Well, I suppose I must face the reckoning. I have executed my shopping maneuvers in an expedient, dare I say admirable, fashion, but the end is upon me. As Pliny the Elder said, “The happier the moment, the shorter.” We can’t remain in the bakery section all day now, can we? Or even in the butchery, where I would be content to idle a while by that handsome roast, dreaming of next Sunday’s Tafelspitz. Speaking of, did I get the cherries for Else’s streudel? Yes, of course you did, you wretch--- your fingers are stained with their ripe juice, just like Mitzi’s tender—Enough! Now is no time for a fit of weakness. You’ll stain more than your fingers with juice carrying on like that. Despicable! I shall now choose a line and face my destiny like a man.
Schade, they are so long! Wait, aisle three appears to be manageable. Yes three, the trinity, it has been chosen. I swear my allegiance to aisle three. Look at those idiots waiting among the masses. They veritably will their own suffering. A simple survey of the field and some swift arithmetic would save them from their misery. But, no—the slightest exercise of the intellect is beyond the functioning of their atavistic brain. Here is your democracy in action, you rabble. Truly amazing, the amount of degenerates who have slithered into the capital lately. Look at the goiter on that cretin!
I’m sorry, what? What? 15 items? Well, how should I know? Do you make a habit of counting your comestibles? It sounds positively morbid! Other line? But have you seen the length? You expect me to stand behind that deformed creature? This is an outrage! Sladoled, my Veronal! I feel flush.
I almost wish I had suffered the view of that throbbing goiter now. At least I would be nearly to the register. Instead, I ended up behind the whole shtetl. How can such repulsive people create so many children? This freckled one here at my knee will probably grow up to write socialist filth. While this one has the physiognomy of a dynamiter. And stop eyeing my profiteroles! Shameless indecency the way they just let their children ogle their social superiors. A good horsewhip on the behind is what you need, just like they used to do at the Theresianum. I can still feel that stiff black leather biting red into my young flesh. Now, that is how you make a man! No, no, no! No! I am not getting aroused. It’s just my girdle constricting. Most unappetizing! I can’t even eat these profiteroles. And what’s happened to my Pfeffernusse? They’re crumbling before my eyes—just like my beloved empire! Oh, when will this anguish cease? Sladoled, where is that infernal Veronal?
Well, at least I can see the periodicals now. You may as well go fetch us a hansom cab, Sladoled. T’wont be but a minute now. So, what say the scribblers and slogan-mongers today? My god, does the press know no bounds of decency? Look at that slender Tartaress, nearly totally naked at the beach. And, here, a story of drug addiction. And, oh, I’m going to be sick. They’re photographing the terminally ill in color! Inside a manual for prostitutes?! Say, what’s that sound? Not my girdle ripping! Think of your mothe—no, your commanding offic- no, Nana on her deathbed. Yes, I believe that did the trick. God, what is happening to my mind? Is my brain softening? Perhaps a chocolate bar will help, with a sprinkle of Veronal in the Marzipan center.
At last, the register. Well, my cherries have surely wilted by now, but the important thing is I did not desert my duty, for without duty there is no honor. And as Pliny the Elder said, “Let honor be to us as strong an obligation as necessity is to others.” I will not go home empty-handed this time. But it’s no wonder I waited so long. How slow this hideous woman moves. Chop-chop, my homely fraulein! An officer has his orders. My what? Club card?! Dear god, woman, do I look like I would belong to the same club as you? Insolence! And what? Ate a Whatchamacallit? Well, I don’t know what it was called either, but, yes, I did eat a chocolate bar and I’m not paying for it. There was no marzipan inside and tasted like the sole of a Slav’s foot.
What’s that? Do I want help out?! What do you take me for, a cripple! You have the gall not only to handle my profiteroles with reckless disregard but on top of that to insult my manhood? Well, madam, I’ll have you know that according to Paragraph 114 of the Imperial army’s criminal code, the urgent defense of honor with the aid of a weapon is not only legal but mandatory when the honor of the officer is under attack without provocation and in the presence of one or more persons. Sladoled, my saber! Sladoled? Oh, even my servants have turned on me! But what else should I expect from a damn Czech? Autonomy, they say? Treason-- that's what I say! Despicable treason!
Well, I see you have left me no choice, madam. If you would just hand over what remains of my abused pastries, you may keep the rest of these vittles. Frankly, I don’t care what you do with them! Stuff them down you gaping hole or fling them to the wretches behind me. I have no use for groceries where I’m headed. To my study, where a bottle of schnapps and loaded pistol will give me all the nourishment I need.
**Note: This conceit is a riff on (or shameless theft of) Arthur Schnitzler's 1901 novella Lt. Gustl.
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