“Gantulga has killed another motorcycle rider this week. I was there! The man was trying to sell us electronics, when I hear Gantulga yell ‘etsegtei shaalga’, so I look over to where the motorcycle man had been, and there he was, on the dirt, bleeding a river. Gantulga was dancing over him, swinging that wooden stick, and smiling like a devil.”
Oyuunchimeg silently listened to the young boy’s story. He didn’t mind the occasional murder, he was the oldest man on the steppe, and liked how Gantulga held on to the old ways, riding horses, shooting his bow, even drinking airag still. In the year 2147 most men preferred the clear alcohol sold by Turks.
The number of dead city people was getting to be a problem though, as Gantulga had lately refused to bury them. ‘Let the birds feast on these useless city rats!’ he’d say.
Gantulga seemed very much different since the first time his horse kicked his head, 2 months ago on the first day of the year. Since then, he had been head kicked 17 times. It was obvious early on, after the third or fourth time that he was intentionally getting the horse to kick him.
Gantulga had also been drunk every night since the new year, always trying to show the younger men how to hit each other with fists, never sleeping, and spending many hours in his ger doing mysterious things. As Oyuunchimeg sat on the ground quietly thinking of all these things, Gantulga drunkenly emerged from his ger and proclaimed “I have just written 4 books on how to properly kill motorcycle men and city sissies.” In his hand were 4 leather bound, hand written books. Oyuunchimeg took one from him and tried to decipher it, but the writing was strange to him. Gantulga had never been to the city, and thus had never learned to read, much less write. This was troubling. Oyuunchimeg became worried Gantulga was indeed insane.