One day it struck Lisbeth Salander that nobody should write the fourth instalment of the novel of her life because the writer had deceased.
This story occurs 2030 in a Swedish suburb Järfäll at Överhögre-street 35 in the residence of Mikael Blomkvist / Lisbeth Salander Blomkvist
Lisbeth Salander Blomkvists had grown fat. Her apron strings tighten when she reached for the saucepan. It frizzled. The carrots had boiled to a mush. It was easiest so. She didn't have energy enough to get the hand blender to mash them. The question was if she even had strength enough to open the cupboard and get one of the bowls they had bought at IKEA. It was not she who should eat the burnt carrots. But she would. She could not contain herself.
What should she not do to get a new body. A young flexible one. With protruding hip bone and a ring pierced through the nose. A body made to be enclosed in leather pants. Tight leather pants. Not a pair that looked like they were sewn from a complete elephant hide. She already had a pair of those. But it was not a chance that she should grown thinner. Not when the burned carrot mush looked so tempting. With a dollop of mayonnaise a girl could swallow almost everything. She had been there and done that.
But even if pride was a foreign concept to her she had known everything about shame. And also something about revenge. It was not true that revenge was a dish best served cold. It was much more effective to squeeze in a spoon with steaming carrot mush in Mikael Blomkvists mouth.
But it was almost to easy. After the stroke Mikael was not man enough to put up a fight.
He had really grown old. It could be the wheelchair. But he had always been old in her eyes.
A feeble old man that she could manage. A good excuse to not hang out in smokey goth clubs all night long. As if she ever had done that. But before she met Mikael she didn't have any good excuse not doing it. Only a lack of power of initiative.
I did not bother her much, Mikael sitting in the wheelchair and drowling the hole day. That was not a big change. He had always drowled over someone. Especially over Erika fucking Berger.
She was a person who really was in need of beeing force-feed with steaming carrot mush. You didn't need to be a fucking math genius capable of solving Fermat's Last Theorem to work out in what position Mikael and Erika did their late night work at the Milleniums editorial office. But all that was history and forgotten. At least until the next spoon of steaming carrot mush arrived.
Lisbeth maybe did not have the patience of an angel but when her patient refused to drink the milk she sensed it was more than enough. She was realy tired of men. If she only had a good rope she had stringed him up to the ceiling and tried to shake his mouth open. Instead she used another not so fun but also effective solution. She put two fingers around the bridge of his nose, pinched, and counted to three! When she emptied the glass of milk in his open mouth he sputtered like she had tried to force him to drink gasoline.
In that moment Lisbeth wished that she had done just that. And not only that. She would like to doused out gasoline all over the living room and put in on fire. The cheap sofa made of a synthetic material , not bought on IKEA, would without any doubt melt into a flaming puddle which should flow into the kitchen. The flames would lick the wallpaper and raise up and burn through the kitchen ceiling. When the fire entered the bedroom from below it should make a big smoking hole in the marital bliss. Lisbeth couldn't care less. She had never approved of the double bed anyway.
She was convinced that she should rise like a phoenix from the Ashes. She was not really a middle age woman whit a flabby compelction and bags under her eyes instead of rings through her nose. Wasn't she the real McCoy? Lisbeth fucking Salander! The girl with the dragon tattoo.