Blue Horde - Babiuk, Darvin
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The Blue Horde's soldier, Murat, reminded Naz of an obese Caspian seal with mange, a delipidated upright freezer with a patchy beard, Brutus' stupider and eviler twin brother. His head was shaved into a crew cut like a dog's chewed-up and spit upon tennis ball. He had eyes liked stewed teabags, skin the colour of old newspaper, ears like the handles of a rugby trophy, distended and with more hair in and on them than a wild pig. There was a scar running down his cheek that looked like the two pieces had been joined with a welding torch. His teeth were yellow and stained, crooked, half of them…mehr

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Produktbeschreibung
The Blue Horde's soldier, Murat, reminded Naz of an obese Caspian seal with mange, a delipidated upright freezer with a patchy beard, Brutus' stupider and eviler twin brother. His head was shaved into a crew cut like a dog's chewed-up and spit upon tennis ball. He had eyes liked stewed teabags, skin the colour of old newspaper, ears like the handles of a rugby trophy, distended and with more hair in and on them than a wild pig. There was a scar running down his cheek that looked like the two pieces had been joined with a welding torch. His teeth were yellow and stained, crooked, half of them stainless steel crowns and fillings. Complete the portrait with grey-black stubble littered over acne scars like the ice on the Ural River just after spring breakup. It smelled like he was hoarding a sack of goose shit under a stinking sweatshirt that looked like it had been washed in an ashtray. The stink of body odour - deadly, like with most sub-humans - stuck on him like lesions on a leper. There was something hard and unformed about him, like a man who had grown up forced to eat gravel and had a soul full of ashes to match. Naz scanned the walking Douglas Fir tree for crude prison tattoos and her suspicions were confirmed. If this - what? "Man" didn't describe him -- wasn't vor, then he was only a short droshky ride away.
Autorenporträt
Author of his own misfortunes, Darvin Babiuk writes history, novels, short stories, translations, articles, shopping lists, and has more than once been considered a write-off. He hopes to be around to write his own obituary. Friends and relatives say he has never been the same after the tragic incident at the Moose Factory 47th annual Dmitro Petrycyshyn Pickerel and Perogies Cribbage tournament. His turn-ons include women with mustaches, Men Without Hats (The musical group, silly!), honey Dijon mustard and leopard frogs. If he were a vegetable, he'd be a beet, pithy but misunderstood. He wishes he could write like Scarlett Johansson's voice sounds. He has lived and worked in a number of overseas locations in Asia, Africa and the Middle East.