in the palm of his hand the fool, perhaps even Madzack, will understand the colony. Virco looks at the little butcher, and I look at him too, his face also red, and a tear appeared in the corner of his eye, and he killed him, an eighth-grader, you know what it is,” he sighs, his end trembling and his mouth snarling.
The smile of the black boy on the motorbike would be wider and harsher, now he is waving his hand, flexing his open fingers and giving him the small cars, looking a little annoyed why he needs so much masira. have it and done. Meanwhile, with his other hand, he slaps Virco unexpectedly, gently, without any effort, Virco’s face rests, his palm remaining red, why should I see this, why should I hear this, I feel tears gathering in my eyes, as if he clicked on My face slap while tears pooled in my eyes When Virko’s scalp chapped in the wake of Coke Gyuri Ba, tears pool in my eyes, I don’t want to see this, Janxica gather, begin, Szukolay inserts I want to see, Tears well in my eyes, I feel they are running down my face, I pull my hand out of my pocket, my hand clenched into a fist, inside it in a green box Team Fradi 1980-81 Champion with a hardened Jancsika, I’m not a rocker, nor Jancsika, so that’s what they call it, but now I’m holding the Fradi Champions in my fist, and that hand in the fist comes out, it’s not my hand, it’s the real fist, I find the black-faced boy riding a bike, not expecting the hit, from here not on Launching, I don’t expect resistance, his head twists, he’s already decided when I hit him again, he falls next to the bike, in the tall grass, he almost disappears into it.
Janus Hass: My father would be a giant
21st Century Publisher, 2022
“Friendly thinker. Wannabe social media geek. Extreme student. Total troublemaker. Web evangelist. Tv advocate.”