Eviction, Tanks, Psycho farmers, Fighting off werewolves and Setting fire to the rain - the further adventures of an African anarchist in Germany.

What an interesting morning I had today. I was loaded up with my standard weapons of war –a retractable Stanley Knife, a 20cm long builder’s pencil and a two meter folding measuring stick. These you need when entering the dark, dangerous forests of Bavaria.

The knife is to slit the throats of savaging giant forest adders, the pencil is for poking into the eyes of savaging werewolves and the measuring stick is to well, measure up how big the wild Bavarian bear is before hollering ‘Giant Barbaric Bavarian bear – run for your lives!’

Before catching my ride, I opened the mail box. There was a fat envelope inside from ‘The Firm’. I am always happy when I get no mail at all because any that does find its way into the slit with the name – ‘Greenberg does not live here – go away’, tends to bring news of imminent doom. Judging by the bulk; it could only be a polite letter, a voucher for a second-hand cardboard box from Aldi, and a bus pass to the nearest bridge.

So, not opening it, playing my MP3 player and singing along to the 1987 hit ‘Living in a box, I’m living in a cardboard box’, I toodle down to HQ on Die Hard (which is seriously getting on my tits now).

Due to the information I received that I was to be actually working today, I would have to acquire a vehicle needed to penetrate the deep, dark, dangerous, deathly damp depths of the Bavarian forests. Unfortunately the Tiger II – Panzerkampfwagen (in English - big mother fucker of a tank ), was being used to fire some more enthusiasm into a load of English sub-contractors working on the firm’s refit of LOUIS VUITTON in Paris. It seems the lazy sods, led by some self-made leader by the name of Mr Smithers, wanted a paid three hour lunch break. I gather that idea was soon shot to smithereens.

So instead, I was presented with the keys to a VW Caddy. Me thinks –‘How odd, do the Germans hide golf courses in forests?’

Before I had time to mull over this latest problem, there is someone else in the HQ logistic box. (It is actually called ‘The Logbox’.) I take one look and holler – ‘The Big Boss – run for your lives.’ I gap it and hide in the mixed rubbish skip. Of course everyone squelches on me and I am ordered to follow him for a ‘little chat’.

Little chats are like fat letters. They read and sound bad. I dislike taking orders. Anyone who has read my books knows this, but there are exceptions to my self imposed deranged rule. The Big Boss is one of them. So I followed on all fours whilst keeping the soles of his shoes clean. We went into the cafeteria.

Word must have gone around fast. The place was deserted. It was only 7.30 am but you would believe this is High Noon!

There are photos on the wall. Big Boss at the age of 12, strangling his first bear to death, Big Boss eating an entire wild boar for breakfast, Big Boss at 25 beating an entire pack of werewolves to death with a rolled newspaper. AND – alarmingly…a picture of ME.

Wanted, Dead or Alive, sprang to mind, but the blah blah was in German and I wasn’t thinking very straight. The heavy letter was still in my pocket. I was doomed!

I made myself a coffee from the free automat. I had noticed that he was wearing a lovely shiny grey, snake skin belt to match his perfectly cut Gucci suit. The problem was it still had the snake in it and was flicking its tongue at me!  I sat down and held my cheeks together firmly. His eyes bored through mine, straight down my oesophagus, lower and upper gut and exited via my palpitating rear orifice. (That’s the one that really does talk shite.)

‘Karl,’ he started with.

That is perhaps a good sign. ‘Herr Greenberg’ is normally followed by the sounds of a firing squad.

‘Exactly what is your plan? 9 months you have been here…so, I would like to know.’

Plan? Oh, I have a plan alright. After all I am a former Boy Scout   .

‘Well, for a start, I think flogging myself to death last week, doing 38.5 hours in two and a half days and not getting paid for it is tantamount to zwangsarbeit.’

Of course I didn’t say that! I might be mad but even I knew some eggshells are best left uncrushed. It turns out my arrival and style wasn’t exactly popular in the beginning but the firm now accepts my position as the ‘Insane Dog’s body’ and every one is happy. Guardian angel, you have worked overtime yet again.

Well – it was all quite simple really. I was his latest star. It turns out the ‘kids’ from the Uni slobbered big time about my efforts. I asked for more hours so as to save for my little camper bus. That is all I want. I don’t need a bigger TV, or more powerful HiFi. I am happy with what I have. I want to write but I can’t do it 24/7 stuck in the middle of no where.  All agreed! I get more hours, a proper breakdown of what to do and that was that and by the way...the letter in your pocket is a photocopy of you and the crew in the newspaper.

But, happy as I now was…I still had to go deep into the scary forests of Bavaria.

Picking up my partner, we loaded up a trailer and headed to the place where even the Romans shat themselves entering.

It turns out we have to load trailers with rotten fir tree branches eaten by worms. Whatever. Not sure if my BA covers that, but sounds artistic enough. Before we reach the designated zone  (deep in the you know, blah blah forest), a tractor is parked across our path. A road block, which is ironic as what I was driving on would struggle to be called a road and a GPS system would just shout at you ‘Bears – drive for your lives.!

I think of Zimbabwe and look in my wallet for a bribe. It is empty, but I had a pen and paper and I could write an IOU. My partner knows the old man. Not surprising as I reckon between them they added up to 125 years of age. They mumble on about this and that and I, always polite, wander over and shake hands. The farmer asks if I am ‘The New Kid on the block?’

Not quite hey. As the two continue in almost incomprehensible deep Bavarian forest dialect, I think it would be a perfect time to roll a quick smoke. I had barely started, when this farmer blokes really starts to give me a hard time. My mind was still in happy times, so I wasn’t really trying hard to decipher a dialect from deep in the Bavarian whatever, but presumed he was chastising me for being a smoker and that I would die soon from it.

I smiled. I agreed and kept rolling. He went berserk and threatened to kill me! Bloody hell, me thinks. What have I done now? I know I will die eventually from smoking but why does he want to terminate me now?

I didn’t really understand a word the man was ranting but I gather that my life was in danger. Luckily, my partner, knowing my weird style of German, switches to some form I can comprehend and says

‘Absolute verbot, Rauchen in Wald.’

That means – ‘No smoking allowed in the forest.’

Me says – ‘Why not?’

He says –

‘Because all very dry, you could set fire to forest and roast bears and werewolves and all fir trees kaput.’

I am standing up to my ankles in mud. It would take some serious gasoline to set this place alight. I might as well set fire to the rain. I know. I have been an expert arsonist since the age of three. Still, I don’t argue, I don’t want my new terms and conditions terminated by a roll of a fag.

So, after I understood, he goes off and we get to work. One trailer load later we turn up on the front lawn of Big Boss Snr. According to the instructions from Big Boss Snr, we unload it all and set it on fire. I like this idea – sadly some others did not!

The house keeper rocks up just as we are emptying the stinking mess and has a heated discussion with partner. I gathered she thought this was a bad idea. I think it is a perfect opportunity to have a smoke since we are now out of the forest and about to have one mother of a fire.

Housekeeper does a lot of moaning and calls Big Boss Snr’s wife. I love her and wave as greeting the newspaper article about I am famous and thinking this could really start a cool fire. (Big Boss Snr wasn’t around; he had decided to do the Tour De France with some mates.)

More heated discussions. I am wondering when we can set fire to the lot and get some serious heat. Big Boss Snr’s wife isn’t happy with the idea. Listening carefully, I suss out that I could have job for over week keeping a fire burning and holding onto a hosepipe to stop burning down the house. My dreams are coming true!

Sadly – I was told to drive the mess back to HQ, let them sort it out (one riot later), and I concluded –

I get paid to be shouted at! I love this job.