by Die Marsleute

(Schweickert & Andersen)

{and an unmitigated celebration of bad writing}

      "Encore Merde!!" she fuméed (substituting French for her pardon-my-french) "By the prepuce of our Lord, how am I ever going to get the Mother Superior to spring for some Nautilus machines and some free weights?"

      The Convent of Mounting Mary Magdalena, a quarter of the way up Das Schreckkind from Oberundsoweiter, was the last remnant of the semi-famous order of climbing nuns founded in the 12th century and foundering now. There were only a handful of nuns left in the order out of sheer tenacity since the Pope had declared the order "silly" and had unofficially disbanded it. But they were the darlings of the Alpine climbing elite and survived by running a small climbing school, serving as guides, and producing, by way of their cows, the locally renowned Schreckkind Käse, a cheese, that if left alone would literally hop off your kitchen counter and make a break for your front door and freedom.

      There were many climbers who would gladly pay for the convent's high-priced guide services in order to tell friends back home "Yeah, we were climbing with Sister Fredonia Bergschrund...see the next slide...that's me and Sister Freddie... you ain't climbed until you've climbed with a nun." and so forth.

      Sister Mac had come to the order via their outreach brochure at the local women's health clinic in Innsbruck. True to her "jungfraulich" name (Gemütlichkeit) Sister Mac had once played the role of "Welcome Wagon" for the Bayern-München football team but wised up, swore off men, and swore on Christ and Climbing, quite a bit more of the latter than the former. But that was years and even more months ago. Sister Mac stepped out of the barn and glared up at Das Schreckkind. The mountain seemed to regard her with contempt, as if saying "Don't even bother with attempting me, you scrofulous little penguin. Many have tried and most have died." This was true. In the past 800 years over 350 nuns had perished on Das Schreckkind. Some just disappearing, some plummeting in a black and white flash like an apoplectic bald eagle through 1600 meters of freefall, or others rolling down the icefield like macabre monochromatic dervishes into a crystalline grave.

      "Shoot!" she ejected, her workout finished "What a glute burn!" recalling, not so fondly, her years as the Bayern-München tasty-trollop when her cheeks had been the subject of substantial deutschmarks lost and won. She could "plant em" over a 50 pfennig piece on a beer-slopped table, squeeze most demurely, heft, and deposit with a release worthy of a loose wristed Isiah Thomas, a free-throw swish into the stein of a flabbergasted (and delighted) Stuttgart Gemeinschaft goalie's zwei-mark beer. She and the boys had made enough on bets to supply the team with night-long orgies of beer and bratwurst. The bad old days actually never really seemed that bad.

      The order of climbing nuns had existed on climbers, cheese, and good will for over 800 years. Das Schreckkind was prized in climbing circles and the nuns kept in shape by bovine squats and other beefy lifts. Pumping calves was officially endorsed by a papal encyclical in 1354 and had remained the "modus trainus" ever since. Sister Mac, her workout done decided to descend and wander around the hopelessly touristified town of Oberundsoweiter. The town had become a Mecca for the climbing elite and the toadies that clung to them like lint on velour. There were many routes up the Grossvater Massif. One could top the Brustenhalten of the Grossmutti and sneak up the backside of Das Schreckkind and claimed you had conquered it. But everyone knew, and even those who didn't know, knew that Das Schreckkind was a killer.

      "Killer-Diller-Schmiller," Esperanza had a plan. "First a gin and tonic and then I need to find a partner, one with cojones, even if they are ovaries. They’re so rare, but maybe hanging around these climbing watering holes will help."

Meanwhile

      Françoise glanced at the postcards on the stand outside the Eis, Eisen, und Tod Bar and Grill and picked up the one of the Convent of Mounting Mary Magdalena. "What an odd little convent" Françoise mused. She knew of the climbing nuns and had dismissed them as if they were English muffins left too long on the buffet, butter congealing. How dismal the town of Oberundsoweiter was with its patron saint, Santa Voluptua. Françoise thought that she was probably the patroness of all Chevy back seats, having had a vision of the Christ child combing his hair with Brylcream. And after having fired those cynical neurons she entered the Eis, Eisen, und Tod.

      Why was she here? Das Schreckkind of course, but did she really think that was it? And why was that nun glaring at her in the bar as if she had missed a catechism?

     Françoise had been called many things by many ex-lovers (e.g., Berg Bitch). She didn't care; in fact she reveled in having defeated those narcissistic wimps at their own games. She had soloed a route up Mittwoch Madness that had left Günther and Hans quivering, afloat in their own effluvia.