The girl who could feel nothing - 3

Chapter 3.

Okay. After a couple of days of boredom , I rock up at Porsch HQ. (And no, I did not torch my hotel.)

'Ahh Frau Schmidt, welcome'

'Cut the crap Fritz, what is the score?'

Of course I did not say this in English but for the idiots reading this. I keep it simple...

He was sweating a lot. Tough tittie hey. Not often you meet a two metre tall killing machine in high heels.

'We had to replace the gear box. But please, at no extra cost.'

'And – go on.' I was about to fuck the mother fucker stupid if he had damaged my baby.

'You now have 7 forwards gears. The car has a speed, above its dial limits, of close to 300kmh.

Ahhhhh sex on four wheels...

'And the other extras?'

'Ja, Frau Schmidt, we replaced the car stereo with surround sound with MP3 player, GPS navigation and installed a second fuel tank.'

I noticed that Fritzy boy was trembling a bit but also his little soldier was prodding at his trousers.

'So, all covered by my 50 k?,' as I gave his groin a quick tickle with finger nails that could rip his little eggy eggs out of the sacky in seconds if need be. 'Now give me the fucking keys.' …
-

I was heading south. I had this terrible desire to kill people who annoy me. Shit loads of them.
Still, small problem, My Lady (so I had called the Lotus) was not exactly an unobtrusive vehicle. (Now that is an understatement!) It did not take long before some Polzei idiots are on my tail as I simply stuck in the fast lane on the autobahn.

'Wah – Wah' – flashing lights – the lot. I fancied some fun and I had still not got My Lady out of fifth. So I pull into the middle lane and let them pull up. This is at about 170kmh. They start making hand signs for me to pull over. (Three pulls in 25 words!)I give them the finger and let My Lady roar...

Blah blah – left them for dust etc (which is impossible on a tar road), and the bloody watch starts chirping again. I had to eat. I pull into a autobahn stop. Well, well, they have a McDonald’s. I must laugh. I gather eating their shit is about as nice as eating your own. I actually had a job in one of them at London Bridge five years ago. 'They' had arranged it.

I lasted a day. Well actually, 90 minutes. I was flipping cardboard burgers and the manger comes over -

'We pay you to use both hands, so please take the one in your pocket out and use it.'

I did, I used it to grab the back of his head and shove into the French fries fryer (cool writing hey).

What is that expression? 'Kicking up stink'. Since I can not smell, I gather he must have stunk a lot as he had defecated in three seconds and man, did he do some kicking. No big deal. I had no intention of drowning him. Although his head was a bit of a mess when I pulled him out. As usual, 'They' covered it all up and crispy face will be on the list for a transplant...

Back on the road and the watch happy, I needed to disappear. No point in checking into fancy hotels. A quick look on the internet I found what I wanted. Some B and B in a dead end dump and crucially, a car respraying firm. Why? I had a plan...