slow death

On the outskirts of the village among pheasants and hares and below the power lines heading to the ghost town of Milk Production Facility 3 is a stone cross of gneiss ferried down the Maros from the Carpathians and carved by unknown craftsmen in the Maltese style, raised in honor of Miklós Csáki, the Bishop of Csanád, who had an iron rod stuck up his ass* by rebellious peasants on a late June day in 1514.

His captors had been careful, so the Bishop hung there alive for three days watching the flow of the brook that once meandered free across the plain but that now trickled in an arrow-straight path of marshy reeds that Csáki would certainly not recognize as the waters that had reminded him that he would soon be joining his maker as need be, must be, will be.

All the party leaders and coop members had been there for the ribbon cutting along with four new red Belorus tractors and 60 head of Holstein just brought in from the DDR. But when the changes came, Milk Production Facility 3 was bought by a Dutch dairy concern and shut down in a matter of weeks.

So Kovi figured this would be just as good a place as any to hide the body. He knew the place well. There, behind building three. "That's where the shit goes," his boss had told him on his first day. Just following orders.

They take everything from you and stick you in the ass and leave you there and expect you to rot but I'm not gonna let em do it to me dammit.

Floods are rare these days.