XXXII. In the Soup
Dave “the Dude” Devoran, free‑market ambassador, came to Hungary to find his fortune, but he has run into a few snags. In previous episodes, Dave was forced into the gun smuggling business and a friend tried to get him out of it by enticing the mob to intervene. What follows is Episode XXXII.
By Berger Bronte
(© Tom Popper)
Hungary will soon celebrate its 1,100th anniversary, but I know that this country is much older than that. When the very first Christians fled persecution by the Roman Empire, they found sanctuary in the Carpathian Basin. Here, they established a Paradise on Earth and sired the Magyar race. Few people know about this story. But I have collected historical evidence to prove it is true — including maps and a document resembling an ancient precursor to “Fodor’s Guide to Hungary,” which were found at a dig in Israel. When my party, the Pre‑Szent István Part, takes power, everyone will learn of the great role that this nation and its people were meant to assume. We will re‑build our army and take our rightful place as the rulers of Europe. And I, Dr. Gazember, will lead the way.
First, of course, I have to win the election, which is proving troublesome. I’ve been having a rough time with this campaigning stuff, because I’m a little short of cash.
I struck on a plan to raise money by smuggling guns to former Yugoslavia. My party had a few spare armaments lying around — and what do I care if the fools down there kill each other? Everything was going fine until the American lawyer screwed things up. He told me that the best place to stash the weapons was in the home of his friend David Devoran. But somehow the Lithuanian mob found out about the guns and stole them. The guilty parties must pay for this afront to the people of Hungary.
Already, a faithful supporter of the cause who lives in New Brunswick, N.J., has taken care of the lawyer: The attorney was surprised while sitting on the toilet in his home. He had his skull beaten in with a baseball bat. A very American way to die.
Now I sit in a small farmhouse in western Hungary and watch as our party’s candidate for defense minister, and our candidate for minister of international economic relations, torture a Lithuanian by dunking his face in hot fish soup. The fish, by the way, was the symbol of the early Christians, and I believe that our forefathers settled here because they enjoyed the fine carp to be had in the Duna and Tisza rivers. Hungary’s famous halleves was probably invented by Christ’s first disciples. All this information can be found in my treatise: “The Magi’s Magyars.” It will be a bestseller when I am prime minister.
Anyway, our party’s candidate for minister of international economic relations pulls the gangster’s head out of the scalding soup and asks him again: “Where are the weapons that your mob stole from us? They are out in the woods now, killing your colleague. Why don’t you tell us, before the same happens to you?”
The poor Lithuanian’s face is badly burned. He has a huge blister that is about five centimeters thick and covers his entire forehead. His lips are blistered too, so he cannot put them together as he speaks, but he manages to spit out words anyway: “You are insane to do this! I am with the Lithuanian mob! You cannot cross them! They will kill you all!”
“Ah, but you have crossed the Hungarian people,” I tell him. “You have awakened the sleeping lion, and you must taste his revenge.” I signal with my finger, and the two ministerial candidates push the man’s head back in the soup. We hear the horrid sound of a scream smothered in fish consomé. It is a most upsetting noise, and it occurs to me that it will probably be a week before I am able to properly enjoy my country’s wonderful national dish again.
We have been torturing this poor, blistered man, and his fellow gangster since early this morning. It was easy to kidnap them. All we had to do was promise to take them to a warehouse where we told them there were two truckloads of stolen hair dryers. The fools thought they would make a killing. Instead they will be killed.
Just as our captive’s face is lifted again, and he is given another chance to speak, the door of the farmhouse bursts open. Our candidate for Parliamentary faction leader is holding up our candidate for minister of sport, who is bleeding badly from the neck.
“He had a knife. We didn’t know,” the Parliamentary faction candidate gasps. “He has escaped.”
This is an annoying setback. The escaped gangster will reveal our identities. We will have to prepare for a counter attack from the Lithuanian mob. We will also probably have to find a new candidate for minister of sport.
Campaigning is such a complicated process, but I suppose it’s the price we pay for democracy.