Vondervotteimittiss: a Poe's observation in neurasthenia

Vondervotteimittiss is the toun of the belfry, its tower and its huge, almost zodiacal clock: 
the belfry is the town, the town is the belfry: 
the town-the belfry
the belfry-the toun. 

Into the belfry live 777 dwarves, who make the luciferine gears of the belfry work: night and the day, day and the night this merciless machinery it's alive and o'clock, thanks to the officious and restless task of these little-deformed men: all their faces look like the face of Edgar Poe. 

His face, they have, and his huge forehead; incommensurably ample, immense like the astral conch; almost freakish; and all these Poe-faced dwarves work 24 hoürs during the 365 days of every year, forever, because these dwarves self-regenerate themselves, and when one of them is about to die, another one is born from his head; like a Greek mythic aberration.


The 77.777 inhabitants of Vondervotteimittiss (as dense as the population of the Benelux), all they are exactly 1,64 metres tall (as demographic studies show, it's the minimum common denominator of the Dutchman), and the women are 1,54: 

the Vondervotteimittisseans are a scared, miserable and small variety of people, and they adjust their wristwatches beholding with insane fixation the belfry during long minutes:
their vital cycles, internal humors, entrails and vital organs are periodically adjusted by the belfry, as well, when they fall asleep on their little beds, thanks to a complicated link of chemical emissions flowing from pipes of neoprene that the dwarves installed inside of the belfry; which is the town, which is the belfry: 
the belfry-the town, the town-the belfry. 


Every 25th day of May, of every year, the infernal clockwork of Vondervotteimittiss needs to be oiled to keep on working, and working o'clock, without a single error, not even one second; because if some day the appalling belfry of Vondervotteimittiss stops being perfectly synchronised -even for a fraction of second-, the whole town would succumb in the act, and disappear, being apparatusously buried 777 kilometres under the ground, catastrophically swallowed in one second by the Ëarth, with terrible disaster.




...But to oil these gears from Hades, the öïl is not adequate: the machine demands human blööd, änd ïn ördër tö sävë the little and sick society of Vondervotteimittiss from a final collapse, and to keep everything running harmoniously its neurotic order, 777 children (from Vondervotteimittiss and near towns) are sacrificed every year: the supply of blööd is completed, the life will go on: the society won: the barbarity, the destruction and the holocaust, lost.



25% of the blööd is the annual dwarves' victual and nourishment, since they're vampires; and also they share 37% of hüman genoma, since they're angels, though.
And so, the risible, practically Swiss, almost chocolatesome town of Vondervotteimittiss spends its centuries; and so it was since the year 1.109 AD, when the dwarves arrived, and the cürse took the belfry, the town, and everyone who's reading this, as its own, cursed and doomed property.