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The Girl with the Sturgeon Tattoo: A Parody, by Lars Arffssen
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Arguably the funniest novel to emerge from Northern Europe since the Black Death
A reindeer strangler has struck again; the world's leading authority on Baltic sturgeon has been filleted, and the head of Sweden's only unpublished thriller writer has been discovered some meters from his body.
Just a typical day in Stockholm's crime log? Or are the murders the works of a single killer? Chief Inspector Svenjamin Bubbles has a suspect: Lizzy Salamander, Scandinavia's most heavily tattooed girl-sociopath and hacker extraordinaire.
Mikael Blomberg believes Salamander has been framed. But if Salamander is innocent, who is the 4'10" girl ninja captured on a surveillance camera decapitating the failed novelist? And what has become of the unpublished manuscript that claimed to connect Sweden's most eco-friendly corporations to the twentieth century's greatest tyrant?
A shocking story of corruption and perversion that reaches to the highest echelons of the world's largest producer of inexpensive ready-to-assemble wooden bookcases, The Girl with the Sturgeon Tattoo delivers a hilarious―and gripping―parody of the best-selling novels by Stieg Larsson.
- Sales Rank: #1461151 in Books
- Published on: 2011-08-30
- Released on: 2011-08-30
- Original language: English
- Number of items: 1
- Dimensions: 8.50" h x .48" w x 5.50" l, .41 pounds
- Binding: Paperback
- 208 pages
Review
“Larsson fans are sure to enjoy a chuckle.” ―Publishers Weekly
“Sturgeon Tattoo is the kind of book Stieg Larsson might have dictated from beyond the grave to Mel Brooks.” ―The Los Angeles Times
About the Author
Before becoming an international publishing sensation, Lars Arffssen was best known in his home country as author of En Populär Historien om dem Svenska Köttbulle (A Popular History of the Swedish Meatball). He lives in Södermalm with his common-law wife and several children from various relationships.
Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.
ONE
FREDAG, JANUARI 7
63.7% of crimes of bestiality go unreported by their victims.
—SWEDISH TASK FORCE ON VICTIMS OF BESTIALITY, 2009
They lay naked on the ergonomic Dux mattress, limbs entwined like two meatballs. It was three in the afternoon, and already pitch-dark.
“Was it good for you, too?” Professor Dr. Sven Svenssen asked, turning on his side to face his new lover.
The girl nodded, then snapped him across the nose with her female condom. “That,” she said, “was for all the women you’ve anally raped.”
Dazed, the famous scientist rubbed his nostril. “What on earth?”
“And that,” she said, fiercely elbowing him in the liver, “is for touching your little sister in the bathtub.”
“Are you crazy? I don’t have a little sister.” Svenssen swore the three-fingered oath of the Nykterhetsrörelsens Scoutförbund, the Swedish scouting organization he belonged to as a youth, when he learned how to survive on elk scat and shriveled lingonberries.
“And this,” she said, brutally stabbing her iPod charger into his belly button, “is for tying your grandmother to the roof rack of your Volvo.”
“She was already frozen solid!” said Svenssen.
When the throbbing subsided, he eyed his new lover cautiously. She was still glowering at him, but her lips were quivering. He reached out and gave her death-black hair a tentative touch, where the red roots were starting to show. She acquiesced, breathing quietly.
“You’ve obviously had some unpleasant experiences with men,” he said gently.
The girl shrugged and then spat across the room. She wasn’t very ladylike. Nor very talkative. Life evidently had made her hard, Svenssen reflected. But he wasn’t going to pry.
She lit a cigarette and pulled the sheet across her breasts. It occurred to Svenssen that his were substantially larger than hers. Admittedly he had rather ample man-boobs. Her face, though, could be quite beautiful. Caught in the right light, she looked like Anita Ekberg on a hunger strike.
He noticed to his dismay that the girl was using the cigarette to burn little holes in his duvet cover. “Please don’t do that,” he said timidly.
She made a fist, as if to box his ears, but then reached over to his nightstand, searching for an ashtray. She found only books.
“You still read this?” She flipped through an old copy of Pippi Longstocking.
“One never outgrows Pippi,” he said.
“Pippi,” the girl said dismissively, “allowed her father to anally rape her.”
“I don’t recall. Was that in Pippi Goes to School?”
The girl didn’t answer. She grabbed another paperback from Svenssen’s night table. “How about this? Any good?”
It was the latest thriller by Henning Mankell.
“No, I’m afraid it’s trash. You can use it as an ashtray.”
Svenssen watched the girl smoke down her cigarette. Yes, she might be a clinically insane sociopath, he thought, but he was hardly in a position to complain. At six foot three and 185 pounds, Svenssen was a good deal shorter and fatter than his average male compatriot. Moreover, his complexion looked like Wasa crispbread. It had been a long time since he’d had sex without an exchange of thousands of kronor.
“You know, if you enjoyed it, we could do it again,” he said.
“Not now,” the girl said. “My vagina feels like raw Baltic salmon.”
The expression made him wince. She had few social graces. But there was something refreshing about her candor. “I meant, in the future.”
“Maybe.” From her black handbag next to the bed she removed her Ericsson Xperia X10 2.1 smartphone with 720p HD video recording and checked her calendar. “Tuesdays are a possibility.”
Svenssen checked his Ericsson Xperia X2a with 8.1 megapixel autofocus camera. “I’m afraid Tuesdays I play darts. What about Wednesdays?”
The girl shook her head. “Wednesdays I have kickboxing.”
“Thursdays?”
“Krav Maga.”
“Fridays?”
“That’s when I memorize pi.”
After some schedule juggling, they agreed to meet every other Sunday for an hour of semi-consensual intercourse.
“But you must promise to keep this discreet,” she said. “I like to keep a low profile.”
Just then they noticed Svenssen’s neighbor, a seventy-year-old retired stewardess for SAS, observing them from next door through a pair of night-vision binoculars.
Svenssen climbed from the bed and closed the curtains, but not before checking the window thermometer. Minus 37 degrees C. Up a degree from an hour before. Spring was on its way.
He slipped on a linen bathrobe and a pair of clogs and clumped to the kitchen. “Can I offer you some herring?” he called, peering into the fridge. “I have pickled, creamed, fried, kippered, sugarcoated, dollymopped, and licorice-rolled.”
The girl had followed him. She was entirely naked but carried an assault rifle. Where did that come from? he wondered. Had it been in her black daypack?
“Must you?” he said. “It makes me quite nervous.”
She set the rifle down. “Don’t you have any real food?”
Without waiting for an answer, she began rummaging through his cabinets. She had no breasts, no hips, no body fat. Yet she was quite elaborately tattooed. Across the length of her back ran a fastidious reproduction of Rudolph Zallinger’s famous The Age of Dinosaurs mural in Yale’s Peabody Museum. Svenssen recognized it from his graduate student days.
“You like dinosaurs?” he asked.
“These more.”
She had found a box of Twinkies. Svenssen blushed. He had a morbid love of American junk food. The more carcinogens and lethal GMOs, the better. Now he watched in astonishment as the emaciated girl stuffed Twinkie after Twinkie in her mouth, swallowing them whole.
“Hungry?” he asked.
“Mmmwm,” she said, spewing morsels of cake. When she finished, she grabbed her rifle and headed to Svenssen’s study. “C’mon,” she said. “Time to get to work.”
* * *
Blomberg smothered himself between Erotikka Berg’s ample and matronly Northern European breasts.
“A kiss for Boo,” he said, “and a kiss for Baa.”
Boo was slightly larger than Baa.
Erotikka squealed with lusty laughter. “I don’t know how you do it, Blomberg. I’m a forty-five-year-old married woman, and you make me feel like a husky in heat.”
Blomberg smiled to himself. His twenty-some-year affair with Erotikka was one of the few pleasures in his life these days. Overweight, underexercised, and hirsute in all the wrong places, he was still an amazing chick magnet, but his career as Sweden’s leading muckraking journalist was in decline. Last June, Blomberg’s magazine, Millennium, was purchased by an American media giant. The new publisher, a Harvard MBA with a 500-kronor-a-day cocaine habit, promised to respect the magazine’s independence, even after he renamed it BLINK! and fired the entire editorial staff. In its place, he hired a team that had previously driven the black salted licorice division of Svenska Fisk AB, producer of the popular Swedish gummy fish, into bankruptcy. Blomberg was asked to drop his multiyear investigation of a vast ring of corruption, prostitution, and ethnic cleansing involving the prime minister and the CEOs of Volvo, Saab, and H&M, and instead to do a story on ABBA’s plans to stage a Christmas reunion concert. Will they or not? Why won’t Anni-Frid say? Blomberg had resigned before he could be fired. Now he wrote his own online blog, Blomsday.
Life in the blogosphere was lonely. His recent piece on former tennis star Matt Wilander’s struggle with Nordic Dullness Syndrome (NDS) had been picked up by TV 4 Fakta and Radio Uppsala, but in general Blomberg missed the excitement of writing for a big newsmagazine with a circulation of over 5,000.
He continued to lavish attention on Boo and Baa. After he and Erotikka had achieved multiple simultaneous orgasms, he stretched in bed and said, “How about a nice cup of coffee?”
Erotikka’s husband Ralf Berg dutifully rose from his corner of the bed and brought Blomberg a steaming mug with three lumps of sugar, just the way he liked it. Then he retrieved a pack of cigarettes and lit one each for Blomberg and his wife.
“Thanks, Ralf.”
“You’re welcome, Mikael.”
“Thanks, Ralf.”
“You’re welcome, Erotikka.”
Erotikka’s husband suspected that Blomberg and Erotikka were having an affair, but he appeared not to mind. He was a firm believer in the Swedish Constitution’s Third Amendment, the Right to Free and Multiple Sexual Partners.
“Now, Ralfie,” said Erotikka, “be a darling and turn on the tele.”
The husband fetched the remote and climbed back into his corner of the bed.
* * *
The call had come the previous Thursday, out of the blue. Thor’s day always brought Professor Dr. Svenssen trouble. He had been in his lab, rearranging birchwood test tubes.
“I’d like to talk to Professor Dr. Sven Svenssen.”
“Speaking.”
“We need to talk.” The voice: girlish, sullen.
“That appears to be what we are doing.”
“No, comedian,” the voice said urgently. “Not over the phone.”
They arranged to meet at his apartment. The girl, wearing a Burton hoodie, arrived on a Powell Skull Deck s...
Most helpful customer reviews
9 of 10 people found the following review helpful.
an affectionate return to the trilogy
By Flora Fauna
This is a sophisticated parody, written with a complex plot-line and a real understanding of Lisbeth and Mikael. Yes, their quirks are exaggerated. Yes, that made me laugh. Yet what I liked most of all about the book was this: The Girl with the Sturgeon Tattoo gave me a feeling of being back in Stieg Larsson's world. Is there anyone -- if you have read the books, or even just seen one of the Swedish movies -- who doesn't crave that?
When I was debating whether or not to buy Sturgeon Tattoo, I feared that this parody might be cruel to the characters, who are after all somewhat cartoonish even in the original. Yet Douglas is affectionate toward them, especially Lisbeth. To be honest, after I finished the parody, I loved her even more.
Save this one for a rainy night, or a weekend when you're feeling blue. It's better than chocolate -- and for me that's saying a lot.
6 of 7 people found the following review helpful.
Pepsi Out the Nose Funny!
By Captain Poolie
I picked this up at the indie bookstore near my house, and I was laughing before I knew what hit me! I brought it home and started reading, and within the first three pages, I found myself snorting Pepsi out my nose. Very, very clever and funny. This isn't for everyone, but if you have a fondness for the absurd, this book is for you!
1 of 1 people found the following review helpful.
Parody at its Best--Highly Recommended
By Steve Hodel
Parody- (noun) a work that imitates and exaggerates another work for comic effect.
Synonyms burlesque, caricature, put-on, rib, send-up, spoof, takeoff, travesty-Merriam-Webster
For those with a sense of humor and are familiar with the Stieg Larrson “The Girl …” Millennium Trilogy, The Girl with the Sturgeon Tattoo is to my mind, a real HOOT.
The author, “Lars Arffssen” (whose real name is, Lawrence Douglas, a law professor, teaching at Amherst College) spoof has captured the idiosyncrasies of each of the primary characters in Larrson’s books and extended them beyond bizarre with such accuracy and good humor--that the parody really works.
Being a huge fan of the original Larrson trilogy, I found Lars Arffssen Lawrence Douglas’ little book (200 pages) lots of fun and a great read. It is especially well-adapted for reading, at say five-to- six pages at a time, in that small room found in most homes that contains a sink and shower. Highly recommended.
Steve Hodel
NYT bestselling true-crime author of Black Dahlia Avenger: A Genius for Murder
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