The Assassin

By Glenn Horvath, 2020

In a small village outside Leipzig

there lived an ex-patriot named Peter Baldrian, age 59.

By all accounts he was a law abiding American citizen living and working in the Eastern part of Germany. He was originally from North Dakota, but that prove too small and provincial for his ambitious nature. Like every ex-patriot, he had to sacrifice his family, friends, and lovers in the US to fly to the old world and fulfil his destiny, follow his dream.

He had lived and worked as an English teacher and translator in various countries in Asia and Europe, but he finally landed in Leipzig to work at the international school there.

He was quite a scholarly type who also played and taught guitar semi-professionally and enjoyed people and travel.

For this story, he did have a touch of the wild rock n’ roll soul because of his experiences travelling in America and playing guitar professionally in the American west, and living out of a suitcase in different towns... (and incidentally, his life in Germany had effected his taming of run-on sentences!)

Peter liked to break the rules and could not stand any broach on his personal freedom or

any distasteful disagreement of his opinions.

He might be said to have been arrogant and selfish

if not for his sometime helpful nature.

If things didn’t serve his cause, they weren’t worth pursuing.

He didn’t suffer fools well,

or any interruptions to his personal pleasures.

He was his own number one.

Moving out of Leipzig to a small village was not really his idea but that of his then girlfriend, Brunhilde.

He did it for love.

They rented a very nice house, with two cats in the yard,

fenced-in , and a big cherry tree in the garden.

There was also space for Peter’s dog, Peter Jr., and a big porch to sit on and drink their wonderful German dark beer

til early light, reflecting on their rustic lives.

The rental house had a fireplace,

and downstairs in the basement there was room for Pete’s musical projects. He would invite musicians over and jam and write songs.

He did have neighbours, but only one was built right next to his house, specifically really near his bedroom window.

It was within earshot and below was a chicken coop

with some chickens and a rooster.

And here lies the crux of the story...

The rooster, with it’s loud beaky mouth,

beady eyes, 20 feet from Peter’s bedroom window,

was a pain -in -the ass ear splitting cock!

In German: Keek- erie- kee, or in English:

Cock –a- doodle doo, blaring

at 5:30 in the morning, every morning!

An act every rooster performs with punctual exactness:

“Similar to other birds, roosters actually have an internal clock that helps them anticipate the sunrise. ... Basically, those ear-splitting caw-caws serve as a warning shot, a way for a rooster to establish its territory with the morning light. By crowing, a rooster is warning other roosters not to trespass—or else! " Wiki

Peter accepted this noise, this crowing for the first few months as an agitation and part of village life. Even if he’d rather not admit it, it was a bit charming; the church bells near bye and the rooster caw-cawing and the chickens clucking...

But as life would have it Peter and Brunhilde would eventually have visitors. None more important than Peter’s parents. They made the journey from N. Dakota all the way to the tiny German village to visit their wayward son and his love. Peter missed his parents deeply and because they were in their 80’s, Peter wanted their stay to be comfortable and memorable.

Well, enter stage left - Beelzebub the Rooster.

Any long trip between America and Germany involves jet lag and a certain weariness. Instead of a full night’s sleep, the older , Susan and Philip, and Petey and Brunhilde, had the “joy” of waking up at the dawn's crack to Herr Rooster’s caw-caws and cock-adoodle's. Even with the windows closed in the hot summer, it was very loud!

Peter’s parents were of the lucky class of Americans at home with their 2 acres and peaceful neighbors.

Needless to say, both of Peter’s parents were strung out the whole of their short visit with the disturbance of their rest. Peter’s father would grouchily complain “fuckin’ rooster, Pete” and “what the hell, Peter, your poor mom, c’mon! , Jeezus Peter,do something!!"

Complaints and admonishments that were dredging up Peter’s childhood feelings of inadequacy and failure.

Peter’s mom suffered in silence

which wounded Peter even more.

Peter’s parents asked if they could move to a hotel to finally be able to sleep and relax.

Peter agreed and proceeded to check his parents unknowingly to an upscale brothel in the city center of Leipzig, the Pepper Mill. They were all a bit confused on entering by the huge painting in the lobby of an orgy of barely clad figures relaxing by a pool in a huge indoor garden. Sunlight bathed the flowers in a golden light and with rippling shine on the pools surface. More than a couple of breasts were enlightened. Peter’s father was disgusted, but his mother approved of the “European art”.

Let’s just say they quickly transferred to another hotel and eventually flew back home and Peter said "Aufwiedersehen" goodbye to his parents and then returned home to quench his wrath on this little white devil next door who sonically humiliated him.

Peter made a plan.

He told no one, not even Brunny.

Peter had in his possession an air pump BB gun. Not a toy.

Peter waited until early morning before his neighbor Herr Heinrich Himmel was awake, but the rooster was in full operatic at the usual 5am, waking up the god damn neighborhood. Peter quickly crept to the fence separating the two properties and crawled under some old roofing lying suspended on his lawn. Peter crawled right up to the fence near to the coop’s door where he knew the little devil would eventually strut. And just as planned, Peter’s enemy came around the coop facing Peter’s outstretched gun, protruding through the metal fence.

Ssst-Plop! The rooster’s head exploded with the force of the thrice pumped air gun and bb pellet. The rooster danced it's death dance. Pete shot again and again and downed the demon while feathers flew wildly about.

Peter quickly backed out of his cover and secretly climbed over the fence to retrieve the now dead creature. Pete prayed Heinrich was not looking out the window. He had murdered his neighbor’s innocent fowl in cold blood. He performed a criminal act. A merciless act. He felt no remorse, for it was as if he had just thrown a strident, raucous alarm clock against the wall, breaking it into a hundred satisfying pieces.

Sweet silence now. Sweet morning silence.

Peter was also a bit nervous because this was Germany, and as a foreigner killing neighbours animals, there might be reason for him to be ejected from the country. It was nicht in ordnung. If caught he would surely also feel the wrath of his neighbour and the whole village. He probably would make the regional newspaper because the story was so scandalous.

So Peter quickly brought the dead rooster home wrapped in newspaper and then he stuffed it into a cotton Lidl shopping bag, complete with the bloodstain spots of his passion play.

He then went outside in the dim morning light and put the chicken bag into his trunk and quietly closed it. It was at this exact point his neighbor Herr Himmel quickly came out his front door, which faced the parked car. He was excited and mumbling something to himself.

He reached Peter at his car and asked in German :

“Have you seen Col. Sanders? My rooster”

“he is gone and feathers and blood are everywhere. Have you seen or heard anything Herr Baldrian? I can't believe he would just dissapear. He was a gift from my first wife."

“Who would take my bird? Why?” asked Himmel

“I don’t know!” exclaimed Peter. And after a bit of thought he offered,

“maybe a hawk took him up or a fox broke into your coop?!”

All Peter could think of was the silent dead rooster as it lay crumpled in the trunk less than a meter from the grieving Herr Himmel.

Peter's neighbor never put it together or at least never showed any signs of distrust toward Peter, as far as he could tell. Even though Peter was outside, near the scene of the crime at the crack of dawn, putting something in his trunk, with a guilty pale countenance. Himmel never accused Peter of the crime. No neighbors saw or heard anything.

Thank goodness Peter had never complained to Himmel about the loud Rooster's crowing so early. Peter buried the bird in a farm field far from his home.

Peter woke to silence the next morning and every morning thereafter, and in his mind he thought:

Some crimes do pay.

And now I can sleep like a dirty little baby.

author's note: Peter is NOT me.