To be Sectioned 13
Rocking up at Fritz's place with usual German
punctuality (30 minutes early), he seemed a little nervous. No, I
don't mean he was sweating and mopping his brow and silly
descriptions like that – nah – this bloke reminded me of a giant
human tuning fork that had just been whacked rather hard against a
concrete wall.
'Frau, Frau, Frau Schimdt, Schimdt Schmidt,' he
stuttered bloody obviously, 'Zee meeex ov zee silber und zee zehn
kilos graphite pow wow da, eet fick up zee spray gun'
Of course he didn't talk like that. He may have
been German but he wasn't an illiterate idiot. I just wrote that like
that for a laugh.
Anyway -
'Show me my car,' I replied authoritatively. Very,
actually, since I had shoved two rather sharp finger nails into his
nostrils and was guiding him to his workshop.
In the well lit area he pointed to the middle of
it - 'That is the problem.'
There was going to be problem all right, there was
fuck all there in it.
'Now before I break every finger of your
hands, please be so kind as to tell me where the Lotus is?'
'It is there, Frau Schmidt look carefully. In the
middle of the workshop.'
I looked and just for rubbish writing looked
again. Oh sheet. There was a hole. A rather large one. Not in the
floor because you could not see it! In fact...
'Jesus fucking
Christ!' This was beyond even my wildest dreams of a swearing cliché.
I wandered over tentatively and after groping
around a bit had the driver door open. Ahh – now we can see. Bit
weird though. Like, the inside of a door and the cockpit. I slicked
in. Nice. Very. Fritz had done a perfect job of attaching one way
mirror folio to the windows. I turned on the head lights and got out.
That way I could sort of gather where the car was.
'Good, Fritz, very good. How she look in natural
light?
`
Opening the garage door, 'Frau Schmidt, this is
illegal if you intend to drive it on a public road.' He boringly told
me in typical German attitude of 'We do not think – we simply take
orders.'
Did I give a shit? Exactly. Besides, in natural
light the Lotus was still invisible. Rather nuts watching light beams
coming out of nowhere.
Sorting out Fritz's social conscience was a breeze
at 1k cash, but I had terrible intestinal convulsions known in the
tired trade of writing as a queasy tummy. How the fuck was I gonna
drive this without getting killed?
I needed to fink. The
Germans struggle to pronounce 'th', so when in Warsaw do as Warzones
do and start finking. Opening the lap top
(you can't use it with the lid closed), I went to a site I use
periodically – the periodic table. No idea why they named it that,
but within 30 minutes I had a solution to my quandary.
'Fritz, come here and
grow your hair for fuck's sake, you look like something you shove
down a toilet to clean crap squirts on the porcelain. Give me some
paper and a pen.' (Obviously I need a pen as I wasn't intending to
fold the paper into a look alike Concord and throw them out the
garage door.) Rapidly and almost
frothing at the mouth rabidly, I had it solved.
'Listen
Fritz, I need four, 20 litres containers of these colours mixed to
this recipe. I also need a battery powered air compressor, connected
to a spray paint thingy my jig and get me a dozen ultra violet lights
– and stop looking like your best friend just disliked you on
Facebook. 'I WILL BE BACK' (giving it the Terminator touch), in four
hours. Now pull finger.'
With a bit of time - I
needed to eat. Up on the High Street there were some joints, but not
selling them.
'Ja Bitte. Wat U wont,' said the sad looking
waitress who was obviously a Syrian refugee as she had a black bin
liner over her head with slits for her eyes and her German was
atrocious. Plus she ponged worse than the local pond.
'Just
give me something traditional and try not to touch it. I don't fancy
catching Zika virus.'
Three Weisswurst, a
pretzel, sweet honey mustard and a Weissbeer was duly presented. I
looked at the amputated white willies with trepidation. I was not
sure which hole they were supposed to go in!
Whilst munching
and suffing on the stuff, I checked my Emails. Ahh, it seems 'they'
were a tad upset just by looking at - Re: Killing the Clown and Re:
We hunt you down and Re: You owe us a lot of money. I ignored all
that but there was one that made me smile with delight (well you
don't smile with sorrow do you?), 'Congratulations, you have just won
10 million dollars as your Email address came up. Please reply here
to claim your prize'.
I love this stuff. 'They' had not only
taught me well, they had also given me some serious software.
So
my reply was 'Thanks hey, I just fucked your entire system. Come on
line to me again I will personally rip your vocal chords out and
shove them up your arse so you can chat with yourself.' Cool
hey!
With time to kill (yawn, another boring cliché) I had
this thought (I was finking), why not make a Facebook account
dedicated to me on my insane quest to kill people? Not yet sure who I
want to send to the great hole in the ground to be eaten by worms as
they rot and explode from intestinal gas from the bacteria in their
guts, but I ponder on that.
Part… 14
After depositing last
night's dinner when the armband sent messages that I needed to shit
or will explode, I wandered back. Which is rather daft as I was
actually walking forwards. Stupid backward language – I mean, why
not just say 'I wandered forwards?'
Passing by the local ALDI
(local? Huh!), I stopped passing by and popped in. I needed four
bottles of that stuff which claims it removes every bit of grease and
grime and the blah blah is just a load of lies. Hey, remember that
washing powder a few years ago? Brilliant stuff – guaranteed to
REALLY remove EVERY stain. And just for a change, the bastards were
not lying and the stuff did work. Except for one small problem. It
happened to me after I got a real bad blood stain on a blouse. Not my
blood, that's besides the point, and using this magic stuff, out it
came from the washing machine (I wasn't exactly going to clean it in
a microwave), and lo and behold a cliché at its finest, the stain
was gone and instead there was a huge hole! No wonder the stuff was
removed from the market.
Anyway, I like shopping in ALDI. Best
is Thursday at 8.00 am. (They close at 8.00 pm, so hence the former
rather than the latter time), because all the asylum seeking bitches
start ripping each others bin liners off and scratch, bite and kick
over four pairs of children’s socks going for a Euro 1.50 cents.
And the smell! They walked 2000 kms and never had a wash! Almost as
much fun as teasing the baboons at the zoo.
Oh. I have to tell
you about that. Laugh? It was so funny, I think I accidentally filled
my panties. It was one of those days when I needed to entertain
myself; so I went down to London Zoo with a couple of bananas. I
wanted to do an experiment with some baboons if they can conquer
greed through pain.
Peeling the banana
seductively, it wasn't long before this huge alpha male was up
against the fence with a hard on that could roger an elephant.
Ignoring the sign 'Do not feed or tease the animals', because luckily
for me I can not read English when I so desire, I poked the banana
through the fence. Just as he snatched it, I whipped out a Tayser and
gave the fucker 10 thousand volts.
Hah-hah. What a scream,
not just from the baboons, but the peasants gawking away at this
thing spurting a load of semen into the air whilst crapping itself.
Even funnier was the rest of the pack rushing over and eating its
shit!
As I said – I was doing a scientific experiment, so I
buggered off for an hour, reckoning the baboon would come to is
monkey senses by then and to stop my boredom Tasered a penguin to see
if it could fly over the fence. Sadly that failed and it kicked it,
rather promptly.
Back at the baboon pen, (Pen – I thought
that was a Biro), the big git was up on a rock looking rather sulky.
Not sure how baboons look sulky but I had a distinct impression it
was not happy.
So... I pulled out the
other banana and again seductively peeling it, waved it at him.
Hard to believe this,
the fucking daft thing again got a hard on and scrabbled to the
fence.
Oh well, experiment
failed and I gave it another bolt in the hope it would awaken some
primate brain cells. But in the ensuing twitching, vomiting, more
shitting and screaming, I concluded it was in its death throes, which
was confirmed in the Daily Mail the next day under the headlines
'Teased Bobo Taysered to Death.'
Is it really Part 15?
Moving on, I pitched up
at Fritz's place to complete the next part of my plan...
Fritz had done
wonders. Not that surprised, he had been given some serious dosh and
the alternation (a much superior word than alternative), was having
his bones broken so badly he could be packed in a duty free shopping
bag. Still, he had some face on him hey. Well, besides if that loon
Hannibal Lester gets hold of you, most people retain their face (the
outer cover of the front end of your skull) until it rots off...
'Frtzy boy, now paint
the machine in, that colour,' pointing to one of the plastic
containers.
'But, but, but, Frau Schimdt, I have other
customers and one is at the front desk and making a lot of noise why
I not paint his car.'
'Get on with the work and I sort your
customer out – kapeeto?'
_
'Hi, I am Veronica, and
I gather you have a problem about some spray job?'
The middle
aged twat, with almost no hair and a beer gut that would have passed
as a Rhodesian Front, started some yowling and moaning. I can't be
arsed to write the translation, but basically he had expected to pick
up his resprayed car today. I told him that due to an 'emergency'
Fritz was busy and maybe he should come back tomorrow. That went down
like a feather coated in lead and the daft git started to come over
rather heavy like.
I guess as you read
this memoir, you can gather I do not tolerate such nonsense..
'Please turn around and
look out the window. Do you see an ambulance?'
'No'
'Would you like to be
in one, whilst unable to see, if I put my finger nails into your
eyes? So fuck off and come back here tomorrow to 'see' if Fritz has
finished your car.'
_
Nice. The acrylic paint
had already dried. The formula could resist rain.
'Thanks
Fritz, catch Ya later'
Programming the GPS
(complements of the Porsche rebuild), I was soon on the motorway
doing 280 kmh and heading towards Serbia. I needed to get some real
fancy weapons.
