The morning air is so cold it stinks.
The Babushka with six gold teeth growls at me when she opens the door. She watches me put bags on my feet. She nods and leaves. The school is well lit. The early kids roam about.
Inside the second entry there is a table. On the table is a giant paper-mache rooster. One of the Russian teachers stands over it, hand to chin. She smiles at me when I walk in.
“It is a very nice cock,” she says. I nod. I’m used to the toilet humor that results from translation errors. I only smirk, slightly.
A child walks by. The teacher points to the Rooster.
“Have you seen the big cock?” she asks the child.
I cough lightly. My throat begins to itch.
“Cock?” The child asks.
The teacher points to the rooster. “Yes, cock. Can you say big cock?”
“Big cock!” the child repeats. The teacher claps, I feel tension in my chest. I take a cough drop from my pocket and place it in my mouth. The coughing settles.
More children are mulling around. A teaching moment, it seems. The teacher gathers them together. She asks the first child what the bird is.
“A cock?” the child asks.
“Very good” the teacher says. The pressure in my chest is increasing,
I’m above this, I tell myself.
“Is it a big cock?” the teacher opens her arms wide, “or a small cock?” she pinches her fingers together.
“Small?” one child says, sheepishly.
The teacher frowns. “Noo, it is big. Can you say big?”
“Big!” the children cry.
“Big Cock,” the teacher says.
“Big cock!” the children repeat.
I begin shaking my head. The pressure in my chest has become a dull pain now.
The teacher makes a frowny face “Is it ugly?” she smiles, “or beautiful?”
“Beautiful!” the children cry.
I hear a cracking sound. The pain in my chest has gone sharp and cold.
“Big beautiful cock!” the teacher says, then, cups her ear towards the children.
“Big beautiful cock!” they all cry.
I close my eyes and swallow hard. It’s no use.
My chest cavity bursts open. Blood flies out over the hallway. The children all turn to me and stare at my torso, horrified.
A small twelve-year-old boy falls out of my chest onto the floor. He is covered in wet red slime. Some organ or another is caught in between his ring and middle finger.
There is a panic. The children begin running in all directions, screaming. The teacher herds them in to a corner blocking them from the gore with her own body; she is a good teacher.
I slump back against the wall.
The twelve-year-old boy rolls around on the floor, smearing blood and guts all over, pissing himself laughing.
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