Wednesday, November 19, 2008

Verdict: Vikernes

After several sad, unsuccessful forays into reality programming, the Norwegian Broadcasting Corporation (NRK) finally stumbles upon the winning formula in late 2008, shortly after Burzum mastermind and convicted murderer Varg “Count Grishnackh” Vikernes is released on parole. It’s a stroke of pure, unmitigated genius from the otherwise morose producers at the NRK: Why not give the national bogeyman his own TV show, complete with pretentious rhetoric, full-costume Tolkien readings and ultra-nationalist high jinks? Better yet, why not give him a gavel and a robe and prop him up as a celebrity arbiter, Judge Judy-style? Of course, it’s no fun unless the decisions are legally binding, so all litigants are required to sign a waiver agreeing that the Count’s verdicts are final.

And now we take you to today’s hearings, already in progress…

What you are witnessing is real. The participants ARE NOT actors. They are actual litigants with a case pending in a Norwegian municipal court. Both parties have agreed to dismiss their court cases and have their disputes settled here, in our forum: Count Grishnackh’s Court.

Count Grishnackh
: Mr. Tiegs, am I to understand that your Lhasa Apso micturated upon the plaintiff’s Persian rug?

Roger Tiegs: Infernus, your honor.

Grishnackh: Come again?

Tiegs: That’s my stage name, your honor—you know, my nom de guerre? I figure if you get to use yours, then…

Grishnackh: Silence! I will suffer neither fools nor insubordination in my courtroom. Especially from someone who runs around calling himself “Satan’s Minister On Earth” and has the audacity to show up with all that shit on his face. You’re lucky I don’t hold you in contempt. So, pretty please—with sugar on top—just answer the question, Mr. Tiegs.

Tiegs: [Rolls eyes] Your honor, Snickers—the dog, I mean—didn’t do anything to Gaahl’s… I mean Mr. Espedal’s… I mean the plaintiff’s rug.

Gaahl: That’s bullshit, your honor! Snickers blew a hot, smelly piss all over my new Persian and then left a steaming dump at the end of the driveway. My mother stepped in it when she was bringing me my blankie and a bottle of warm breast milk, your honor.

Grishnackh: I’ll ask you to wait your turn before opening your goddamn piehole, Mr. Espedal. But tell me more about this “blankie” of which you speak. And, uh, the breast milk…

Gaahl: Oh, did I say that out loud? Sorry, your honor.

Grishnackh: You’ve been in this courtroom before, haven’t you, Mr. Espedal?

Gaahl: Not this particular courtroom, your honor, but one very similar to it, yes. It went badly.

Grishnackh: So I’m told, Mr. Espedal; so I’m told. And what about these damages you’re seeking from the defendant? 190,000 kroner seems like a lot for a rug. Mighty Jewish of you, isn’t that, Mr. Espedal? And it says here… [Puts on eyeglasses, which are around his neck on a tasteful silver chain] that you also want Mr. Tiegs to be crucified “for as long as the court will legally allow.” There’s also something about the blood of his firstborn. Isn’t this a bit excessive—even for you, Mr. Espedal?

Gaahl: Well, you see, this rug, your honor…

Grishnackh: I know, I know—I read the complaint, Mr. Espedal. “It really tied the room together.” We’ve all seen the film. But the question I have is one of motive: Why would Snickers urinate on your rug in the first place?

Gaahl: Infernus told him to do it, your honor. He’s a dog whisperer.

Grishnackh: Can you prove this, Mr. Espedal?

Gaahl: [Begins fingering his Mjolnir pendant compulsively] Well … no, your honor. But I know it to be true!

Grishnackh: [Sighs] Mr. Tiegs, are you a dog whisperer?

Tiegs: Puh-lease, your honor. I can’t even get him to listen to me when I’m talking out loud.

Grishnackh: Right. Well, just the same, I’m finding in favor of the plaintiff. As we all know, the Lhasa Apso is an inferior Oriental breed incapable of advanced Aryan aptitudes like bladder control. But 190,000 kroner for a rug is ridiculous. The defendant is ordered to pay damages in the amount of 75,000 and … oh, let’s say a pint of blood from his firstborn. [Bangs gavel] Next case!

This bullshit originally appeared in the June 2008 issue of Decibel magazine.

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