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.
2 comments:
good news
Karl you know I worry about you. Are you getting enough sex?
Post a Comment