This short story is only available in German.
“HEY FAGGOT, come here”, he screams, “Come on, I brought you something to trade for your lunch today!”
Victin is puzzled, could this be the day he had been waiting for? As he reaches in his bag, his other arm swings into Victin’s stomach like the mechanical motion of an activated mousetrap, leaving poor boy Victin a few milliseconds to hear the idiot scream “SQUASH” while he proceeds to feel his insides turn into Mom’s apricot jam. As soon as the Shrek-looking fellow disappears in a maze of school hallways, Victin picks himself up in a thoroughly practiced manner; this isn’t his first time.
The faces around the table were all looking at him, waiting for the decision to be made. They all owed their jobs to him, yet he knew few regarded him in much esteem. A lucky politician was how he had been labelled. What nonsense, as if luck alone wins an election, luck alone makes you Prime Minister. He looked at them one by one. About half met his look, half looked elsewhere. Junior ministers terrified of making a mistake at this first cabinet meeting since his election, old hats like the Foreign Secretary sitting there thinking they should be in his seat instead. The room remained silent while he remained undecided.