By Sigge S. Amdal © 2010
* You've reached Hell Pro Support. Please hold while we find an available technician to answer your call! The conversation may be recorded for training purposes...
* Hi, Hell Support, Joan speaking. May I have your service tag, please?
* Yes, of course. It's two-oh-four-four-a for alpha-m for male and sixty-nine.
* Thank you.... That's a Hell OfficeComp E2000? And I see that you've got Pro Support.
* Yes. That's why I called the Pro Support number.
* Hang on, while I connect you to one of our Pro Support technicians.
* You've reached Hell Pro Support. Please state which of our products you are calling about. Press 1 for Laptop Computers. Press 2 for Desktop Computers. Press 3 for Hell Server Products.
* #1
* Press 1 for EasyComp. Press 2 for OfficeComp. Press-
* #2
* Please hold while we find an available technician to answer your call! Please be aware that you must have your service tag ready and be near the system in question...
Did you know that most of the tools and drivers our technicians use are available on our website? Just go to support dot euro dot hell dot com. Your call is important to us, thanks for holding. We'll soon find an available technician to answer your call. The conversation may be recorded for training purposes...
* Hi! This is Rhonda from Pro Support!
* Hi, I'm John from Just another office. Do you want the service-tag?
* No, I've got it.
* Okay.
* So what do you want to do today, hot stuff?
* I seem to be having some hardware trouble.
* Let's start with what you're wearing...
* I can see the hard drive in BIOS but I just can't boot.
* Ooooh, you're just a nasty little one, aren't you John? You're dressed for trouble. I'm going to “get into” something more comfortable here... Taking off my black leather boots.
* Pressing F12. Diagnostics. Right, it's running.
* Ah, that feels good. Do you want to lick the boot?
* "Did you see colors on the screen?" Yes. Alright. It's running some memory test now.
* I said: Do you want to lick it!?
* This usually takes a while. I'm not having any memory issues, so I'll just skip ahead, alright?
* You're a naughty little man, John, and I'm gonna have to punish you!
* Alright, alright. No need to get agitated... *sigh*
* That's better, little man. I'm taking my top off now. Removing the bra... *groan* I'm fondling my big, black breasts, tickling the left nipple with the edge of my tongue. What are you doing, John?
* It's still running.
* Ummm...that's right, John. Take those damn things off you! I want you naked as a baby when you worship me. It's cold and dark here, but I still want you down on the concrete floor. Naked...
* Ah! Finished! Booting Diagnostics Utility...
* That's better, John. You're a whimpy little man,you know that? I bet you got your ass kicked in school every day, John. Didn't you honey?
* Right. It says Express Test, Comprehensive Test, Custom Test and Test Memory.
* Now I want you to crawl towards me. Slowly. NO I don't care that the concrete hurts your skin! CRAWL TO ME, JOHN!
* Custom Test, okay. Selecting Non-Interactive Tests only.
* EYES DOWN, DAMMIT! Keep your shitty little eyes down, John!
* So do I select all the tests or just the hard disk related ones?
* I don't give a fuck what you want to do, John, you're just here to worship me. Now, LICK MY LITTLE TOE, YOU BASTARD! Put the whole thing in your mouth and suck it!
* Running Device Self-Test...
* Mmmm... that feels good, John. You're a good little sucker, ain't you John? ...KEEP SUCKING IT, DAMMIT!
* Seems alright to me.
* Now look up at my panties... don't you dare look at my eyes, John, don't you dare. The panties!
* Look, I can't sit here doing an entire surface scan while on the phone. Besides, the Device Self-Test in the pre-boot environment didn't report any SMART errors so there's no reason I would discover anything here that would account for my booting problems. I'm thinking more of a motherboard issue.
* Do you like my little, black panties? They're made of licorice, John....
* I'll just cancel the surface scan and run a motherboard test?
* YOU SORRY PIECE OF SHIT, JOHN! Did I say you could taste the licorice panties? Huh?
* Alright, alright. Don't get your knickers in a twist.
* You're going to behave, little John. I'm not going to stand for this mischief... see this? That's right! Mama's bringing out the horse whip.
* See? No errors. Just like I said.
* Oh, you don't look so smug now, do you John?
* Wait a minute!
* *CRACK!*
* I got an error right towards the end here!
* THAT'S RIGHT, JOHN! MAMA'S NOT AFRAID TO USE IT EITHER!
* It's Eff-Zero-Zero-Zero
* *CRACK!*
* Colon
* OOOOH... is it too big for you honey? Do you want the pony whip? I'm gonna ride the living shit it out of you, John.
* Two-four-two-two.
* That's right! Now get down on all fours!
* Oh, really? And how much is that gonna cost me?
* Spread those puny legs out, John! RIGHT THIS MINUTE!
* No, the warranty ran out some three-four months ago.
* Steady... Now TAKE IT JOHN!
* Ouch!
* You're my little play-pony, ain't you John? TAKE IT LIKE A LITTLE PONY!
* I'm gonna have to check this up with Finance, first.
* Be a good pony, John! A good pony!
* Well, it's an old system, and we're gonna roll it out sooner rather than later.
* Awww. You want to be comforted now, John?
* But I thought it was worth checking.
* Oh, did my little pony come on the concrete floor, huh? Did my little pony come?
* Yeah, but thanks a lot!
* Then get the fuck out, John. That's right. The show's over.
* Okay. Merry Christmas. Bye!
* Merry Christmas. Bye!
Sigge S. Amdal is a word wanker from Oslo, Norway.
Showing posts with label Sigge S. Amdal. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Sigge S. Amdal. Show all posts
December 01, 2010
November 03, 2010
The Fat Kid
By Sigge S. Amdal © 2010
Everybody knew a fat kid growing up. They come in all forms but one size fits them all. The fat kid I knew, his name was Tom by the way, came from a relatively poor family. That is, everyone was relatively poor back then, but when both parents are generally uneducated and run a homebrew operation in the basement, it doesn't help.
I bet Tom's story would have been a success story if his parents were any different. But that's just speculation. Add to his situation a sadistic elder brother and you've got yourself a future social case file.
I was brought up in a Christian home, so when my mother decided that me and Tom would walk to school together, then her little rat spy Jesus would tell on me if I didn't. And so me and Tom walked to school together for the next decade or so.
I wouldn't exactly stand up for him if he got in trouble, but I wouldn't make fun of him either.
I realized very quickly that Tom would emulate me to get along with other kids. What surprised me, and still surprises me, was that he beat me as well.
I was really good at maths in school, making it seem trivially easy, because there really is nothing more to it than rule-following. Tom got the message the rest of class didn't, and soon we would compete three or four chapters ahead of them all. I remember thinking to myself that while I came from an academic family he would still be able to ace my math coming from his poor excuse of one. Of course, when Tom came home after school, his parents and his brother would not recognize this, and instead belittle and taunt his newfound sense of self-esteem.
Tom was the fat kid, and the other kids made fun of him, how he smelled, his hair, and everything they could think of. And he was a bit round around the edges, but that also meant a more streamlined and stronger body than other kids, making for a really good swimmer. In swimming class I was usually the fastest because I swam two months every summer at my grandmother's lake. Tom didn't go away on holiday, at least not far enough south to enjoy swimming, but he had no problem keeping up and sometimes even beating me. After I had convinced him that swimming wasn't so bad once you get in the water. Sure the other kids could point and laugh, but he would take points back from them anytime in the water.
I lost whatever remaining respect for adults when I discovered his parents' TV1000 porn recorded on a VHS tape that I borrowed, a few minutes after Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles III. It puzzled me why they didn't hide it better. It was still there the second and third time I borrowed it. The last time I did it they explicitly warned me to stop the tape after Turtles too. Like that's gonna put an end to it!
It was terrible porn at that, with a plain looking couple doing the doggy-style on a pink background. It was more of an instructional tape than anything else. But it was also the only moving pictures I could get my hands on before the 'net.
Tom and his brothers were always up to mischief, and it was thanks to Tom I had my first experience with alcohol beyond just tasting it during a grown-up dinner. Thanks to his parents he had a ready supply of alcohol above 60%, just swapping some of the clear liquid with water, and not taking too much at a time.
The first time, however, we opted for an old bottle of wine that was just standing there. Having gulped it all down we walked downtown and tried to chat up some school girls we met. I later learned they would have to be drunk too. Two weeks later we found out that his parents had saved the bottle since their wedding day, since it was a gift, some twenty years before.
After high-school, in which I'd gone the Literature and Languages courses and he Chemistry and some advanced Mathematics, we sort of drifted apart. I had my rock band and he did whatever he did by then. Soon he moved away to begin University in a city at a comfortable distance from his family.
I met him one summer before I left there, and we got talking about his studies. He was doing something advanced in chemistry at university level, but I didn't care enough to get my head around it.
"Do you know how easy it is to setup a meth lab?" he suddenly asked. "You can get everything you need in regular hardware stores. I could do it by tomorrow!"
All I know is that he dropped out, or was expelled, at some point a few months later. And that is all I know about the matter.
That, and the fact he got kicked out of the local youth division of a particular right-wing party, because he chose a member meeting as the venue for coming out of the closet. That's just sad. It takes balls to do such a thing, but he should have used his brains as well that day. Of course, that part is just a rumor and may not be true for all I know. Last I heard, he was back in town and unemployed.
But these are the stories we make, of people we have already figured out. Who knows what the fat kids are up to today? Really! We just use their made up examples to feel more successful about ourselves. That's why we'll always remember them too. Long after we've forgotten the names of our best buds and first sweethearts, the fat kids will be on our minds whenever we need them. While they have long outgrown their past and leave to reminisce the troubled and unsuccessful.
Sigge S. Amdal is a word wanker from Oslo, Norway.
Everybody knew a fat kid growing up. They come in all forms but one size fits them all. The fat kid I knew, his name was Tom by the way, came from a relatively poor family. That is, everyone was relatively poor back then, but when both parents are generally uneducated and run a homebrew operation in the basement, it doesn't help.
I bet Tom's story would have been a success story if his parents were any different. But that's just speculation. Add to his situation a sadistic elder brother and you've got yourself a future social case file.
I was brought up in a Christian home, so when my mother decided that me and Tom would walk to school together, then her little rat spy Jesus would tell on me if I didn't. And so me and Tom walked to school together for the next decade or so.
I wouldn't exactly stand up for him if he got in trouble, but I wouldn't make fun of him either.
I realized very quickly that Tom would emulate me to get along with other kids. What surprised me, and still surprises me, was that he beat me as well.
I was really good at maths in school, making it seem trivially easy, because there really is nothing more to it than rule-following. Tom got the message the rest of class didn't, and soon we would compete three or four chapters ahead of them all. I remember thinking to myself that while I came from an academic family he would still be able to ace my math coming from his poor excuse of one. Of course, when Tom came home after school, his parents and his brother would not recognize this, and instead belittle and taunt his newfound sense of self-esteem.
Tom was the fat kid, and the other kids made fun of him, how he smelled, his hair, and everything they could think of. And he was a bit round around the edges, but that also meant a more streamlined and stronger body than other kids, making for a really good swimmer. In swimming class I was usually the fastest because I swam two months every summer at my grandmother's lake. Tom didn't go away on holiday, at least not far enough south to enjoy swimming, but he had no problem keeping up and sometimes even beating me. After I had convinced him that swimming wasn't so bad once you get in the water. Sure the other kids could point and laugh, but he would take points back from them anytime in the water.
I lost whatever remaining respect for adults when I discovered his parents' TV1000 porn recorded on a VHS tape that I borrowed, a few minutes after Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles III. It puzzled me why they didn't hide it better. It was still there the second and third time I borrowed it. The last time I did it they explicitly warned me to stop the tape after Turtles too. Like that's gonna put an end to it!
It was terrible porn at that, with a plain looking couple doing the doggy-style on a pink background. It was more of an instructional tape than anything else. But it was also the only moving pictures I could get my hands on before the 'net.
Tom and his brothers were always up to mischief, and it was thanks to Tom I had my first experience with alcohol beyond just tasting it during a grown-up dinner. Thanks to his parents he had a ready supply of alcohol above 60%, just swapping some of the clear liquid with water, and not taking too much at a time.
The first time, however, we opted for an old bottle of wine that was just standing there. Having gulped it all down we walked downtown and tried to chat up some school girls we met. I later learned they would have to be drunk too. Two weeks later we found out that his parents had saved the bottle since their wedding day, since it was a gift, some twenty years before.
After high-school, in which I'd gone the Literature and Languages courses and he Chemistry and some advanced Mathematics, we sort of drifted apart. I had my rock band and he did whatever he did by then. Soon he moved away to begin University in a city at a comfortable distance from his family.
I met him one summer before I left there, and we got talking about his studies. He was doing something advanced in chemistry at university level, but I didn't care enough to get my head around it.
"Do you know how easy it is to setup a meth lab?" he suddenly asked. "You can get everything you need in regular hardware stores. I could do it by tomorrow!"
All I know is that he dropped out, or was expelled, at some point a few months later. And that is all I know about the matter.
That, and the fact he got kicked out of the local youth division of a particular right-wing party, because he chose a member meeting as the venue for coming out of the closet. That's just sad. It takes balls to do such a thing, but he should have used his brains as well that day. Of course, that part is just a rumor and may not be true for all I know. Last I heard, he was back in town and unemployed.
But these are the stories we make, of people we have already figured out. Who knows what the fat kids are up to today? Really! We just use their made up examples to feel more successful about ourselves. That's why we'll always remember them too. Long after we've forgotten the names of our best buds and first sweethearts, the fat kids will be on our minds whenever we need them. While they have long outgrown their past and leave to reminisce the troubled and unsuccessful.
Sigge S. Amdal is a word wanker from Oslo, Norway.
September 04, 2010
The IT Component
By Sigge S. Amdal © 2010
Per 120 Faculty Staff Member there was one IT support staff and his name was Jacob. Jacob learned the ins and outs of the Faculty business over the years, never once questioning his late night turn-ins and unpaid overtime. He raised questions only when the summer holidays were up, and he didn't receive his salary, because that was company rules. Except he was employed on an hour-basis and did not receive the summer compensation that everyone else did.
Nine sorry summers later he was fully employed but his responsibilities had only grown. There were 40 new members of staff now, and still only a single person to deal with the daily EXTREMELY IMPORTANT crisis that Jacob had to deal with. The crisis themselves were mostly harmless, futile and unnecessary; as is all human crisis at the tertiary level of society. Though over the course of the last decade he had learned that personality goes a long way, and there some personalities that were simply satanic.
Jacob came in at 9:30 on Tuesday 13, July 2010, having taken the bus from his home. It was damp outside. Jacob didn't particularly like the damp weather, nor did his hemorrhoids. He finished his cigarette outside the gate, greeting several co-workers getting in their last efforts before their vacations. An obnoxious lady in red who would work herself up over the least slight malfunction, delay or her own user errors came by smiling. It was a smile worthy to punch teeth less, Jacob thought. His hand trembled.
"You're not on holiday?" she requested.
"No. Never. There is no holiday in IT," he said.
It was fairly true. He was going to work all summer. This Tuesday he was continuing the re-installation of a Windows work station which the user had conveniently left behind for him to 'clean up' during the summer holiday, as well as check in on a time-consuming digital recovery case that he'd been busy with for the last six days.
He hated it, he hated her, and he hated the way she made him feel.
In every request to him so far the lady in red would presuppose and project an error or major shortcoming of him unto her own situation. He had re-installed her computer from scratch half a year ago, so it was only to be expected that he was to blame for everything that could possibly go wrong with the computer. "Everything's changed!" was her recurring mantra every time she had a problem or even just a question. Ignorance had nothing to do with it. And neither did reason, as Jacob's full backups of her user settings and files showed that not only were her configuration identical to her prior installation, they were unchanged. PEBKAC.
To make matters worse, the Faculty had bought the computer for her, just to shut her up. It was that or shell out the 20K she claimed to have lost in luggage going to a conference.. This meant that though Jacob was not supposed to be supporting home computers, the Faculty had just made him her personal assistant.
And she took full advantage.
A few weeks prior when she had been struggling to get a wireless connection at her home and after going through the usual checklist he simply told her to unplug the router and bring it to work. The router was a good one, he had a similar himself, so it wouldn't be the DHCP server shutting her out as common in cheaper models. No. After having talked to two of her ex-lovers it turned out she had not used the right key. He looked over the troubleshooting e-mail he'd shot her on the first encounter with the problem, and there it was; "Step 1. Verify that the wireless key is correct."
The situation topped when she sent her an SMS text-message in CAPS saying that:
Then two minutes later he received this message:
The first thought of any man in Jacob's positions is senseless violence. But violent crimes have a perpetrator, and it is finally he that ends up as the victim in a state where criminal prosecution was highly prioritized. No. Violence was not the answer. The answer was elegance.
He logged into his backups and started collecting evidence. There was plenty of it. As a Faculty employee he was strictly forbidden to shed any information to the outside, but only insofar it wasn't constituting a breach of law or the ethical guidelines of scientific research. The Faculty was more important than any one of its researchers, at least that's what the board thought. He put all of his collected pictures and documents in a USB drive and a letter to the media stating the significance of the material. He made sure to send it from a post pox in an unmarked envelope.
Not a week later Jacob stopped outside the kiosk by the bus stop and had a look at the headlines: International Faculty Researcher caught exploiting young respondents! The article had a slightly-blurred picture of the lady in red, details of the evidence collected and cries of moral outrage from various committees and University professors. The Lady in Red would never work again.
Don't ever fuck with your IT support.
Sincerely yours,
Sigge
Sigge S. Amdal is a word wanker from Oslo, Norway.
Per 120 Faculty Staff Member there was one IT support staff and his name was Jacob. Jacob learned the ins and outs of the Faculty business over the years, never once questioning his late night turn-ins and unpaid overtime. He raised questions only when the summer holidays were up, and he didn't receive his salary, because that was company rules. Except he was employed on an hour-basis and did not receive the summer compensation that everyone else did.
Nine sorry summers later he was fully employed but his responsibilities had only grown. There were 40 new members of staff now, and still only a single person to deal with the daily EXTREMELY IMPORTANT crisis that Jacob had to deal with. The crisis themselves were mostly harmless, futile and unnecessary; as is all human crisis at the tertiary level of society. Though over the course of the last decade he had learned that personality goes a long way, and there some personalities that were simply satanic.
Jacob came in at 9:30 on Tuesday 13, July 2010, having taken the bus from his home. It was damp outside. Jacob didn't particularly like the damp weather, nor did his hemorrhoids. He finished his cigarette outside the gate, greeting several co-workers getting in their last efforts before their vacations. An obnoxious lady in red who would work herself up over the least slight malfunction, delay or her own user errors came by smiling. It was a smile worthy to punch teeth less, Jacob thought. His hand trembled.
"You're not on holiday?" she requested.
"No. Never. There is no holiday in IT," he said.
It was fairly true. He was going to work all summer. This Tuesday he was continuing the re-installation of a Windows work station which the user had conveniently left behind for him to 'clean up' during the summer holiday, as well as check in on a time-consuming digital recovery case that he'd been busy with for the last six days.
He hated it, he hated her, and he hated the way she made him feel.
In every request to him so far the lady in red would presuppose and project an error or major shortcoming of him unto her own situation. He had re-installed her computer from scratch half a year ago, so it was only to be expected that he was to blame for everything that could possibly go wrong with the computer. "Everything's changed!" was her recurring mantra every time she had a problem or even just a question. Ignorance had nothing to do with it. And neither did reason, as Jacob's full backups of her user settings and files showed that not only were her configuration identical to her prior installation, they were unchanged. PEBKAC.
To make matters worse, the Faculty had bought the computer for her, just to shut her up. It was that or shell out the 20K she claimed to have lost in luggage going to a conference.. This meant that though Jacob was not supposed to be supporting home computers, the Faculty had just made him her personal assistant.
And she took full advantage.
A few weeks prior when she had been struggling to get a wireless connection at her home and after going through the usual checklist he simply told her to unplug the router and bring it to work. The router was a good one, he had a similar himself, so it wouldn't be the DHCP server shutting her out as common in cheaper models. No. After having talked to two of her ex-lovers it turned out she had not used the right key. He looked over the troubleshooting e-mail he'd shot her on the first encounter with the problem, and there it was; "Step 1. Verify that the wireless key is correct."
The situation topped when she sent her an SMS text-message in CAPS saying that:
THE SITUATION IS TERRIBLE! I NOW HAVE GUESTS THAT CANNOT LOG ONTO THE WIRELESS NETWORK HOW EMBARRASSING! WHAT TO DO?He had written three drafts telling her to suck cock until self-suffocation, which was probably not far away from the truth anyway, until he wrote a calm, step-by-step troubleshooting. It took him a quarter of an hour to assemble the self-control to do so.
Then two minutes later he received this message:
I CAN'T BE DEALING WITH THIS BS NOW WE'RE HAVING A PARTY WOOO!All of this and more rushed in front of him as the lady in red was chit-chatting away. Finally she left him to continue her so-called research, a lavish lifestyle funded by tax-dollars, yielding little tangible results. Jacob on the other hand was well into himself, absent-mindedly entering the elevator and then his office. He didn't even open his e-mail. He was thinking about revenge.
The first thought of any man in Jacob's positions is senseless violence. But violent crimes have a perpetrator, and it is finally he that ends up as the victim in a state where criminal prosecution was highly prioritized. No. Violence was not the answer. The answer was elegance.
He logged into his backups and started collecting evidence. There was plenty of it. As a Faculty employee he was strictly forbidden to shed any information to the outside, but only insofar it wasn't constituting a breach of law or the ethical guidelines of scientific research. The Faculty was more important than any one of its researchers, at least that's what the board thought. He put all of his collected pictures and documents in a USB drive and a letter to the media stating the significance of the material. He made sure to send it from a post pox in an unmarked envelope.
Not a week later Jacob stopped outside the kiosk by the bus stop and had a look at the headlines: International Faculty Researcher caught exploiting young respondents! The article had a slightly-blurred picture of the lady in red, details of the evidence collected and cries of moral outrage from various committees and University professors. The Lady in Red would never work again.
Don't ever fuck with your IT support.
Sincerely yours,
Sigge
Sigge S. Amdal is a word wanker from Oslo, Norway.
August 05, 2010
Connections
By Sigge S. Amdal © 2010
K called me up and told me he had some cash. That was all it took back then; some time off – which was all the time – and some cash. Who cared about the general welfare of anything? We were lost at sea and we loved it. I wouldn't say cruising, 'cause life on the edge never resembles the careless automata of allowing everything to happen, NO. If you did you'd end up never coming home from the party. You still see some of them, fewer and sicker every year, dealing at the central station. They never came home, and they never will.
No, being willfully lost to discover what's right there takes absolute precedent in the human survival instinct. I would go as far as saying that discovering the absolute carefree interzone of any major capital of the world requires some very careful steps. Among which food is the first point of order. Next is the money you can save by not eating well or at all. Eating pre-processed fish for a week would definitely buy you a memorable weekend, one that you wouldn't remember at all. That alone spells planning. Return reality and you're back being hungry, at the upshot of another weekend.
Naturally, this time there wasn't any such deliberation on my part, 'cause K had some cash.
“We'll meet at Connections in case B shows up.”
B never paid for anything, but it was alright, 'cause it was part of the deal. He wouldn't ask for any.
Connections was B's place. I don't know what the selling point was, except the beer was cheap as promises, most of it subsidized by other substances changing hands under – or above – the table, depending on what time it was. It wasn't any good and it spelled headaches for the morning. But who cared about the morning?
The scene was obscene back then. The government grip on serving was more of a boneless handshake, and nobody regulated anything. Smoking indoors was not allowed... rather, it was encouraged. Nobody had ever bothered to change the wallpaper or interior decorations since the first tenant set up trap decades ago. You could feel the horribly clouded history by placing your hand on the scarred wood that had cigarette burns and scratches from fingernails, broken glass and knives; wear and tear so deep you could feel the passage of thousands of lunatics that had emptied their glass at that very spot only to disappear in the night forever.
Today that's all changed. The interior design faggots have practically won in the war over comfort zones, and the most abominable alpha males wear fucking white trousers. What the hell is that? What happened to rock n' roll, baby? Horsefaced fuckups with the most annoyingly comradic stories, half of which were made up, and the other half indiscernible from most other tales you'd already heard. Good stories. Today it's all money bragging, fishing for jealousy and triumphantly pointing out the errs of some random other you happen to hunt with.
Connections was slightly different though. Nothing pinkishly romantic about it whatsoever. For some reason they didn't shield the fluorescent lighting, so dealings were in the back, but the clientele... What's there to say about them? They were manwhores or drug addicts the lot of them. As strange as it may sound (to the safe and sorry know-it-all that never gets his hands dirty, only to reveal his stupendous lack of insight into the human condition without a crash course in drunkard philosophy), this was the perfect place to start it all off. In fact it was the only sane starting point in existence that day, given it was brought up and agreed upon in the outset.
We met downtown and walked fast, while we went through today's report; nothing at all, same as before, everything as usual.
K was uncertain about B's coming out of the cave at all this evening, so the current agenda was to wait a beer's time to see if he'd show up. If not, he'd be buried in paperwork, literary paperwork, and dying to write something worthwhile.
Either you're there or you're not. I was sailing on suspicions of excellence and did not care ever so little about our weekly presentations we made to the three of us. I always ended up bringing something brilliant anyway. Why worry?
It was unseemingly early evening, I can't recall whether spring, summer or early autumn, but we wore jackets. K brought us beer and we each rolled a cigarette from week-old pouches. Times were hard dammit, and without a cigarette times are harder.
There was no one else in the place except for the filthy barman who always exchanged knowing glances. I could never understand what the hell it was I was supposed to know, but suspicion is futile. Better just keep your eyes open and see it coming.
There was a group of Asians on a table adjoining ours across the room. An older man and two younger ones. I would bet he was their leader, so to speak, 'cause the younger two only listened.
We got our fair share of attention as we went halfway into our beers.
“Hey you!” the old one said politely, leaning forward.
“Yes?”
“Can I buy you guys a beer?”
I looked at K and he confirmed with a glance we wouldn't have to. Pay day was imminent, we could drink on our own. It must be added that K owed me cash, so this was no buddy system, it was pure communism. Each drink his own to the best of his ability.
“Not really. We're leaving soon,” K said, breaking the truce of recognized unfamiliarity.
“Oh. What a shame.”
The man was unbelievably disappointed.
“What do you do for a living?”
“We're on the government.” I said.
“Out of jobs?”
“Men at arms. Only without the arms.”
“Do you need any money?”
“Who doesn't?”
This was getting somewhere, but not out of there, where I wanted.
“These two men they make twenty-five a month. No taxes.”
“Really?” I said, emphasizing the part where I didn't give a fuck.
“That's right.”
The man leaned backwards again, still looking at us. I looked at K.
“You finished?”
K nodded.
“Let's go.”
“It was nice to meet you.” Laissez-faire properly re-established.
“I'll be here,” the man said, not saying what was implied.
Safely out of there we made our way to St. 23. It was clear B wasn't coming anyway.
“Drugs, you think?”
“No, I don't think so,” K said.
“I think we've officially been pimped.”
Connections went out of business about a year later, though we never returned.
I guess their connections dried out.
Sigge S. Amdal is a word wanker from Oslo, Norway.
K called me up and told me he had some cash. That was all it took back then; some time off – which was all the time – and some cash. Who cared about the general welfare of anything? We were lost at sea and we loved it. I wouldn't say cruising, 'cause life on the edge never resembles the careless automata of allowing everything to happen, NO. If you did you'd end up never coming home from the party. You still see some of them, fewer and sicker every year, dealing at the central station. They never came home, and they never will.
No, being willfully lost to discover what's right there takes absolute precedent in the human survival instinct. I would go as far as saying that discovering the absolute carefree interzone of any major capital of the world requires some very careful steps. Among which food is the first point of order. Next is the money you can save by not eating well or at all. Eating pre-processed fish for a week would definitely buy you a memorable weekend, one that you wouldn't remember at all. That alone spells planning. Return reality and you're back being hungry, at the upshot of another weekend.
Naturally, this time there wasn't any such deliberation on my part, 'cause K had some cash.
“We'll meet at Connections in case B shows up.”
B never paid for anything, but it was alright, 'cause it was part of the deal. He wouldn't ask for any.
Connections was B's place. I don't know what the selling point was, except the beer was cheap as promises, most of it subsidized by other substances changing hands under – or above – the table, depending on what time it was. It wasn't any good and it spelled headaches for the morning. But who cared about the morning?
The scene was obscene back then. The government grip on serving was more of a boneless handshake, and nobody regulated anything. Smoking indoors was not allowed... rather, it was encouraged. Nobody had ever bothered to change the wallpaper or interior decorations since the first tenant set up trap decades ago. You could feel the horribly clouded history by placing your hand on the scarred wood that had cigarette burns and scratches from fingernails, broken glass and knives; wear and tear so deep you could feel the passage of thousands of lunatics that had emptied their glass at that very spot only to disappear in the night forever.
Today that's all changed. The interior design faggots have practically won in the war over comfort zones, and the most abominable alpha males wear fucking white trousers. What the hell is that? What happened to rock n' roll, baby? Horsefaced fuckups with the most annoyingly comradic stories, half of which were made up, and the other half indiscernible from most other tales you'd already heard. Good stories. Today it's all money bragging, fishing for jealousy and triumphantly pointing out the errs of some random other you happen to hunt with.
Connections was slightly different though. Nothing pinkishly romantic about it whatsoever. For some reason they didn't shield the fluorescent lighting, so dealings were in the back, but the clientele... What's there to say about them? They were manwhores or drug addicts the lot of them. As strange as it may sound (to the safe and sorry know-it-all that never gets his hands dirty, only to reveal his stupendous lack of insight into the human condition without a crash course in drunkard philosophy), this was the perfect place to start it all off. In fact it was the only sane starting point in existence that day, given it was brought up and agreed upon in the outset.
We met downtown and walked fast, while we went through today's report; nothing at all, same as before, everything as usual.
K was uncertain about B's coming out of the cave at all this evening, so the current agenda was to wait a beer's time to see if he'd show up. If not, he'd be buried in paperwork, literary paperwork, and dying to write something worthwhile.
Either you're there or you're not. I was sailing on suspicions of excellence and did not care ever so little about our weekly presentations we made to the three of us. I always ended up bringing something brilliant anyway. Why worry?
It was unseemingly early evening, I can't recall whether spring, summer or early autumn, but we wore jackets. K brought us beer and we each rolled a cigarette from week-old pouches. Times were hard dammit, and without a cigarette times are harder.
There was no one else in the place except for the filthy barman who always exchanged knowing glances. I could never understand what the hell it was I was supposed to know, but suspicion is futile. Better just keep your eyes open and see it coming.
There was a group of Asians on a table adjoining ours across the room. An older man and two younger ones. I would bet he was their leader, so to speak, 'cause the younger two only listened.
We got our fair share of attention as we went halfway into our beers.
“Hey you!” the old one said politely, leaning forward.
“Yes?”
“Can I buy you guys a beer?”
I looked at K and he confirmed with a glance we wouldn't have to. Pay day was imminent, we could drink on our own. It must be added that K owed me cash, so this was no buddy system, it was pure communism. Each drink his own to the best of his ability.
“Not really. We're leaving soon,” K said, breaking the truce of recognized unfamiliarity.
“Oh. What a shame.”
The man was unbelievably disappointed.
“What do you do for a living?”
“We're on the government.” I said.
“Out of jobs?”
“Men at arms. Only without the arms.”
“Do you need any money?”
“Who doesn't?”
This was getting somewhere, but not out of there, where I wanted.
“These two men they make twenty-five a month. No taxes.”
“Really?” I said, emphasizing the part where I didn't give a fuck.
“That's right.”
The man leaned backwards again, still looking at us. I looked at K.
“You finished?”
K nodded.
“Let's go.”
“It was nice to meet you.” Laissez-faire properly re-established.
“I'll be here,” the man said, not saying what was implied.
Safely out of there we made our way to St. 23. It was clear B wasn't coming anyway.
“Drugs, you think?”
“No, I don't think so,” K said.
“I think we've officially been pimped.”
Connections went out of business about a year later, though we never returned.
I guess their connections dried out.
Sigge S. Amdal is a word wanker from Oslo, Norway.
June 05, 2010
The Sherman Incident
By Sigge S. Amdal
Henry was tired. He was tired and wide awake, and it was late at night. Very late at night. Henry would not sleep. He would not sleep until passing out from exhaustion.
Six years ago, was it six years ago already? Yeah. Six years ago. That's when he first had it. The itch. He remember not taking notice, not paying attention, not even caring about it. But the itch had remained. And it grew worse. It grew to the point that he went to the doctor's office, because he couldn't get a proper night's sleep. That was four years ago.
Four years ago the doctors had told him, one after the other, that something was wrong with him. Only problem was that it was something different each time. Each doctor had a theory, took their tests and ran the course with treatments and ointments and pills. And still it itched. It itched like hell.
Henry closed his eyes and suppressed a whimper.
She was sleeping besides him. She slept like a baby, not a worry in the world. Sometimes he'd get so mad he would hate her for it. Then he would crawl next to her for forgiveness. Of course, she was wide asleep all the time. Not a worry in the world.
Henry stared at the ceiling, then he stared at the wall, then the wardrobe, before turning back to the ceiling. He turned right and closed his eyes. But it just made it worse. When he closed his eyes his mind's eye went backwards, into him, and back to the itch again.
Emphasizing it. It itched so much that he curled his toes and stretched out his legs until they were stiff stretched. Then tt subsided for a while. He knew it would be back.
He turned restlessly in bed, trying not to wake her up. Then it shot from his backside, a pain so extreme that he arched his back and barely managed to breathe. His buttocks clutched together like a bank vault, while he could feel every fiber in the bed sheet tickling the soft skin under his fingernails that dug as deep as possible into the mattress. He calmed down catching his breath. She shifted a little, but stayed asleep. He was sweating now. He pulled down the covers to cool himself down.
That's when he heard it. He was staring at the ceiling drifting into oblivion, nearly falling asleep again, when he heard the sound. It was faint, as if drowned by the cushions of a very long time, of a memory gradually coming into focus. It was a voice.
“HENRY B. SHERMAN.”
“Ah!” His ears rang.
“Henry B. Sherman.. Henry B. Sherman.. Henry B. Sherman?”
“Yes!”
He quickly turned towards her, frightened that she'd woken up. She was still asleep. He relaxed until he realized he was spoken to.
“Henry B. Sherman?”
“Yes, yes, that's my name.” He whimpered. Tears were flowing from his dry eye-sockets.
“Henry B. Sherman, it is a pleasure to meet you.”
“Who are you?”
Not the most rational question given the situation, but Henry was tired.
“We are, eh, we are the subjects. The Majestic Twelve subjects.”
The voice was intensely clear now, as if spoken inside his ears.
“You have heard about Majestic Twelve?”
“Majestic Twelve? What is that?”
There was some hushed discussion at the other end of the line.
“We can see there has been a mixup. I wouldn't worry about it. These things happen from time to time. Why don't you go to sleep now?”
“That's easier said than...” He fell asleep.
The itch was less noticeable as soon Henry got distracted. Every-day life, work, working out, the girlfriend, friends and television were all readily available to bury his burden in background noise. He was a B-type of person, and worked flexible hours to accommodate. Late nights and a girlfriend without any emotional depth provided just the right amount of getaway.
During day time Henry considered himself a normal person. He was just as normal as every other normal person. There was nothing wrong with him. There was no itch.
After each day though there was another night to live through again, and the itch always returned, this night no different. He was brought back to his nightly ordeal by an itch so strong he fantasized about getting a knife or a pair of scissors in the kitchen and cutting into his skin. His heart paced and sweat formed on his forehead. But this time he was not alone.
“Henry B. Sherman.”
“Yes, yes. This is Henry.” said Henry. He was shivering from the itching.
“We have been watching you. You seem to be quite uncomfortable right now, is that right?”
“Yes, I'm in hell here!” he yelled under his breath. He looked left. She was fast asleep.
“That is why we broke the peace. We would not have done it otherwise, just so you know.
There is nothing wrong with trying to help out, wouldn't you agree?”
“Um, yes. I think so. Why not?” His eyes rolled back into his skull as another itch took over.
“Ffffuck!” he exclaimed without tone.
“We would very much like to help you, Henry.”
“So help me god dammit!”
A thousand ants, it felt like a thousand fire ants took hold of his body. He was shaking. She stirred, but turned and turned again. Still asleep. He held his breath.
Then, all of a sudden, as if a cold hand of serenity had been laid upon him, he felt something he had not remembered. Peace. Being still. Being well. Free.
He gasped, waiting for the inevitable itch to return yet again, closing his eyes so hard they hurt.
“Does that work?”
“Ssshh!” He opened his eyes, blinking. There was quiet for a while as Henry experienced the light ecstasy of exhausted relaxation as his body finally came to natural rest. He couldn't believe it.
“Did it work?”
“Yes. Yes it did! Thank you!”
He smiled from ear to ear, just barely stopping himself from laughing out loud from joy.
“We are so happy for you, Henry.”
“Thanks. Thanks so much! You have no idea how long I've been waiting for the itch to go away.”
“It hasn't gone away, Henry.”
Cold truth brought panic and doom both at once, it would all come back! “WHAT?!”
She woke up.
“Henry, what's happening?” Slurred from sleep.
“Don't worry, darling. It was just a bad dream. Just a bad dream.”
He lulled her back to sleep again, waited ten minutes and waited another ten minutes before he dared to whisper; “What do you mean it's not gone?”
“The itch is not gone, Henry. You just can't feel it any longer. We made it so.” said the subjects.
“But in order to make it stay that way, you must do something for us in return. That is just the way it works, Henry. Does that sound reasonable to you?”
“It sounds reasonable, I guess.”
“There has been a mistake. Someone has made a mistake, Henry. Don't worry, it's not you. It's the Majestic Twelve. We are not supposed to be here. Not at all. They have made a mistake and sent us here. A terrible mistake. Did you know, that is why you have been itching for so long? What was it, six years now?”
“Six years..”
“Six years they've made you suffer! We are very sorry for the inconvenience. Luckily we recently found out that if we stimulated the brain stem directly by electric impulse we could communicate with host just as one would hear a voice.”
Henry didn't understand a thing that they said.
“It means that we finally can talk together. We can make things right again. And you, Henry, you can be free again. Free from this itch altogether and forever. What say you? Will you help us put things right again, Henry?”
“I will help you.”
And then they told him, in great detail, all the things he was going to do to set things right with the Majestic Twelve and free him from the itch forever.
Henry got up slowly and quietly not to wake her up. He slid on his sweatpants and a t-shirt and put on the slippers. He went into the kitchen careful not to make a sound, and opened the utility drawer. He took out a sharp filet knife and closed the drawer. Then he quietly locked himself out of the apartment.
Sigge S. Amdal is a word wanker from Oslo, Norway.
Henry was tired. He was tired and wide awake, and it was late at night. Very late at night. Henry would not sleep. He would not sleep until passing out from exhaustion.
Six years ago, was it six years ago already? Yeah. Six years ago. That's when he first had it. The itch. He remember not taking notice, not paying attention, not even caring about it. But the itch had remained. And it grew worse. It grew to the point that he went to the doctor's office, because he couldn't get a proper night's sleep. That was four years ago.
Four years ago the doctors had told him, one after the other, that something was wrong with him. Only problem was that it was something different each time. Each doctor had a theory, took their tests and ran the course with treatments and ointments and pills. And still it itched. It itched like hell.
Henry closed his eyes and suppressed a whimper.
She was sleeping besides him. She slept like a baby, not a worry in the world. Sometimes he'd get so mad he would hate her for it. Then he would crawl next to her for forgiveness. Of course, she was wide asleep all the time. Not a worry in the world.
Henry stared at the ceiling, then he stared at the wall, then the wardrobe, before turning back to the ceiling. He turned right and closed his eyes. But it just made it worse. When he closed his eyes his mind's eye went backwards, into him, and back to the itch again.
Emphasizing it. It itched so much that he curled his toes and stretched out his legs until they were stiff stretched. Then tt subsided for a while. He knew it would be back.
He turned restlessly in bed, trying not to wake her up. Then it shot from his backside, a pain so extreme that he arched his back and barely managed to breathe. His buttocks clutched together like a bank vault, while he could feel every fiber in the bed sheet tickling the soft skin under his fingernails that dug as deep as possible into the mattress. He calmed down catching his breath. She shifted a little, but stayed asleep. He was sweating now. He pulled down the covers to cool himself down.
That's when he heard it. He was staring at the ceiling drifting into oblivion, nearly falling asleep again, when he heard the sound. It was faint, as if drowned by the cushions of a very long time, of a memory gradually coming into focus. It was a voice.
“HENRY B. SHERMAN.”
“Ah!” His ears rang.
“Henry B. Sherman.. Henry B. Sherman.. Henry B. Sherman?”
“Yes!”
He quickly turned towards her, frightened that she'd woken up. She was still asleep. He relaxed until he realized he was spoken to.
“Henry B. Sherman?”
“Yes, yes, that's my name.” He whimpered. Tears were flowing from his dry eye-sockets.
“Henry B. Sherman, it is a pleasure to meet you.”
“Who are you?”
Not the most rational question given the situation, but Henry was tired.
“We are, eh, we are the subjects. The Majestic Twelve subjects.”
The voice was intensely clear now, as if spoken inside his ears.
“You have heard about Majestic Twelve?”
“Majestic Twelve? What is that?”
There was some hushed discussion at the other end of the line.
“We can see there has been a mixup. I wouldn't worry about it. These things happen from time to time. Why don't you go to sleep now?”
“That's easier said than...” He fell asleep.
The itch was less noticeable as soon Henry got distracted. Every-day life, work, working out, the girlfriend, friends and television were all readily available to bury his burden in background noise. He was a B-type of person, and worked flexible hours to accommodate. Late nights and a girlfriend without any emotional depth provided just the right amount of getaway.
During day time Henry considered himself a normal person. He was just as normal as every other normal person. There was nothing wrong with him. There was no itch.
After each day though there was another night to live through again, and the itch always returned, this night no different. He was brought back to his nightly ordeal by an itch so strong he fantasized about getting a knife or a pair of scissors in the kitchen and cutting into his skin. His heart paced and sweat formed on his forehead. But this time he was not alone.
“Henry B. Sherman.”
“Yes, yes. This is Henry.” said Henry. He was shivering from the itching.
“We have been watching you. You seem to be quite uncomfortable right now, is that right?”
“Yes, I'm in hell here!” he yelled under his breath. He looked left. She was fast asleep.
“That is why we broke the peace. We would not have done it otherwise, just so you know.
There is nothing wrong with trying to help out, wouldn't you agree?”
“Um, yes. I think so. Why not?” His eyes rolled back into his skull as another itch took over.
“Ffffuck!” he exclaimed without tone.
“We would very much like to help you, Henry.”
“So help me god dammit!”
A thousand ants, it felt like a thousand fire ants took hold of his body. He was shaking. She stirred, but turned and turned again. Still asleep. He held his breath.
Then, all of a sudden, as if a cold hand of serenity had been laid upon him, he felt something he had not remembered. Peace. Being still. Being well. Free.
He gasped, waiting for the inevitable itch to return yet again, closing his eyes so hard they hurt.
“Does that work?”
“Ssshh!” He opened his eyes, blinking. There was quiet for a while as Henry experienced the light ecstasy of exhausted relaxation as his body finally came to natural rest. He couldn't believe it.
“Did it work?”
“Yes. Yes it did! Thank you!”
He smiled from ear to ear, just barely stopping himself from laughing out loud from joy.
“We are so happy for you, Henry.”
“Thanks. Thanks so much! You have no idea how long I've been waiting for the itch to go away.”
“It hasn't gone away, Henry.”
Cold truth brought panic and doom both at once, it would all come back! “WHAT?!”
She woke up.
“Henry, what's happening?” Slurred from sleep.
“Don't worry, darling. It was just a bad dream. Just a bad dream.”
He lulled her back to sleep again, waited ten minutes and waited another ten minutes before he dared to whisper; “What do you mean it's not gone?”
“The itch is not gone, Henry. You just can't feel it any longer. We made it so.” said the subjects.
“But in order to make it stay that way, you must do something for us in return. That is just the way it works, Henry. Does that sound reasonable to you?”
“It sounds reasonable, I guess.”
“There has been a mistake. Someone has made a mistake, Henry. Don't worry, it's not you. It's the Majestic Twelve. We are not supposed to be here. Not at all. They have made a mistake and sent us here. A terrible mistake. Did you know, that is why you have been itching for so long? What was it, six years now?”
“Six years..”
“Six years they've made you suffer! We are very sorry for the inconvenience. Luckily we recently found out that if we stimulated the brain stem directly by electric impulse we could communicate with host just as one would hear a voice.”
Henry didn't understand a thing that they said.
“It means that we finally can talk together. We can make things right again. And you, Henry, you can be free again. Free from this itch altogether and forever. What say you? Will you help us put things right again, Henry?”
“I will help you.”
And then they told him, in great detail, all the things he was going to do to set things right with the Majestic Twelve and free him from the itch forever.
Henry got up slowly and quietly not to wake her up. He slid on his sweatpants and a t-shirt and put on the slippers. He went into the kitchen careful not to make a sound, and opened the utility drawer. He took out a sharp filet knife and closed the drawer. Then he quietly locked himself out of the apartment.
Sigge S. Amdal is a word wanker from Oslo, Norway.
April 03, 2010
The Dog Lover
By Sigge S. Amdal © 2010
I was having a relaxing day doing nothing at all when I realized that I'd actually have to leave the flat to get some eggs and a six pack (breakfast & dinner). I had a chat with my pet fish and decided to check out the local pet store to see if they had frozen larvae – a delicious to hungry Kili fish that'll make 'em fornicate like swine given the opportunity.
It was a lazy Saturday and people seemed to relax at the same pace as I. That's what I'm going to miss about this place, the Sleepy Hollow just two bus stops above the Party St. #1 of Oslo. People can head downtown if they want the shopping hysteria and trendy stress-related symptoms of an urban lifestyle. Those that are left are unemployed alcoholics, pregnant housewives on maternity leave and poets who lost the war.
Having placed my bets on the regular horses – I play 6, 11, 4, 5, 8, 10, 2, 9 and 13 every weekend – I strolled casually through Torshov in a state of blankness.
There's a pet store just across the local café where they mostly cater the dog and cat owning crowd. I don't have a dog, not just yet, but I grew up in a mixed pack so I sympathize with those that keep them. Maybe they had fish food as well?
I stepped inside and a brown terrier pup belonging to one of the customers greeted me friendly, sniffing at my hands and acknowledging my superiority. I hate dogs that don't, and consider your leg or any other limb for that matter a humping pole for sexual stimuli.
I asked at the counter if they had any fish food but all they could show for was weekend & vacation feeding tables. Not good enough, but thanks anyway.
"But do you have a dog?" a busty blonde stopped me in the doorway.
"No, I don't. Not just yet."
She was nice. Fresh, appealing, in her sexual prime. And it was hot outside.
"You see, I'm giving away these samples of dog food, but if you don't have a dog I guess it doesn't interest you."
"Oh, I'm interested," I said. "Maybe you could tell me all about it somewhere less public?"
She took the bait, line hook and sinker.
"Hey, I'm just gonna show this gentleman some of the other bags in storage. I'll be right back!" she yelled above the isle to the middle-aged woman at the counter, and took my hand.
"Come with me."
There was a small five by five meter storage room stuffed with huge bags of dog food and I bent her down on one of the piles, while she quickly dropped her yellow panties.
"I'm gonna do you like a dog," I said, pulling out my member and playing with her cheeks.
"You like that, don't you? Yeah, you're a little dick loving puppy."
I could feel her blood throbbing around my JT. She whimpered anxiously.
"You've been waiting for this, haven't you? It's time the alpha male got his dips."
I thrust her against the plastic fodder bags, and she sounded like a virgin, wet as a dog's snout.
"Get your blouse open."
I didn't stop but she unbuttoned and I grabbed the firm breasts with both hands.
"Lean over me," she said.
"What?"
"Lean over me, like a Labrador. I want to feel your breath in my ear."
I did as she said and panted into her ear, licking her cheek, and going as far inside I could, completely filling her with the pure adrenaline of beast head.
She made a yelping sound and came all over me, and I followed rightly after. I just love to hear 'em come.
"Thanks," she said and kissed me.
"Anytime," I said, just noticing the strong smell of dog food, making me cringe.
"God, that's an awful smell from the bags."
"No, I love it," she said, buttoning her blouse.
"Can I call you for a deal if I ever buy a dog?"
"Sure," she said and winked. "And you?"
I turned in the doorway.
"Bring the dog too."
Sigge S. Amdal is a word wanker from Oslo, Norway.
I was having a relaxing day doing nothing at all when I realized that I'd actually have to leave the flat to get some eggs and a six pack (breakfast & dinner). I had a chat with my pet fish and decided to check out the local pet store to see if they had frozen larvae – a delicious to hungry Kili fish that'll make 'em fornicate like swine given the opportunity.
It was a lazy Saturday and people seemed to relax at the same pace as I. That's what I'm going to miss about this place, the Sleepy Hollow just two bus stops above the Party St. #1 of Oslo. People can head downtown if they want the shopping hysteria and trendy stress-related symptoms of an urban lifestyle. Those that are left are unemployed alcoholics, pregnant housewives on maternity leave and poets who lost the war.
Having placed my bets on the regular horses – I play 6, 11, 4, 5, 8, 10, 2, 9 and 13 every weekend – I strolled casually through Torshov in a state of blankness.
There's a pet store just across the local café where they mostly cater the dog and cat owning crowd. I don't have a dog, not just yet, but I grew up in a mixed pack so I sympathize with those that keep them. Maybe they had fish food as well?
I stepped inside and a brown terrier pup belonging to one of the customers greeted me friendly, sniffing at my hands and acknowledging my superiority. I hate dogs that don't, and consider your leg or any other limb for that matter a humping pole for sexual stimuli.
I asked at the counter if they had any fish food but all they could show for was weekend & vacation feeding tables. Not good enough, but thanks anyway.
"But do you have a dog?" a busty blonde stopped me in the doorway.
"No, I don't. Not just yet."
She was nice. Fresh, appealing, in her sexual prime. And it was hot outside.
"You see, I'm giving away these samples of dog food, but if you don't have a dog I guess it doesn't interest you."
"Oh, I'm interested," I said. "Maybe you could tell me all about it somewhere less public?"
She took the bait, line hook and sinker.
"Hey, I'm just gonna show this gentleman some of the other bags in storage. I'll be right back!" she yelled above the isle to the middle-aged woman at the counter, and took my hand.
"Come with me."
There was a small five by five meter storage room stuffed with huge bags of dog food and I bent her down on one of the piles, while she quickly dropped her yellow panties.
"I'm gonna do you like a dog," I said, pulling out my member and playing with her cheeks.
"You like that, don't you? Yeah, you're a little dick loving puppy."
I could feel her blood throbbing around my JT. She whimpered anxiously.
"You've been waiting for this, haven't you? It's time the alpha male got his dips."
I thrust her against the plastic fodder bags, and she sounded like a virgin, wet as a dog's snout.
"Get your blouse open."
I didn't stop but she unbuttoned and I grabbed the firm breasts with both hands.
"Lean over me," she said.
"What?"
"Lean over me, like a Labrador. I want to feel your breath in my ear."
I did as she said and panted into her ear, licking her cheek, and going as far inside I could, completely filling her with the pure adrenaline of beast head.
She made a yelping sound and came all over me, and I followed rightly after. I just love to hear 'em come.
"Thanks," she said and kissed me.
"Anytime," I said, just noticing the strong smell of dog food, making me cringe.
"God, that's an awful smell from the bags."
"No, I love it," she said, buttoning her blouse.
"Can I call you for a deal if I ever buy a dog?"
"Sure," she said and winked. "And you?"
I turned in the doorway.
"Bring the dog too."
Sigge S. Amdal is a word wanker from Oslo, Norway.
March 03, 2010
Jonny, no H. The Best of Oslo Taxi.
By Sigge S. Amdal © 2010
For whatever reason, whatever grounds that night, I was irrevocably mugged by four umpteens taking turns like the worst scenes of a Clockwork Orange. Time is put on hold and your money is gone, everyone around you pose immediate threats; long, cold shadows reaching into the supporting structure surrounding your heart, and squeezing it for fear, every drop of it, until you go insane.
I stumbled up from the ground, brushed off my jacket and felt the throbbing in my crown. 'Dang, there goes fine dental work,' I thought to myself, but it hurt too much to laugh.
It was late at night, and I was on my way home from yet another fruitless adventure downtown when the robbery took place. I was bruised and battered, but still light at heart, as the friendly memories of two hours prior took precedence and left me unscathed. Thank God.
They were amateurs, hobbyists; no honest man of the criminal profession would approve; I was still standing, still breathing, still with a wit and walking ability! As I said, no honest thief would leave a heart beating. "Kids these days!" In hindsight I think that the alcohol helped.
It was closer to four than five am, and the distance to home only grew by every step I made forward. I needed a cabbie, and I needed it fast 'fore anyone wrong around me would pay any notice. This is a dog-eat-dog kind of town as soon as the bar closes and all the police of central Oslo has left somewhere else entirely, never there when you need them and especially there when you don't.
Short of putting my life on the line I stepped over the life-saving threshold that saves thousand pedestrian lives every night from the crazed, pill popping taxi drivers going a hundred and twenty, and onto the road to signal for help to a passing car. Like floating promises they are, pauses in time and space, taking you home or a magical place; those were the days, but I am older now, and seldom need to cash out for the fun. Definite destination was home.
A cabbie saw my distress call and stopped despite my rather shabby appearance.
"Hey, man!" I said as I got in, never give them time to re-consider. Too many cabbies are killed, if they were all careful we would never get a ride.
"Good evening," he said. He was an old Norse rider, one of those who've seen the city turn from a province town to a capital to a self-inflicted monster. He's the right kind of guy.
"Can you take me home, please?" I said and grunted. The soft clothed seats made me aware of all the bruises.
"Sure thing, pal. Hard night out?" He said, when I'd given him the address.
"You bet. It's nothing else than a jungle out there, a mental asylum, a heathen altar of human sacrifice."
"Tell me about it!"
And I did. I told him about the One Night Out, the flirts in skirts, the mixup at the bar with the Piña Coladas that ensued, the buddies who went wrong and ended up at The Gay Bar, the accompanying tales of such trouble and finally the mugging as a topping to the piece.
And we both laughed at the trials and tribulations that have come to pass as the Oslo Experience if you don't watch your ass; and he brought back humanity and heart-felt appreciation of the wonders of life, lost love and tearful teasers, the cinnamon in the bun so to speak, which makes life so worth living here. And I smiled and I laughed my heart out, clearing the dark patches in the process, those scars you don't see but wake up with, the cancer of the soul, which later come to determine so much of your life. Indeed, he was the best cabbie this city has seen. And I've seen a lot of them.
The minutes passed like the orange street lights outside the window – fast – and soon we were there.
"As you know I was mugged, and I don't have any cash," I said, "I have money, just not right now."
"Don't worry about it. Take down this number," he said, and gave me the cab registration number that I jot down a couple of times for good measure, as well as the cab company telephone number.
"You just transfer the money to the account they read up to you, and give my best to Denise."
"Okay. What's your name, by the way?"
"It's Jonny, no H."
"Right. Thanks for the ride, Jonny. I really appreciate it."
"Don't worry about it. You just get yourself home safely and make sure to sleep it out. Those bruises will heal but you better be careful the next time around."
"Oh, I will. Thanks again!" and I slammed the door shut and locked myself inside.
The reader should know that I once asked a cabbie what he would do if a passenger couldn't pay the fare. "Nothing," he said. There was nothing he could do. There has been too many killings over small bills that it wasn't worth the risk. Christ, just a week before this there had been a fatal stabbing over a failed taxi transaction downtown. Therefore the note and the transfer details. Good people will always pay up, and most people are a little good, especially the days after drinking.
It was Monday after this ordeal, having recovered from the whole thing through Sunday, that I found the piece of paper in my pocket with the number to call.
"Hi, this is Oslo Taxi, you're talking to Laura," said Laura.
"Hi, my name is Sigge and I'm calling 'cause I got this number from one of your cabbies that I couldn't pay on Saturday. But I'm a good honest-to-god kind of guy so having found it just now I want to make it right!"
"Alright, no problem." she said and laughed. "Can you give me the cab registration number, please?"
And I read it up, just like it was.
She became very silent before she said, "Are you sure about the number?"
"Yes, I even wrote it down twice!" I said merrily. "His name was Jonny, no H, and I was supposed to say hello to Denise. You got a Denise there by any chance?"
"Yes, we do. She's in a funeral right now, but can I take a message?"
"Just hello from Jonny no H, I guess."
"I don't know who that is. I'm sorry, I just started working here. Let me give you my boss."
A few moments later a man picked up the phone and asked me to give me the cab registration number all over again, and I did, just like I'd written it down with the Jonny, no H, and hello to Denise.
"Sir, could you state your name again, for the record?"
"Yeah," and done.
"Is this some sort of sick joke?" He was angry.
"What? What do you mean? Jonny said I could pay through here, 'cause I didn't have the cash on me Saturday."
"Jonny doesn't work for us anymore. Not since he died last week! And I think you should fucking take that into consideration before calling here again you bastard! I'll call the cops!" then he slammed down the phone.
It just couldn't be. I picked up the newspaper and flipping through the dead pages I found Jonny no H taxi driver, "Taken from us prematurely."
I didn't call back, but I hope Laura delivered the message.
To this day I haven't seen Jonny's cab again. But I'm sure that he's out there with the other phantom cabs of Oslo, keeping an eye out for those that need a fare, but can't pay. I still have the note that I wrote and I keep it with me when I go out to town so I remember to stay out of trouble, and save some extra cash for a safe ride home.
Sigge S. Amdal is a word wanker from Olso, Norway.
For whatever reason, whatever grounds that night, I was irrevocably mugged by four umpteens taking turns like the worst scenes of a Clockwork Orange. Time is put on hold and your money is gone, everyone around you pose immediate threats; long, cold shadows reaching into the supporting structure surrounding your heart, and squeezing it for fear, every drop of it, until you go insane.
I stumbled up from the ground, brushed off my jacket and felt the throbbing in my crown. 'Dang, there goes fine dental work,' I thought to myself, but it hurt too much to laugh.
It was late at night, and I was on my way home from yet another fruitless adventure downtown when the robbery took place. I was bruised and battered, but still light at heart, as the friendly memories of two hours prior took precedence and left me unscathed. Thank God.
They were amateurs, hobbyists; no honest man of the criminal profession would approve; I was still standing, still breathing, still with a wit and walking ability! As I said, no honest thief would leave a heart beating. "Kids these days!" In hindsight I think that the alcohol helped.
It was closer to four than five am, and the distance to home only grew by every step I made forward. I needed a cabbie, and I needed it fast 'fore anyone wrong around me would pay any notice. This is a dog-eat-dog kind of town as soon as the bar closes and all the police of central Oslo has left somewhere else entirely, never there when you need them and especially there when you don't.
Short of putting my life on the line I stepped over the life-saving threshold that saves thousand pedestrian lives every night from the crazed, pill popping taxi drivers going a hundred and twenty, and onto the road to signal for help to a passing car. Like floating promises they are, pauses in time and space, taking you home or a magical place; those were the days, but I am older now, and seldom need to cash out for the fun. Definite destination was home.
A cabbie saw my distress call and stopped despite my rather shabby appearance.
"Hey, man!" I said as I got in, never give them time to re-consider. Too many cabbies are killed, if they were all careful we would never get a ride.
"Good evening," he said. He was an old Norse rider, one of those who've seen the city turn from a province town to a capital to a self-inflicted monster. He's the right kind of guy.
"Can you take me home, please?" I said and grunted. The soft clothed seats made me aware of all the bruises.
"Sure thing, pal. Hard night out?" He said, when I'd given him the address.
"You bet. It's nothing else than a jungle out there, a mental asylum, a heathen altar of human sacrifice."
"Tell me about it!"
And I did. I told him about the One Night Out, the flirts in skirts, the mixup at the bar with the Piña Coladas that ensued, the buddies who went wrong and ended up at The Gay Bar, the accompanying tales of such trouble and finally the mugging as a topping to the piece.
And we both laughed at the trials and tribulations that have come to pass as the Oslo Experience if you don't watch your ass; and he brought back humanity and heart-felt appreciation of the wonders of life, lost love and tearful teasers, the cinnamon in the bun so to speak, which makes life so worth living here. And I smiled and I laughed my heart out, clearing the dark patches in the process, those scars you don't see but wake up with, the cancer of the soul, which later come to determine so much of your life. Indeed, he was the best cabbie this city has seen. And I've seen a lot of them.
The minutes passed like the orange street lights outside the window – fast – and soon we were there.
"As you know I was mugged, and I don't have any cash," I said, "I have money, just not right now."
"Don't worry about it. Take down this number," he said, and gave me the cab registration number that I jot down a couple of times for good measure, as well as the cab company telephone number.
"You just transfer the money to the account they read up to you, and give my best to Denise."
"Okay. What's your name, by the way?"
"It's Jonny, no H."
"Right. Thanks for the ride, Jonny. I really appreciate it."
"Don't worry about it. You just get yourself home safely and make sure to sleep it out. Those bruises will heal but you better be careful the next time around."
"Oh, I will. Thanks again!" and I slammed the door shut and locked myself inside.
The reader should know that I once asked a cabbie what he would do if a passenger couldn't pay the fare. "Nothing," he said. There was nothing he could do. There has been too many killings over small bills that it wasn't worth the risk. Christ, just a week before this there had been a fatal stabbing over a failed taxi transaction downtown. Therefore the note and the transfer details. Good people will always pay up, and most people are a little good, especially the days after drinking.
It was Monday after this ordeal, having recovered from the whole thing through Sunday, that I found the piece of paper in my pocket with the number to call.
"Hi, this is Oslo Taxi, you're talking to Laura," said Laura.
"Hi, my name is Sigge and I'm calling 'cause I got this number from one of your cabbies that I couldn't pay on Saturday. But I'm a good honest-to-god kind of guy so having found it just now I want to make it right!"
"Alright, no problem." she said and laughed. "Can you give me the cab registration number, please?"
And I read it up, just like it was.
She became very silent before she said, "Are you sure about the number?"
"Yes, I even wrote it down twice!" I said merrily. "His name was Jonny, no H, and I was supposed to say hello to Denise. You got a Denise there by any chance?"
"Yes, we do. She's in a funeral right now, but can I take a message?"
"Just hello from Jonny no H, I guess."
"I don't know who that is. I'm sorry, I just started working here. Let me give you my boss."
A few moments later a man picked up the phone and asked me to give me the cab registration number all over again, and I did, just like I'd written it down with the Jonny, no H, and hello to Denise.
"Sir, could you state your name again, for the record?"
"Yeah," and done.
"Is this some sort of sick joke?" He was angry.
"What? What do you mean? Jonny said I could pay through here, 'cause I didn't have the cash on me Saturday."
"Jonny doesn't work for us anymore. Not since he died last week! And I think you should fucking take that into consideration before calling here again you bastard! I'll call the cops!" then he slammed down the phone.
It just couldn't be. I picked up the newspaper and flipping through the dead pages I found Jonny no H taxi driver, "Taken from us prematurely."
I didn't call back, but I hope Laura delivered the message.
To this day I haven't seen Jonny's cab again. But I'm sure that he's out there with the other phantom cabs of Oslo, keeping an eye out for those that need a fare, but can't pay. I still have the note that I wrote and I keep it with me when I go out to town so I remember to stay out of trouble, and save some extra cash for a safe ride home.
Sigge S. Amdal is a word wanker from Olso, Norway.
October 03, 2009
The Demon of Oscar Braathen's Tavern
By Sigge S. Amdal © 2009
There's a green EXIT sign hanging above the television set. It's not turned on, there is no exit. The room's three meters by six, I've got it all to myself, the walls are orange and the floorboards are fake. There are four tables in here, and candle lights on all of them. They've never been lit. The paintings are nondescript still images of places around the city maybe a hundred, maybe two hundred years ago. They are all dull and dark, maybe from cigarette smoke, and there is not a single human being or animal of any kind in any of them.
The painting of a town square on my opposite side has a fissure in it where a stretch of empty sky used to be. It makes it look as if there is a huge, dark brown demon flying over the square, wingspan the size of a small house. That explains why there are no people in any of the pictures, why they are all silent and waiting. The people are inside, hiding from the beast.
I can hear a baby playing in the other room. It starts out sweet and ends in a shriek. I can hear a woman doting on it, trying to keep the conversation going with the man she's talking with.
The table feet are made of cast iron.
The waitress is nervous. Some older man, maybe the owner, just told her what numbers the table are. They didn't step inside but I could see their reflection on the blank grey glass of the television. These are tables eighteen to twenty-two. She'll come around to it. I think she had an Eastern European accent. I really don't care. This please is dead to me unless I get my coffee. I got a free second fill but now it's empty again. A car drives by and makes some extra noise as it picks up speed. The world out there doesn't bother me.
I turn to the wall behind me and see a fourth painting. In all probability it was made by the same painter as the others. It does have a lot of green in it. Trees, bushes, grass. There are tree crowns covering a third of the picture leaving only two inches of grayish sky. The city's been deserted for a while then. Overgrown. The trees are reclaiming what's ultimately theirs.
The mother is singing now. Or was it the radio? It sounds like a lullaby.
The situation with the demon seems to have been going on for a while. Maybe it's been a whole year already?
No. The second painting is a portrait format shot of a blue apartment building from the 18th century, and there's a lawn in front of it. The grass is still pretty short, but the rough details don't say much of whether it's been trimmed or not. I bet the flying demon came during the winter or shortly thereafter. Presently it's summer. If it happened just now it would be reasonable to expect some litter and a few house pets, at least a wondering cat or two. There's nothing of the sort. Maybe it's his natural hunting grounds. It was just hibernating beneath the city, but now with the climate changes and widespread secularism, the demon yet again has a part to play. Of course, we're just calling it a demon. It looks more like an animal, a dinosaur. Pterosaur to be exact. Humans are funny that way, always interpreting absolutely everything.
The baby wants attention and makes a horrible shrieking sound, making the hairs on my back stand up. That's exactly what you'd expect from a demon hovering above a deserted town. It's just doing what demons are supposed to be doing. But it freaks me out nevertheless. I'm out of here.
When I leave, the room will be empty again, put to rest, but the paintings will continue to tell the tale the next time someone's willing to listen.
Sigge S. Amdal is a word wanker from Oslo, Norway.
There's a green EXIT sign hanging above the television set. It's not turned on, there is no exit. The room's three meters by six, I've got it all to myself, the walls are orange and the floorboards are fake. There are four tables in here, and candle lights on all of them. They've never been lit. The paintings are nondescript still images of places around the city maybe a hundred, maybe two hundred years ago. They are all dull and dark, maybe from cigarette smoke, and there is not a single human being or animal of any kind in any of them.
The painting of a town square on my opposite side has a fissure in it where a stretch of empty sky used to be. It makes it look as if there is a huge, dark brown demon flying over the square, wingspan the size of a small house. That explains why there are no people in any of the pictures, why they are all silent and waiting. The people are inside, hiding from the beast.
I can hear a baby playing in the other room. It starts out sweet and ends in a shriek. I can hear a woman doting on it, trying to keep the conversation going with the man she's talking with.
The table feet are made of cast iron.
The waitress is nervous. Some older man, maybe the owner, just told her what numbers the table are. They didn't step inside but I could see their reflection on the blank grey glass of the television. These are tables eighteen to twenty-two. She'll come around to it. I think she had an Eastern European accent. I really don't care. This please is dead to me unless I get my coffee. I got a free second fill but now it's empty again. A car drives by and makes some extra noise as it picks up speed. The world out there doesn't bother me.
I turn to the wall behind me and see a fourth painting. In all probability it was made by the same painter as the others. It does have a lot of green in it. Trees, bushes, grass. There are tree crowns covering a third of the picture leaving only two inches of grayish sky. The city's been deserted for a while then. Overgrown. The trees are reclaiming what's ultimately theirs.
The mother is singing now. Or was it the radio? It sounds like a lullaby.
The situation with the demon seems to have been going on for a while. Maybe it's been a whole year already?
No. The second painting is a portrait format shot of a blue apartment building from the 18th century, and there's a lawn in front of it. The grass is still pretty short, but the rough details don't say much of whether it's been trimmed or not. I bet the flying demon came during the winter or shortly thereafter. Presently it's summer. If it happened just now it would be reasonable to expect some litter and a few house pets, at least a wondering cat or two. There's nothing of the sort. Maybe it's his natural hunting grounds. It was just hibernating beneath the city, but now with the climate changes and widespread secularism, the demon yet again has a part to play. Of course, we're just calling it a demon. It looks more like an animal, a dinosaur. Pterosaur to be exact. Humans are funny that way, always interpreting absolutely everything.
The baby wants attention and makes a horrible shrieking sound, making the hairs on my back stand up. That's exactly what you'd expect from a demon hovering above a deserted town. It's just doing what demons are supposed to be doing. But it freaks me out nevertheless. I'm out of here.
When I leave, the room will be empty again, put to rest, but the paintings will continue to tell the tale the next time someone's willing to listen.
Sigge S. Amdal is a word wanker from Oslo, Norway.
September 05, 2009
The Red Pill
By Sigge S. Amdal
Ignorance is bliss.
I was far away in thought when I was interrupted at my table. I was sitting outside, in the shade, but the sun kept the molecules vibrating at a comfortable level around me. They'd just put some jazz on, and the outlook for a nice day in the sun looked promising.
"YOU!"
It was a lady, a young girl, dressed in casual clothing, with her hair nicely set up and her face set in iron stone. Her eyes were twitching from anger. There was no question about who she was addressing.
"Me?"
"Yes! What the hell are you doing here?"
"What?"
She was almost screaming at me, and I was suddenly under the intense evaluation of the other people around us.
"How dare you?! How the fuck do you dare to do this to me?"
"What? I've never seen you before!"
"I waited at my parents' house for two hours until I had to make up some excuse for why the fuck you wouldn't show up!"
"Listen to me. You must be mistaking me for someone else."
"Don't try me, you fucking bastard."
She sat down without an invitation and picked out one of my cigarettes.
"Do you want to split up with me? Is that it?"
"Listen, I have no idea what you are talking about."
I tried to remain calm, even though strangers around my belongings seriously freak me out. I've been robbed one time too many. But this was insane. Was she insane? Tripping?
"The breakfast with my parents! You know how much it meant to me. And my mother! She's never going to shake your hand after this. You know how conservative they are when it comes to keeping ones' appointments. And frankly, so am I!"
"You misunderstand."
"Misunderstand? What the hell is there to misunderstand?! You stood me up this one time when it really mattered to me! And you knew it! I'm not important to you at all, am I?"
I could feel the judgment of all the female observers in the vicinity. They all knew how it was, and this time I was the scapegoat for all their pent up frustration. Except I was no willing part in the play. She stared at me defiantly.
"Do you want to end it? 'Cause I sure can't go on like this! Fuck you and fuck your fucking ego!"
She dropped the face and began to cry, as tensions rose around me. The waiters stopped waiting tables, people stopped talking; they were just exchanging knowing glances and judgmental comments. The men were just happy someone else got the worst of it, and made a mental not to self to Buy Flowers for the Missus. I was beginning to sweat.
"Please," I said and leaned a bit forward with my hand on the table. "Please don't cry."
"Don't fucking tell me what to do! Don't you love me anymore?"
"Love you? I just met you two minutes ago. No, I don't love you."
Some sense of realization dawned on her, and she composed herself.
"Fine," she said, drying her tears.
"I'm sorry," I said generally, trying to be the better stranger of the equation.
"Don't be. It's me that's sorry." She picked up her purse and stood up.
"Goodbye," she said. "I hope you'll be happy now."
"Me too," I said.
Then she left.
I looked into the table as soon she turned around and disappeared, and took a sip of coffee. My hand was shaking. The crowd was slowly shifting attention though I was certainly somewhere in the conversation. What a heartless bastard I was, and so on.
I shook my head. What a bizarre thing to happen. But I wouldn't be welcome here for a while now, judging by the waitresses' stern looks. I gathered my belongings getting ready to leave in a walk of shame. I fumbled in my pockets for my keys.
They looked strange. Still, I knew they were mine.
"OH SHIT!" I shouted, before I ran as fast I could to catch up with my girlfriend.
Sigge S. Amdal is a word wanker from Oslo, Norway.
Ignorance is bliss.
I was far away in thought when I was interrupted at my table. I was sitting outside, in the shade, but the sun kept the molecules vibrating at a comfortable level around me. They'd just put some jazz on, and the outlook for a nice day in the sun looked promising.
"YOU!"
It was a lady, a young girl, dressed in casual clothing, with her hair nicely set up and her face set in iron stone. Her eyes were twitching from anger. There was no question about who she was addressing.
"Me?"
"Yes! What the hell are you doing here?"
"What?"
She was almost screaming at me, and I was suddenly under the intense evaluation of the other people around us.
"How dare you?! How the fuck do you dare to do this to me?"
"What? I've never seen you before!"
"I waited at my parents' house for two hours until I had to make up some excuse for why the fuck you wouldn't show up!"
"Listen to me. You must be mistaking me for someone else."
"Don't try me, you fucking bastard."
She sat down without an invitation and picked out one of my cigarettes.
"Do you want to split up with me? Is that it?"
"Listen, I have no idea what you are talking about."
I tried to remain calm, even though strangers around my belongings seriously freak me out. I've been robbed one time too many. But this was insane. Was she insane? Tripping?
"The breakfast with my parents! You know how much it meant to me. And my mother! She's never going to shake your hand after this. You know how conservative they are when it comes to keeping ones' appointments. And frankly, so am I!"
"You misunderstand."
"Misunderstand? What the hell is there to misunderstand?! You stood me up this one time when it really mattered to me! And you knew it! I'm not important to you at all, am I?"
I could feel the judgment of all the female observers in the vicinity. They all knew how it was, and this time I was the scapegoat for all their pent up frustration. Except I was no willing part in the play. She stared at me defiantly.
"Do you want to end it? 'Cause I sure can't go on like this! Fuck you and fuck your fucking ego!"
She dropped the face and began to cry, as tensions rose around me. The waiters stopped waiting tables, people stopped talking; they were just exchanging knowing glances and judgmental comments. The men were just happy someone else got the worst of it, and made a mental not to self to Buy Flowers for the Missus. I was beginning to sweat.
"Please," I said and leaned a bit forward with my hand on the table. "Please don't cry."
"Don't fucking tell me what to do! Don't you love me anymore?"
"Love you? I just met you two minutes ago. No, I don't love you."
Some sense of realization dawned on her, and she composed herself.
"Fine," she said, drying her tears.
"I'm sorry," I said generally, trying to be the better stranger of the equation.
"Don't be. It's me that's sorry." She picked up her purse and stood up.
"Goodbye," she said. "I hope you'll be happy now."
"Me too," I said.
Then she left.
I looked into the table as soon she turned around and disappeared, and took a sip of coffee. My hand was shaking. The crowd was slowly shifting attention though I was certainly somewhere in the conversation. What a heartless bastard I was, and so on.
I shook my head. What a bizarre thing to happen. But I wouldn't be welcome here for a while now, judging by the waitresses' stern looks. I gathered my belongings getting ready to leave in a walk of shame. I fumbled in my pockets for my keys.
They looked strange. Still, I knew they were mine.
"OH SHIT!" I shouted, before I ran as fast I could to catch up with my girlfriend.
Sigge S. Amdal is a word wanker from Oslo, Norway.
August 05, 2009
Locust Swarm of One
By Sigge S. Amdal © 2009
"Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen. We are slowly approaching our destination, the conditions are great for traveling, and unless we get some surprise weather we expect to arrive on time in about nine hours. Don’t hesitate to make the most of your trip; our staff is here to serve you."
Bright light stung his eyes like an impenetrable carpet of white needles. He winked to dull the eyeball itch, trying to carve out some detail in the white dark. Was it completely clear or clearly a blizzard, he wondered, as everything outside the windows just displayed the distinct sharpness of a void?
"Introspective scenery they've got here," said his travel mate. From what he could tell he was a former professor, presently a drunk.
"What do you see?"
There, there, take it easy. The trip is nearly over, you’ll get out of here, and all will be forgotten. He didn’t listen to the professor’s reply, pointless small talk. They were seated next to each other on the train, there was nothing else committing them to care. Why should he?
Locusts twitch their hind legs in a certain rhythm, and what was a puzzle to science until very recently, was that the sense-hairs on their legs are directly wired to a very secluded part of the central nervous system deep within, which has the sole function of clamping the brain – thus causing a swarm. For how do you explain that the individual locust suddenly changes colour, grows more robust physically, and gets a hell lot more aggressive?
Well, maybe he flipped? Maybe it was his time to go? Maybe it was there all along, just that one day coming into the office, seeing all the same dull and dead white office furniture and make-shift corkboard walls, he just snapped! Enough! No more!
But how do you explain that thousands of these individuals all snap at the same time?
The answer lied in the sensors in the hind legs. A specific interval brought forth by evolution’s long track of trial and error, survival and death; if enough sense-hairs on the hind leg are motioned at rate x during a period of time y, then in all probability the density of the population is growing, until critical mass - - and you have a swarm. Incidentally, under the right conditions, this means you can have a swarm of one.
The toilet smelled inhuman; it was a piercing synthetic smell of citrus coupled with what once was organic decomposition in motion. It burned his eyes. He looked into his face, swaying back and forth in front of the mirror. He shuttered. It smelled as if someone with a bad case of aggressive diarrhea had given birth to a lemon.
Her Lolita socks played idly on the pull-out stool at a forty five degree angle, as if they promised disclosure of everything underneath, so clean, white and pure. No wonder he wouldn’t resist. Why resist an invitation?! There are no threats from social law where there’s no social being present, and she was selling meat to hungry roadside vagabonds, is all.
The professor had left when he came back to the seat. Good.
He had taken the water bottles and the backpack with him. No surprises.
He sighed as he sat down, drawing nearer to his destination, and looked around at the empty seats. He imagined talking to the ghosts of all those who'd traveled here before him, sat in his seat, shat in the toilet. Working class people like him. The cry of a hungry baby, the small talk of peers, the menacing silent threats from a mustached conductor through a cloud of cigarette smoke; it was all around him. Endless futures with fading strings back to their births, soon on their way to oblivion, headed for the end of the line.
He didn't feel anything. He could just as well be asleep. Some medically induced comas are said to completely remove all sense of vivacity from the produce of somatic stimuli. Not living inside of as such, but alongside to, as watched from a central focal point only without proper grasp or independent footing. Like being part of a silent movie, robotica theatre, clap-clap-clap, someone shot the piano player but nobody noticed. The show must go on.
He willed his mind to wake him up, but yielded little result, not even a headache. If he was dreaming this vividly then who knows, maybe his will was just a passing image as well. All of the mirages were looping in the white neverending nothing outside the moving windows. He didn’t like the new trains at all. Except for launch and landing there was absolutely no sense of gravity but the one you’d expect in your living room, spinning & spinning all around the galaxy. No sense of kinetics, dynamics, working mechanics, no centrifugal force. He might as well be completely still, while the maglev pulled the rotation of the earth all around him. It made perfect sense.
He got up from the seat and decided to find the driver's carriage, at the very front. It could just as well be at the end of the train, but if they'd kept the original furniture they had probably kept the locomotive as well. As he headed for the front, he realized that he had no memory of entering the train, and nothing before that either. Who was he? Or who had he been? Why was this happening to him? Wasn’t death supposed to be a great nothing at all?
He focused his inner eye on the grey nothingness in the beginning of time, the beginning of his memories, of all that was. They had to be there somewhere. Else he didn’t exist. He may never have.
He willed the ghosts to existence yet again, the people around him, passengers who were as unreal as his lack of memory. They were his puppets, he imagined, but felt no victory. He might as well be somebody else's mirage, a puppet of a puppet. His heart beat faster. He realized that there was no telling how long he’d been on the train. Maybe they were all uniquely experiencing the same shared hallucination, with everybody else posing as ghosts to the other, never had-beens and complete unknowns. Maybe they were all in hell.
The girl was there still. The smell of citrus hooked into his eyeballs. He jammed the door shut and looked at the ghosts in the benches around him. "It’s out of order," he said, having to cough. His throat was dry. I’m losing my mind, he thought. That's it. What’s my name?
He couldn’t remember what had happened. Suddenly he got an urge to search out the back of the train, not the front. There could be a way out of here. Maybe he could jump off at a juncture when the train had to slow down. They could be at a stand still presently, losing precious time. He ran. Strangely, the blurred images of people moved out of his way as he made his escape down the carriage corridors. Was he doing this, or did they do it by own volition? Had he created something as real as himself? How could he know he was real? Could they will him away?
"There you are!"
The stern voice of the professor shot through the carriage. Did he know him?
"You've been away for three hours, where the hell have you been?!"
He mumbled something.
"Come on," said the professor, and continued further back. "Let’s find our seats."
They had seats. This was something that was supposed to be, then. Something decided.
A scurry of people let them through to their seats. They were talking loudly, agitated, searching for something or someone, with a mixture of fear and hostility in their voices.
The two of them sat down, and the professor handed him a water bottle. "Just drink it all down; you’re going to need a lot of H2O."
He picked up his reading, Nature magazine.
"What's all this about?"
The professor looked at him. "Huh. Seems like I found you at the nick of time."
"Who am I?"
He sighed. "Just drink the water. It'll all come back to you in a little while."
By chance, his eyes fell out the window, and all of sudden a weak hint of texture was visible in the white. He recognized a cloud, or perhaps it was a mountain. All the sounds were getting clearer too. They were loud and frantic. The people around him, getting closer.
A pathway was made through the crowd as two conductors with batons made their way towards them. His hands clutched the armrest until they were all white and his legs pressed against the seat in front of them.
"Are you all right?"
This wasn't a train at all.
The two flight attendants stopped at his seat. They looked serious.
"What's the trouble here?" asked the professor. They didn't reply.
"We're conducting a safety landing on an airstrip in ten minutes where the police are waiting for you, sir. In the meanwhile, please remain calm."
The way they held their batons indicated that calmness would be enforced, if necessary.
The professor turned to him instead. "What the hell is going on here?"
Everything was coming back.
"I'm... I'm so afraid of flying."
Sigge S. Amdal is a word wanker from Oslo, Norway.
"Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen. We are slowly approaching our destination, the conditions are great for traveling, and unless we get some surprise weather we expect to arrive on time in about nine hours. Don’t hesitate to make the most of your trip; our staff is here to serve you."
Bright light stung his eyes like an impenetrable carpet of white needles. He winked to dull the eyeball itch, trying to carve out some detail in the white dark. Was it completely clear or clearly a blizzard, he wondered, as everything outside the windows just displayed the distinct sharpness of a void?
"Introspective scenery they've got here," said his travel mate. From what he could tell he was a former professor, presently a drunk.
"What do you see?"
There, there, take it easy. The trip is nearly over, you’ll get out of here, and all will be forgotten. He didn’t listen to the professor’s reply, pointless small talk. They were seated next to each other on the train, there was nothing else committing them to care. Why should he?
Locusts twitch their hind legs in a certain rhythm, and what was a puzzle to science until very recently, was that the sense-hairs on their legs are directly wired to a very secluded part of the central nervous system deep within, which has the sole function of clamping the brain – thus causing a swarm. For how do you explain that the individual locust suddenly changes colour, grows more robust physically, and gets a hell lot more aggressive?
Well, maybe he flipped? Maybe it was his time to go? Maybe it was there all along, just that one day coming into the office, seeing all the same dull and dead white office furniture and make-shift corkboard walls, he just snapped! Enough! No more!
But how do you explain that thousands of these individuals all snap at the same time?
The answer lied in the sensors in the hind legs. A specific interval brought forth by evolution’s long track of trial and error, survival and death; if enough sense-hairs on the hind leg are motioned at rate x during a period of time y, then in all probability the density of the population is growing, until critical mass - - and you have a swarm. Incidentally, under the right conditions, this means you can have a swarm of one.
The toilet smelled inhuman; it was a piercing synthetic smell of citrus coupled with what once was organic decomposition in motion. It burned his eyes. He looked into his face, swaying back and forth in front of the mirror. He shuttered. It smelled as if someone with a bad case of aggressive diarrhea had given birth to a lemon.
Her Lolita socks played idly on the pull-out stool at a forty five degree angle, as if they promised disclosure of everything underneath, so clean, white and pure. No wonder he wouldn’t resist. Why resist an invitation?! There are no threats from social law where there’s no social being present, and she was selling meat to hungry roadside vagabonds, is all.
The professor had left when he came back to the seat. Good.
He had taken the water bottles and the backpack with him. No surprises.
He sighed as he sat down, drawing nearer to his destination, and looked around at the empty seats. He imagined talking to the ghosts of all those who'd traveled here before him, sat in his seat, shat in the toilet. Working class people like him. The cry of a hungry baby, the small talk of peers, the menacing silent threats from a mustached conductor through a cloud of cigarette smoke; it was all around him. Endless futures with fading strings back to their births, soon on their way to oblivion, headed for the end of the line.
He didn't feel anything. He could just as well be asleep. Some medically induced comas are said to completely remove all sense of vivacity from the produce of somatic stimuli. Not living inside of as such, but alongside to, as watched from a central focal point only without proper grasp or independent footing. Like being part of a silent movie, robotica theatre, clap-clap-clap, someone shot the piano player but nobody noticed. The show must go on.
He willed his mind to wake him up, but yielded little result, not even a headache. If he was dreaming this vividly then who knows, maybe his will was just a passing image as well. All of the mirages were looping in the white neverending nothing outside the moving windows. He didn’t like the new trains at all. Except for launch and landing there was absolutely no sense of gravity but the one you’d expect in your living room, spinning & spinning all around the galaxy. No sense of kinetics, dynamics, working mechanics, no centrifugal force. He might as well be completely still, while the maglev pulled the rotation of the earth all around him. It made perfect sense.
He got up from the seat and decided to find the driver's carriage, at the very front. It could just as well be at the end of the train, but if they'd kept the original furniture they had probably kept the locomotive as well. As he headed for the front, he realized that he had no memory of entering the train, and nothing before that either. Who was he? Or who had he been? Why was this happening to him? Wasn’t death supposed to be a great nothing at all?
He focused his inner eye on the grey nothingness in the beginning of time, the beginning of his memories, of all that was. They had to be there somewhere. Else he didn’t exist. He may never have.
He willed the ghosts to existence yet again, the people around him, passengers who were as unreal as his lack of memory. They were his puppets, he imagined, but felt no victory. He might as well be somebody else's mirage, a puppet of a puppet. His heart beat faster. He realized that there was no telling how long he’d been on the train. Maybe they were all uniquely experiencing the same shared hallucination, with everybody else posing as ghosts to the other, never had-beens and complete unknowns. Maybe they were all in hell.
The girl was there still. The smell of citrus hooked into his eyeballs. He jammed the door shut and looked at the ghosts in the benches around him. "It’s out of order," he said, having to cough. His throat was dry. I’m losing my mind, he thought. That's it. What’s my name?
He couldn’t remember what had happened. Suddenly he got an urge to search out the back of the train, not the front. There could be a way out of here. Maybe he could jump off at a juncture when the train had to slow down. They could be at a stand still presently, losing precious time. He ran. Strangely, the blurred images of people moved out of his way as he made his escape down the carriage corridors. Was he doing this, or did they do it by own volition? Had he created something as real as himself? How could he know he was real? Could they will him away?
"There you are!"
The stern voice of the professor shot through the carriage. Did he know him?
"You've been away for three hours, where the hell have you been?!"
He mumbled something.
"Come on," said the professor, and continued further back. "Let’s find our seats."
They had seats. This was something that was supposed to be, then. Something decided.
A scurry of people let them through to their seats. They were talking loudly, agitated, searching for something or someone, with a mixture of fear and hostility in their voices.
The two of them sat down, and the professor handed him a water bottle. "Just drink it all down; you’re going to need a lot of H2O."
He picked up his reading, Nature magazine.
"What's all this about?"
The professor looked at him. "Huh. Seems like I found you at the nick of time."
"Who am I?"
He sighed. "Just drink the water. It'll all come back to you in a little while."
By chance, his eyes fell out the window, and all of sudden a weak hint of texture was visible in the white. He recognized a cloud, or perhaps it was a mountain. All the sounds were getting clearer too. They were loud and frantic. The people around him, getting closer.
A pathway was made through the crowd as two conductors with batons made their way towards them. His hands clutched the armrest until they were all white and his legs pressed against the seat in front of them.
"Are you all right?"
This wasn't a train at all.
The two flight attendants stopped at his seat. They looked serious.
"What's the trouble here?" asked the professor. They didn't reply.
"We're conducting a safety landing on an airstrip in ten minutes where the police are waiting for you, sir. In the meanwhile, please remain calm."
The way they held their batons indicated that calmness would be enforced, if necessary.
The professor turned to him instead. "What the hell is going on here?"
Everything was coming back.
"I'm... I'm so afraid of flying."
Sigge S. Amdal is a word wanker from Oslo, Norway.
September 06, 2008
One Night Out Part III: 120 Minutes in Sodom
By Sigge S. Amdal © 2008
The night had a peculiar smell of exhaust and blood so we were quick to put the streets behind us, and sooner rather than later the neon lights of Blaze shone at us like the glow of a holy grail welcomes the tired and weary. T&A comes to those who wait, but we couldn't wait, and ducked into the basement establishment upon arrival.
"I'll take care of it," Koew said and paid the underdog behind the counter. The fresh, unclean air of Oslo had cleared up Kornelius who was tapping his foot anxiously in the rhythm of the bass drum.
"Take it easy now, we don't want to get thrown out of here judging by the cover charge."
A couple of footballers half-ran out of the door with lust and testosterone twitching the flesh of their faces ready for Nigerian love.
"Pigs fucked the pope," Kornelius said.
"No fault of mine!"... Me and Koew completed, before we headed straight into heaven. At least it used to be. Now after several anti-smoking, anti-fun laws passed in heart of the EU, it smelled of sweat and cock and heated beer. You should never visit a strip joint in daylight. It's truly disgusting. But at night, when the lights are low and the alcohol boosts your chest and your participation, it's pure magic. If it hadn't been for steep prices there wouldn't ever be a way to know if you'd been dreaming.
The place was packed and there were no seats left. We went to the inner sanctum, ordered up some beers and took in the atmosphere. The scene was easily seen from our position, mirrors and ballroom balls, spotlights and framework of genuine fake gold.
A show came on and six little dancers brushed past us from the dressing room. Barely legal naked nymphs with eyes too predatory for my liking. Reptile folk with nice legs, ripe breasts and hands long into your pockets. The moment our over-priced beer arrived, in slender glasses akin to lab equipment, my phone rang.
It was Lady C.
I ran outside to take it.
"Hi! Where are you?"
"I'm not at a strip club!"
"... Alright... Listen, there's a nachspiel at my father's place right now and I was wondering when you were gonna show up?"
"Oh. Meet the parents, huh. I'm not so sure about that."
"Oh come on Sigg3! The pubs are closing in twenty minutes anyway!"
"They are!? I'll be damned. Fucking government. Well, I guess I could come by."
Sobriety took hold with cold hands.
"There's a lot of free beer here," she said. "Free Beer!"
Free as in beer?
"Okay, I get it. I'll be over there pretty soon."
I rejoined my soldiers slung over the bar. They had a gloom to their faces.
"What's the matter?" I asked.
"No money no show," Kornelius sighed.
"I really need to take a piss," Koew said.
"What's wrong with the bathroom?"
"Cocaine all over the place. Cops can't be far away."
"I'm getting out of here."
The guys weren't too happy with the concept of Visiting the Parents to Secure more Beer, and I couldn't blame them. Instead they headed to Vår Frelsers Gravlund cemetery to urinate on Ibsen's remains.
Cut short from backup and all alone in the world I took to the streets with a new outlook. Yes. Better to go with the flow than grow bald from boredom I reckoned, and cleared my head up before circling in on The Father's apartment. I'd heard stories, but I didn't know exactly what to expect. Not only was he a flaming homosexual, his partner was one of the most prominent gays of Norwegian television. They were familiar names in the average household. Regular faces in the tabloid press. And father of the girl I was shagging.
"Gotta play this right," I said to myself and pressed the doorbell.
While I waited for the Buzz of Doom I felt like a lab rat ready for inspection.
"Hi! Come on up!" the voice was garbled through thumping pop music and women shouting. The door buzzed and up I went.
There was a flock of girls cackling like geese by the entrance and Lady C barely got though the crowd to shower me with kisses. Poor girl was starving for love, see.
The other girls dissected me visually head to toe in a manner of split-seconds.
"Hey everyone, this is my boyfriend," C said.
"He's cute," they said.
"Yes, he is."
"I'm still standing here," I said.
"Awwww. Come here, let me show you around."
She stopped me once again to make sure no spot was left unkissed.
"Who's your daddy?!"
"He's right over there!"
"Oh."
A bearded middle-aged man with dyed hair and bright clothes extended his hand.
"So you are Sigg3?" he asked.
"Sigg3, Associated Press."
"Nice to meet you."
"You, sir, look most terrifically like a producer of smut porn. Do you have any?"
He laughed with me and put a firm hand on my shoulder. That would be the bear.
"Let me show you around."
I was nervous. Here was a well grown man showing me around his private after-party who, incidentally, also was the biological origin of the girl I'd wake up with, naked and aroused, the following morning. Stop it. Stop thinking about it.
Luckily the marvels of richness soon had me distracted.
"Here's the people, the living room, here are some hors d'oeuvres, guy under the table - my boyfriend - you may know him from television."
"I don't watch television."
"Oh."
"Is that a genuine Nerdrum?"
I pointed to the painting above the sofa.
"Yes, it sure is! And we've got the self-portrait in the bedroom. Care to see it?"
"Oh thanks. But no thanks."
"Hang on a minute," he said and went to stop some giggling broads from bringing lobster into the loo.
I looked around. Lady C was already out on the veranda smoking. Good. She handed me a cold one and threw away a groupie who was dozing off in one of the seats.
"Nice place they've got here."
"It's actually two apartments built together."
"Huh."
"So... What do you think?"
"Like a bit of weird art."
"No, about my father!"
"Yeah, that's what I meant."
The conversation was interrupted when a strangely familiar face came through the glass door crawling.
"That's -"
"That's my father's boyfriend."
And that would be the cub. He sat down next to me. Daddy came too.
"Oh, having a fag?"
"Nah, just a cigarette."
Daddy sat down opposite to me and we talked some about current scandals, the new opera house, his fascination with Wagner, the North, television and work.
"You work in IT?" he asked.
"Gotta put bread on the table."
"Listen, I've recently been in the market for a new phone."
"Oh yeah?"
"I thought about one of them iPhones."
"'Course you did. You're a homosexual."
"So what do you think?"
I confessed my general ignorance regarding telephone technology before I gave a bullet point presentation of the Maddox article 'The iPhone is a piece of shit and so is your face'. Alas, as so often happens, reason was put aside for fancy, but at least the choice reflected his sexuality.
"Come!" he demanded and stood up. "You haven't met my chameleon!"
Lady C nodded to me. With a free beer in hand I followed him back into the living room. A couple of groupie teens were making out on the sofa.
There! Behind a table stacked with assorted snacks and lobsters, in a dark corner of the room loomed a great terrarium in night mode; branches, rocks, grass, leaves and artificial sun.
"Whoa, you really meant a chameleon when you said it!"
"Of course."
"I thought it maybe was some gay slang or something."
"No, no, no. I've kept chameleons since I was a boy."
"Can we-"
"Take it out? Sure!"
With the gentle hands of a loving father Daddy reached into the glass box and lifted out the creature. It gripped onto his arm with tripod-like feet. They weren't webbed like a duck's or claw-like like an alligator's but just real soft. As soft as baby skin. Three soft big toes.
"Oh my god, its feet are so soft."
"Yeah. You see that there? The little thing behind the heel. It's the only way to tell one sex from the other if the head ornaments are the same."
"So what is it?"
"Oh, we haven't checked. Wouldn't want to impose any roles on it, would we? Want to hold it?"
I swallowed and nodded. My heart stood still while the lizard clung onto my clothes, eyes darting in several directions simultaneously. Its "skin" of small, small scales changed to a darker hue as it crossed over to my fine black suit. It approved of the suspenders, pressing its head cosily between those and my chest. I could feel the heartbeats through my shirt. It was longer than my forearm head to tail, but he curled the tail around my overarm as he sought out my inviting armpit.
"Strong tail."
"Most important tool it's got. Tongue and tail. Just like us."
"What?"
"Men.. tongue and tail?"
"I don't want to know."
"Let's see if it's hungry."
Daddy quickly returned with a drowsy cricket.
"Looks drunk."
"Kinda passed out. Just out of the bag. Let's see now. This is so cool. The tongue is longer than its body."
But the little critter was tired, and the cricket too. We put the latter in the bag and the former on the sofa, scaring away some groupies, and it headed straight for a lamp standing in the corner.
"He staring at the roof?" It had parked itself in a vertical position.
"Sleeping. They always sleep like that."
"That was really awesome!"
"Have you seen the fish tank?"
"Uh?"
We turned around and, hidden from the entrance was a giant fish tank with something akin to an alien facehugger sucking on the clear glass.
"It's a sting ray. We just call it Raymond."
"No shit. Same as killed Steve Irwin?"
"A lot smaller, but essentially yes, I think it was."
"Kick ass."
It gulped up a tiny goldfish skeleton.
"Err.. I think it ate Nemo."
Daddy shrugged.
The other fish looked worried. I shook my head. Fish always look terrified. Maybe they were okay with it. Or thrilled even. Nemo the fuckup always making a nuisance! Good riddance! But how do fish cheer? Could be just like that.
We headed back to the veranda where there was a heated discussion on group sex positions. There was no knowing where this was going.
I looked at C looking at the ashtray.
She was composing thoughts, I could tell, drunk like a wedding maid left at the bar.
"I could do you from behind while you lick the teens," said the cub overconfidently.
Was he fishing or kidding?
"I'm married. Gee, I even have children," said the other guy.
"So do I. Was married too," Daddy said with a tone of gentleman's sport.
I so seriously didn't want to see where this was going. One of the groupies came out and sat down on my lap without invitation. She started rubbing her butt on me table-dance style. On the other hand...
From behind a veil of sweet liquor breath I could see C's eyes turn to ice, before she simply said: "Move." The girl to girl red flag was immediately effected and I crossed my legs to hide La Tour Eiffel, smiling as thankful I could. The web was closing in, but I knew C could outperform these young'uns any day. Just not today.
"Sigg3, can you take me home?" She asked with a slur.
"I think the time is nigh."
Morning birds were chirping all around us and the low sounds of traffic crept in with the early-work commuters. I pocketed a beer for the road and helped myself to a pack of cigarettes someone had forgotten. "Let's go."
And not a moment too soon. When we got out the door C needed some support for the troublesome footsteps up to the highway. I put her up against a wall before I waved in a shiny cab that had just had a wax job judging by the look of it.
"Oh my god! It's full of stars!"
"That's right. Get in."
And so, dear fellow fliers of the night, was the course of this particular cul-de-sac, my One Night Out all over and out. The rest, as they say, is history.
Sigge S. Amdal is a word wanker from Olso, Norway. Feel free to read the other two parts to this trilogy... Part I and Part II.
The night had a peculiar smell of exhaust and blood so we were quick to put the streets behind us, and sooner rather than later the neon lights of Blaze shone at us like the glow of a holy grail welcomes the tired and weary. T&A comes to those who wait, but we couldn't wait, and ducked into the basement establishment upon arrival.
"I'll take care of it," Koew said and paid the underdog behind the counter. The fresh, unclean air of Oslo had cleared up Kornelius who was tapping his foot anxiously in the rhythm of the bass drum.
"Take it easy now, we don't want to get thrown out of here judging by the cover charge."
A couple of footballers half-ran out of the door with lust and testosterone twitching the flesh of their faces ready for Nigerian love.
"Pigs fucked the pope," Kornelius said.
"No fault of mine!"... Me and Koew completed, before we headed straight into heaven. At least it used to be. Now after several anti-smoking, anti-fun laws passed in heart of the EU, it smelled of sweat and cock and heated beer. You should never visit a strip joint in daylight. It's truly disgusting. But at night, when the lights are low and the alcohol boosts your chest and your participation, it's pure magic. If it hadn't been for steep prices there wouldn't ever be a way to know if you'd been dreaming.
The place was packed and there were no seats left. We went to the inner sanctum, ordered up some beers and took in the atmosphere. The scene was easily seen from our position, mirrors and ballroom balls, spotlights and framework of genuine fake gold.
A show came on and six little dancers brushed past us from the dressing room. Barely legal naked nymphs with eyes too predatory for my liking. Reptile folk with nice legs, ripe breasts and hands long into your pockets. The moment our over-priced beer arrived, in slender glasses akin to lab equipment, my phone rang.
It was Lady C.
I ran outside to take it.
"Hi! Where are you?"
"I'm not at a strip club!"
"... Alright... Listen, there's a nachspiel at my father's place right now and I was wondering when you were gonna show up?"
"Oh. Meet the parents, huh. I'm not so sure about that."
"Oh come on Sigg3! The pubs are closing in twenty minutes anyway!"
"They are!? I'll be damned. Fucking government. Well, I guess I could come by."
Sobriety took hold with cold hands.
"There's a lot of free beer here," she said. "Free Beer!"
Free as in beer?
"Okay, I get it. I'll be over there pretty soon."
I rejoined my soldiers slung over the bar. They had a gloom to their faces.
"What's the matter?" I asked.
"No money no show," Kornelius sighed.
"I really need to take a piss," Koew said.
"What's wrong with the bathroom?"
"Cocaine all over the place. Cops can't be far away."
"I'm getting out of here."
The guys weren't too happy with the concept of Visiting the Parents to Secure more Beer, and I couldn't blame them. Instead they headed to Vår Frelsers Gravlund cemetery to urinate on Ibsen's remains.
Cut short from backup and all alone in the world I took to the streets with a new outlook. Yes. Better to go with the flow than grow bald from boredom I reckoned, and cleared my head up before circling in on The Father's apartment. I'd heard stories, but I didn't know exactly what to expect. Not only was he a flaming homosexual, his partner was one of the most prominent gays of Norwegian television. They were familiar names in the average household. Regular faces in the tabloid press. And father of the girl I was shagging.
"Gotta play this right," I said to myself and pressed the doorbell.
While I waited for the Buzz of Doom I felt like a lab rat ready for inspection.
"Hi! Come on up!" the voice was garbled through thumping pop music and women shouting. The door buzzed and up I went.
There was a flock of girls cackling like geese by the entrance and Lady C barely got though the crowd to shower me with kisses. Poor girl was starving for love, see.
The other girls dissected me visually head to toe in a manner of split-seconds.
"Hey everyone, this is my boyfriend," C said.
"He's cute," they said.
"Yes, he is."
"I'm still standing here," I said.
"Awwww. Come here, let me show you around."
She stopped me once again to make sure no spot was left unkissed.
"Who's your daddy?!"
"He's right over there!"
"Oh."
A bearded middle-aged man with dyed hair and bright clothes extended his hand.
"So you are Sigg3?" he asked.
"Sigg3, Associated Press."
"Nice to meet you."
"You, sir, look most terrifically like a producer of smut porn. Do you have any?"
He laughed with me and put a firm hand on my shoulder. That would be the bear.
"Let me show you around."
I was nervous. Here was a well grown man showing me around his private after-party who, incidentally, also was the biological origin of the girl I'd wake up with, naked and aroused, the following morning. Stop it. Stop thinking about it.
Luckily the marvels of richness soon had me distracted.
"Here's the people, the living room, here are some hors d'oeuvres, guy under the table - my boyfriend - you may know him from television."
"I don't watch television."
"Oh."
"Is that a genuine Nerdrum?"
I pointed to the painting above the sofa.
"Yes, it sure is! And we've got the self-portrait in the bedroom. Care to see it?"
"Oh thanks. But no thanks."
"Hang on a minute," he said and went to stop some giggling broads from bringing lobster into the loo.
I looked around. Lady C was already out on the veranda smoking. Good. She handed me a cold one and threw away a groupie who was dozing off in one of the seats.
"Nice place they've got here."
"It's actually two apartments built together."
"Huh."
"So... What do you think?"
"Like a bit of weird art."
"No, about my father!"
"Yeah, that's what I meant."
The conversation was interrupted when a strangely familiar face came through the glass door crawling.
"That's -"
"That's my father's boyfriend."
And that would be the cub. He sat down next to me. Daddy came too.
"Oh, having a fag?"
"Nah, just a cigarette."
Daddy sat down opposite to me and we talked some about current scandals, the new opera house, his fascination with Wagner, the North, television and work.
"You work in IT?" he asked.
"Gotta put bread on the table."
"Listen, I've recently been in the market for a new phone."
"Oh yeah?"
"I thought about one of them iPhones."
"'Course you did. You're a homosexual."
"So what do you think?"
I confessed my general ignorance regarding telephone technology before I gave a bullet point presentation of the Maddox article 'The iPhone is a piece of shit and so is your face'. Alas, as so often happens, reason was put aside for fancy, but at least the choice reflected his sexuality.
"Come!" he demanded and stood up. "You haven't met my chameleon!"
Lady C nodded to me. With a free beer in hand I followed him back into the living room. A couple of groupie teens were making out on the sofa.
There! Behind a table stacked with assorted snacks and lobsters, in a dark corner of the room loomed a great terrarium in night mode; branches, rocks, grass, leaves and artificial sun.
"Whoa, you really meant a chameleon when you said it!"
"Of course."
"I thought it maybe was some gay slang or something."
"No, no, no. I've kept chameleons since I was a boy."
"Can we-"
"Take it out? Sure!"
With the gentle hands of a loving father Daddy reached into the glass box and lifted out the creature. It gripped onto his arm with tripod-like feet. They weren't webbed like a duck's or claw-like like an alligator's but just real soft. As soft as baby skin. Three soft big toes.
"Oh my god, its feet are so soft."
"Yeah. You see that there? The little thing behind the heel. It's the only way to tell one sex from the other if the head ornaments are the same."
"So what is it?"
"Oh, we haven't checked. Wouldn't want to impose any roles on it, would we? Want to hold it?"
I swallowed and nodded. My heart stood still while the lizard clung onto my clothes, eyes darting in several directions simultaneously. Its "skin" of small, small scales changed to a darker hue as it crossed over to my fine black suit. It approved of the suspenders, pressing its head cosily between those and my chest. I could feel the heartbeats through my shirt. It was longer than my forearm head to tail, but he curled the tail around my overarm as he sought out my inviting armpit.
"Strong tail."
"Most important tool it's got. Tongue and tail. Just like us."
"What?"
"Men.. tongue and tail?"
"I don't want to know."
"Let's see if it's hungry."
Daddy quickly returned with a drowsy cricket.
"Looks drunk."
"Kinda passed out. Just out of the bag. Let's see now. This is so cool. The tongue is longer than its body."
But the little critter was tired, and the cricket too. We put the latter in the bag and the former on the sofa, scaring away some groupies, and it headed straight for a lamp standing in the corner.
"He staring at the roof?" It had parked itself in a vertical position.
"Sleeping. They always sleep like that."
"That was really awesome!"
"Have you seen the fish tank?"
"Uh?"
We turned around and, hidden from the entrance was a giant fish tank with something akin to an alien facehugger sucking on the clear glass.
"It's a sting ray. We just call it Raymond."
"No shit. Same as killed Steve Irwin?"
"A lot smaller, but essentially yes, I think it was."
"Kick ass."
It gulped up a tiny goldfish skeleton.
"Err.. I think it ate Nemo."
Daddy shrugged.
The other fish looked worried. I shook my head. Fish always look terrified. Maybe they were okay with it. Or thrilled even. Nemo the fuckup always making a nuisance! Good riddance! But how do fish cheer? Could be just like that.
We headed back to the veranda where there was a heated discussion on group sex positions. There was no knowing where this was going.
I looked at C looking at the ashtray.
She was composing thoughts, I could tell, drunk like a wedding maid left at the bar.
"I could do you from behind while you lick the teens," said the cub overconfidently.
Was he fishing or kidding?
"I'm married. Gee, I even have children," said the other guy.
"So do I. Was married too," Daddy said with a tone of gentleman's sport.
I so seriously didn't want to see where this was going. One of the groupies came out and sat down on my lap without invitation. She started rubbing her butt on me table-dance style. On the other hand...
From behind a veil of sweet liquor breath I could see C's eyes turn to ice, before she simply said: "Move." The girl to girl red flag was immediately effected and I crossed my legs to hide La Tour Eiffel, smiling as thankful I could. The web was closing in, but I knew C could outperform these young'uns any day. Just not today.
"Sigg3, can you take me home?" She asked with a slur.
"I think the time is nigh."
Morning birds were chirping all around us and the low sounds of traffic crept in with the early-work commuters. I pocketed a beer for the road and helped myself to a pack of cigarettes someone had forgotten. "Let's go."
And not a moment too soon. When we got out the door C needed some support for the troublesome footsteps up to the highway. I put her up against a wall before I waved in a shiny cab that had just had a wax job judging by the look of it.
"Oh my god! It's full of stars!"
"That's right. Get in."
And so, dear fellow fliers of the night, was the course of this particular cul-de-sac, my One Night Out all over and out. The rest, as they say, is history.
Sigge S. Amdal is a word wanker from Olso, Norway. Feel free to read the other two parts to this trilogy... Part I and Part II.
July 07, 2008
>One Night Out Part II: Hunter-Hunter
By Sigge S. Amdal © 2008
I had talked to my brother the same morning, after finding out that the Binaerpilot concert was delegates-only, regardless of the price you could afford to pay.
"Then get us in as delegates, God damn it!" I demanded, and after the evening dinner he texted me to say that an MVIP list was in motion, courtesy of the performing artist himself.
You're only as good as your network, so thank God for the Internet. At a quarter to midnight, three good and drunk Most Valuable Important Persons entered the High Tower of the Labor Party where the concert was. A storm was coming and the air held a current of several mega volts, enough to make you shiver with anticipation.
We got to the door next to the closed down ol' Opera where a couple of wannabe uppity bellboys asked for our affiliations.
My brother stepped in:
"Koew, Kill All Humans CEO."
"Kornelius, Head of Wartime Inventory."
"Sigg3, Associated Press."
While one of them went through the short list of Respectable People the other gleefully smiled at us from a bellboy's holier-than-thou mountain top.
"Watch it, kiddo," Kornelius said, "we've got people in the IRS."
I put a hand on his shoulder. You never threaten the doorman. It's a rule. For the short while you're waiting in line, you're a thief and he's Saint Peter. When he's had visual confirmation with the higher-ups however, he's free game for pocket change.
"I'm sorry, but I can't find you on the list," the first one said.
"You're checking the wrong list, man." My brother insisted. "We're on the MVIP."
"That's RIGHT!" Kornelius yelled.
"Don't take any guff from these swine!"
The face on the other wouldn't recover with the help of a face-lift after the three of us were let through with all apologies.
"When's he starting?" I asked Koew.
"He said he was on at half-past, but you know how these things are."
"Excellent," I said. "I could use another beer."
"Me too."
"What floor is it?"
"Top floor."
"Yeah of course, but what floor is that?"
"Take it easy," said Kornelius taking care of all concerned parties for the time being. "Let's just milk this for what we can. I'm gonna try and get me a BJ from one of those inheriting rich kids."
They were playing plain club hopping when we got off the elevator. The bar was lit up in electric blue and all the bartenders were Asian.
With an air of world-weary indifference I paid a fortune for the first three beers.
"What now?" I looked at Koew, being he was the main reason we'd got so far.
"I'm gonna try and hook up with Binaerpilot if I can find him."
The place was crowding by the minute; delegates, investors, representatives and or their obnoxious little offspring from whom Kornelius anticipated essential services.
"Let's check out the view! I bet you can see the entire city from here."
We stepped out from the bar with our .4l plastic glasses and into the refined world of exceptional hypocrisy. Politics and money, idealists and the idealists' moneymakers.
The outside could have been any street-level porch-like café except from the fact that we were up among the clouds. The night sky loomed with pregnant darkness, while a million brilliant lights in white, blue and orange from the city below fought the epic battle as hard as they could. Sirens, shouting, gunshots and helicopters; everything was muffled by the distance, the clashes of winds and the occasional screeches from soaring pterodactyls swooping down at us. These giant cold-eyed beasts from the cretaceous had been stirred from their sleep, awoken by the loud music booming in the bowels of the metropolitan region.
"This is bat country!" I looked around.
Every one was here. I shrugged. Didn't know any of them. I took up the camera I had bought for the part and snapped a few of the scenery. The great outdoors. Most of Oslo lay in postmortem slumber, but the few of us still alive from the many nights before could see the machine gun fires in the outskirts. Bolts of lightning far away. Was it a rainstorm? Or a failing power plant participating in the glorious display of disco culture? Or was it simply the end of our joyful participation in the suffering of this world? Nobody knew. Nobody cared. This was the top of the world.
Lizard people all around: rich kids in tuxedos, freaks in aluminum suits, regular daft punkers, radicals with reggae/rasta hairdos and the usual secret service types hovering in the shadows. Before I knew it Kornelius had advanced on a couple of politically correct gold-diggers and was doing the usual persuasion routine. A redhead looked up at me with beautiful and wet duck-fucking eyes.
"Justine," she said in a fake French accent and extended her hand.
"Sigg3, Associated Press."
"Oh. What do you do?"
"International watchdogging. I dog the watchers so to speak. Keep them in line. We can't have any controversial conspiracy blow up all the time. Chaos needs planning."
"Oh?"
"But that's not what I do. I'm the go-between. Kornelius here is the go-getter. Dangerous trade. I really can't say too little about it."
"Are you here to see the concert?"
"But of course. We're close friends with some of the artists playing in this establishment tonight. And to have a look around of course. You can't be too safe nowadays."
"Do you really think we are in danger?"
I sniffed. She was eating the whole thing, fur and all. But we were empty and Kornelius didn't seem to get anywhere.
"Let's find Koew and get some more beer."
"Koew?" the girl asked.
"KAH CEO, love."
"Oh."
Time to let the hook sink.
We rustled away from the posing carpet-lickers and headed for the bar. It was Koew's round. He was easily found, the only one wearing a simple t-shirt in this place, scoring points for individuality.
"Meet Binaerpilot."
I had seen him many times before but never actually spoken to him.
"Sigg3, Associated Press."
Who was the silent side-kick? I'd seen him before as well but he always moved in the shadows. What was he? A people advisor? Bodyguard? Spiritual trip guide? Devil knows.
"I'm really looking forward to the concert," I said. "Did my brother convey my hit wish?"
"Yeah! And thanks for coming!"
He side-glanced at Kornelius who inspected the wall-carpets very closely.
"Don't worry about him, he's completely harmless."
But I knew we needed a time-out. The screamers had begun to kcik in. How long would we be able to maintain? Koew stepped in and side-tracked Binaerpilot while I took care of mister K.
"Let's stretch our legs a little."
"Excellent! God damn air in here tastes like moth balls. I'm all dried up here. Did you see that blonde? Totally repulsive. But she had the riches, and very plump lips."
"And?"
"Wasn't ready for marriage yet. Not without a prenuptial agreement. You know these girls. They wanna see your CV before they'd even consider a hand job."
"Give it some time, do the right thing, and they'll be begging for you."
"You think? Shit, I gotta use the bathroom."
"It's down here."
We passed the crowded barscape and down the cylindrical staircase to the toilets. The Ladies' and the Gents' combined were larger than my apartment. They had a servant handing you silk towels, and an air-drier with the potential of a 747.
"Shit, I could live in here," making conversation at the pissoir.:
"You're damn straight. We're toilet people, Sigg3. There's no hope."
"Shut up with that negative shit. The concert's right about to start."
"She really wanted me, man. But she just couldn't do it. I need to get her somewhere we can be in private. Away from all of this. Those dazzling eyes. Inka forehead. I think she is a virgin."
"Really?"
The servant steadied him while he shook the entanglements.
"What happened to the Mysterious Mr. S?"
Took me the good of two hours to remember who was missing.
"He had to baby-sit his fucking nephew. Fucking sister, I fucking swear."
"I know. She needs therapy or some shit."
"Nah. She needs a good fucking."
"Ha!
Anyway, he should have brought the kid here. Would have been a good learning experience."
"Fuck that. Let's make a rumpus."
"Agreed."
Expectations had grown while we were away and the primitive sensation of calm before the storm had really put the spirit into people. The Asians behind the bar were doing their best to keep up with demand. We elbowed our way through the crowd with the usual tacit threats and settled next to the Budweiser tap.
"Jesus Christ!" Kornelius exclaimed.
"Where!?"
"Are those two women fucking a polar bear?!"
He was staring at the empty corner of the room.
"Don't tell me that stuff."
"...dirty animals."
We got three topped ones and barely made it back to the standing table before 'Gesouble Gesutch' blared from Binaerpilot's home-made loudspeakers.
There are only a handful of tracks in the world that makes me move like that, most of which are MJJ signature tracks. With Kornelius deep into the abyss of world politics I headed over for the stage and put away the most unnecessary clothing before doing justice to the 8-bit blessing booming all around us. Binaerpilot's girl and Koew were already on the floor shaking it.
"Right!"
I braced myself before bottoming up. "Let's show these imperialists how to party."
It was just like ecstasy. I made it back and forth to Kornelius a couple of times but except for that I was one hundred percent present on the dancefloor.
You can't go wrong with console music. It's hard-coded into every one of us who just happened to be born sometime between the sixties and the nineties. Binaerpilot himself was dancing behind an altar clad with a pirate flag whereupon his technical equipment rested, while a blizzard of black and white drawings - Tokyo 3000 style - moved around in mechanical movements on a wall-to-wall projector screen behind him.
Because he played 'Gesouble' so early in the set I gave my max when 'Smile' came up. In complete despise of ambient noise the 8-bit keys fell like electro rain on my aural perspiration sensors Tokyo 3000 style:
Fairly short after the gig, the follow-up ensemble - a vulgar hillbilly technopop group - gave us no choice but to leave the premises in order to savor the memories.
We regrouped at Café South, where Kornelius believed his love would follow in due time for some late-night activity. He had yet to see the ultimate meaning of being kindly asked to leave.
In the meantime we seated ourselves - beer in hand - at a table overlooking the pot-smoking, political crowd that frequents this hip hop joint. I got in conversation with a midget MC sitting next to us and we had a great time tossing stories about yesterday feats and conquests none of us would recite in court.
"This is no staying place," my brother pleaded.
"I agree. It lacks the right oomph a proper Saturday night out needs by this hour."
"Kornelius?" For the last hour he had been seeing Little People in the shadows, greatly offending our new midget mate.
These things do happen. Lady C herself bequeathed a story of a little blue man with a bowler hat in possession of her faculty of judgment while under the sweet tyranny of strong intoxication. But Kornelius's visions had subsided to give way for post-drug depression.
"She doesn't love me anymore. My dick-sucking muse of motherhood, my eternal love and longing, she - the most prevailing beauty of them all! - left me here to rot. It's her treacherous genes, I say! They're pulling her into this capitalist mess! And I'm nothing but a world-weary poseur reaching for the fruits the highest branches proffer. Long live the total lack of libido!"
He raised his glass.
"Kornelius?"
"Seriously man!... You're not listening! I mean. Who are we? Where do we come from? Where are we going?"
"To a tittie bar," my brother ruled confidently.
And he was right.
For what other ends had God intended by the creation of evenings like these?
With the divine blessing of a higher power, we were soon on our way further into the night, to the costly land of milk and honey, where sin and sainthood intertwine in the abominable vortex of man's twitching loins.
Sigge S. Amdal is a word wanker from Oslo, Norway.
I had talked to my brother the same morning, after finding out that the Binaerpilot concert was delegates-only, regardless of the price you could afford to pay.
"Then get us in as delegates, God damn it!" I demanded, and after the evening dinner he texted me to say that an MVIP list was in motion, courtesy of the performing artist himself.
You're only as good as your network, so thank God for the Internet. At a quarter to midnight, three good and drunk Most Valuable Important Persons entered the High Tower of the Labor Party where the concert was. A storm was coming and the air held a current of several mega volts, enough to make you shiver with anticipation.
We got to the door next to the closed down ol' Opera where a couple of wannabe uppity bellboys asked for our affiliations.
My brother stepped in:
"Koew, Kill All Humans CEO."
"Kornelius, Head of Wartime Inventory."
"Sigg3, Associated Press."
While one of them went through the short list of Respectable People the other gleefully smiled at us from a bellboy's holier-than-thou mountain top.
"Watch it, kiddo," Kornelius said, "we've got people in the IRS."
I put a hand on his shoulder. You never threaten the doorman. It's a rule. For the short while you're waiting in line, you're a thief and he's Saint Peter. When he's had visual confirmation with the higher-ups however, he's free game for pocket change.
"I'm sorry, but I can't find you on the list," the first one said.
"You're checking the wrong list, man." My brother insisted. "We're on the MVIP."
"That's RIGHT!" Kornelius yelled.
"Don't take any guff from these swine!"
The face on the other wouldn't recover with the help of a face-lift after the three of us were let through with all apologies.
"When's he starting?" I asked Koew.
"He said he was on at half-past, but you know how these things are."
"Excellent," I said. "I could use another beer."
"Me too."
"What floor is it?"
"Top floor."
"Yeah of course, but what floor is that?"
"Take it easy," said Kornelius taking care of all concerned parties for the time being. "Let's just milk this for what we can. I'm gonna try and get me a BJ from one of those inheriting rich kids."
They were playing plain club hopping when we got off the elevator. The bar was lit up in electric blue and all the bartenders were Asian.
With an air of world-weary indifference I paid a fortune for the first three beers.
"What now?" I looked at Koew, being he was the main reason we'd got so far.
"I'm gonna try and hook up with Binaerpilot if I can find him."
The place was crowding by the minute; delegates, investors, representatives and or their obnoxious little offspring from whom Kornelius anticipated essential services.
"Let's check out the view! I bet you can see the entire city from here."
We stepped out from the bar with our .4l plastic glasses and into the refined world of exceptional hypocrisy. Politics and money, idealists and the idealists' moneymakers.
The outside could have been any street-level porch-like café except from the fact that we were up among the clouds. The night sky loomed with pregnant darkness, while a million brilliant lights in white, blue and orange from the city below fought the epic battle as hard as they could. Sirens, shouting, gunshots and helicopters; everything was muffled by the distance, the clashes of winds and the occasional screeches from soaring pterodactyls swooping down at us. These giant cold-eyed beasts from the cretaceous had been stirred from their sleep, awoken by the loud music booming in the bowels of the metropolitan region.
"This is bat country!" I looked around.
Every one was here. I shrugged. Didn't know any of them. I took up the camera I had bought for the part and snapped a few of the scenery. The great outdoors. Most of Oslo lay in postmortem slumber, but the few of us still alive from the many nights before could see the machine gun fires in the outskirts. Bolts of lightning far away. Was it a rainstorm? Or a failing power plant participating in the glorious display of disco culture? Or was it simply the end of our joyful participation in the suffering of this world? Nobody knew. Nobody cared. This was the top of the world.
Lizard people all around: rich kids in tuxedos, freaks in aluminum suits, regular daft punkers, radicals with reggae/rasta hairdos and the usual secret service types hovering in the shadows. Before I knew it Kornelius had advanced on a couple of politically correct gold-diggers and was doing the usual persuasion routine. A redhead looked up at me with beautiful and wet duck-fucking eyes.
"Justine," she said in a fake French accent and extended her hand.
"Sigg3, Associated Press."
"Oh. What do you do?"
"International watchdogging. I dog the watchers so to speak. Keep them in line. We can't have any controversial conspiracy blow up all the time. Chaos needs planning."
"Oh?"
"But that's not what I do. I'm the go-between. Kornelius here is the go-getter. Dangerous trade. I really can't say too little about it."
"Are you here to see the concert?"
"But of course. We're close friends with some of the artists playing in this establishment tonight. And to have a look around of course. You can't be too safe nowadays."
"Do you really think we are in danger?"
I sniffed. She was eating the whole thing, fur and all. But we were empty and Kornelius didn't seem to get anywhere.
"Let's find Koew and get some more beer."
"Koew?" the girl asked.
"KAH CEO, love."
"Oh."
Time to let the hook sink.
We rustled away from the posing carpet-lickers and headed for the bar. It was Koew's round. He was easily found, the only one wearing a simple t-shirt in this place, scoring points for individuality.
"Meet Binaerpilot."
I had seen him many times before but never actually spoken to him.
"Sigg3, Associated Press."
Who was the silent side-kick? I'd seen him before as well but he always moved in the shadows. What was he? A people advisor? Bodyguard? Spiritual trip guide? Devil knows.
"I'm really looking forward to the concert," I said. "Did my brother convey my hit wish?"
"Yeah! And thanks for coming!"
He side-glanced at Kornelius who inspected the wall-carpets very closely.
"Don't worry about him, he's completely harmless."
But I knew we needed a time-out. The screamers had begun to kcik in. How long would we be able to maintain? Koew stepped in and side-tracked Binaerpilot while I took care of mister K.
"Let's stretch our legs a little."
"Excellent! God damn air in here tastes like moth balls. I'm all dried up here. Did you see that blonde? Totally repulsive. But she had the riches, and very plump lips."
"And?"
"Wasn't ready for marriage yet. Not without a prenuptial agreement. You know these girls. They wanna see your CV before they'd even consider a hand job."
"Give it some time, do the right thing, and they'll be begging for you."
"You think? Shit, I gotta use the bathroom."
"It's down here."
We passed the crowded barscape and down the cylindrical staircase to the toilets. The Ladies' and the Gents' combined were larger than my apartment. They had a servant handing you silk towels, and an air-drier with the potential of a 747.
"Shit, I could live in here," making conversation at the pissoir.:
"You're damn straight. We're toilet people, Sigg3. There's no hope."
"Shut up with that negative shit. The concert's right about to start."
"She really wanted me, man. But she just couldn't do it. I need to get her somewhere we can be in private. Away from all of this. Those dazzling eyes. Inka forehead. I think she is a virgin."
"Really?"
The servant steadied him while he shook the entanglements.
"What happened to the Mysterious Mr. S?"
Took me the good of two hours to remember who was missing.
"He had to baby-sit his fucking nephew. Fucking sister, I fucking swear."
"I know. She needs therapy or some shit."
"Nah. She needs a good fucking."
"Ha!
Anyway, he should have brought the kid here. Would have been a good learning experience."
"Fuck that. Let's make a rumpus."
"Agreed."
Expectations had grown while we were away and the primitive sensation of calm before the storm had really put the spirit into people. The Asians behind the bar were doing their best to keep up with demand. We elbowed our way through the crowd with the usual tacit threats and settled next to the Budweiser tap.
"Jesus Christ!" Kornelius exclaimed.
"Where!?"
"Are those two women fucking a polar bear?!"
He was staring at the empty corner of the room.
"Don't tell me that stuff."
"...dirty animals."
We got three topped ones and barely made it back to the standing table before 'Gesouble Gesutch' blared from Binaerpilot's home-made loudspeakers.
There are only a handful of tracks in the world that makes me move like that, most of which are MJJ signature tracks. With Kornelius deep into the abyss of world politics I headed over for the stage and put away the most unnecessary clothing before doing justice to the 8-bit blessing booming all around us. Binaerpilot's girl and Koew were already on the floor shaking it.
"Right!"
I braced myself before bottoming up. "Let's show these imperialists how to party."
It was just like ecstasy. I made it back and forth to Kornelius a couple of times but except for that I was one hundred percent present on the dancefloor.
You can't go wrong with console music. It's hard-coded into every one of us who just happened to be born sometime between the sixties and the nineties. Binaerpilot himself was dancing behind an altar clad with a pirate flag whereupon his technical equipment rested, while a blizzard of black and white drawings - Tokyo 3000 style - moved around in mechanical movements on a wall-to-wall projector screen behind him.
Because he played 'Gesouble' so early in the set I gave my max when 'Smile' came up. In complete despise of ambient noise the 8-bit keys fell like electro rain on my aural perspiration sensors Tokyo 3000 style:
You make me smile when you make your body move...It was brilliantly timeless, alas 'twas over all too soon. Time enough to convince some of the rich kids to abandon their sinful ways however, and step upon the righteous path of Mecha-melody.
Everybody just freaks when my people groove...
Could be the greatest hit - maybe this is it...
Fairly short after the gig, the follow-up ensemble - a vulgar hillbilly technopop group - gave us no choice but to leave the premises in order to savor the memories.
We regrouped at Café South, where Kornelius believed his love would follow in due time for some late-night activity. He had yet to see the ultimate meaning of being kindly asked to leave.
In the meantime we seated ourselves - beer in hand - at a table overlooking the pot-smoking, political crowd that frequents this hip hop joint. I got in conversation with a midget MC sitting next to us and we had a great time tossing stories about yesterday feats and conquests none of us would recite in court.
"This is no staying place," my brother pleaded.
"I agree. It lacks the right oomph a proper Saturday night out needs by this hour."
"Kornelius?" For the last hour he had been seeing Little People in the shadows, greatly offending our new midget mate.
These things do happen. Lady C herself bequeathed a story of a little blue man with a bowler hat in possession of her faculty of judgment while under the sweet tyranny of strong intoxication. But Kornelius's visions had subsided to give way for post-drug depression.
"She doesn't love me anymore. My dick-sucking muse of motherhood, my eternal love and longing, she - the most prevailing beauty of them all! - left me here to rot. It's her treacherous genes, I say! They're pulling her into this capitalist mess! And I'm nothing but a world-weary poseur reaching for the fruits the highest branches proffer. Long live the total lack of libido!"
He raised his glass.
"Kornelius?"
"Seriously man!... You're not listening! I mean. Who are we? Where do we come from? Where are we going?"
"To a tittie bar," my brother ruled confidently.
And he was right.
For what other ends had God intended by the creation of evenings like these?
With the divine blessing of a higher power, we were soon on our way further into the night, to the costly land of milk and honey, where sin and sainthood intertwine in the abominable vortex of man's twitching loins.
Sigge S. Amdal is a word wanker from Oslo, Norway.
June 05, 2008
One Night Out Part I: League of Extraordinary Gentlemen
By Sigge S. Amdal © 2008
I'd spent twenty-five minutes acquainting myself with the culture of suspenders. I am, as always, running a little late. "There's one thing I can trust when it comes to you," Lady C once told me. "And it is that you're always going to be late."
At least there was some understanding in a cold and cruel universe. I picked up the deli bag filled with Turkish delights, put on my mountain boots and headed out.
It was eight minutes to six. No way I was going to make it by means of public transportation. I wouldn't fit in anyway, with the smoking and the shirt, and I'd probably get robbed. A taxi-shark floated idly parallel to the Botanic garden and completely failed to notice my signal. "God damn it!"
I was going to have to walk to the line four blocks down, where taxis sputter exhaust like beached whales on some island in the pacific.
The taxi line is the means of cultural education of this country, and the results are always depressing. It's a murderous line, a high-danger sport, but not as early as six o'clock.
"Welcome!" the cabbie said very unmiserably. Change of pace, I was stressed, I gave the address and told him to step on it.
"But you are right," I said after catching up with current events. "With what you said about stressing. There's no reason in doing it. Being stressed ain't gonna get me there in time."
"You are right, my friend." Punjabi wisdom shone through a mist of mystery with a slight hint of Little Kariachi's finest.
"What's important," he continued, "is to care about the people you love. And to love. And be happy where you are with what you've got. We can only do our best."
We got there one minute to six and I recognized two of my party standing outside the restaurant. It felt like I had just been to a confession, so I gave him a bit extra for the care to talk bluntly.
Wearing my best, I stepped out of the cab and into the jubilee. It was a golden jubilee for a friend of the family. She had invited all of us to celebrate that she had not yet turned fifty. Hence we were not allowed to congratulate nor bring any presents, which suited me well. Welcome drinks, nice salon with champagne glasses, original art, idle chatter and endless pauses.
I was really hungry and the suspenders ill-adjusted. First time in ten years at least. Then I noticed the mountain boots. I had put on mountain boots going to one of the finest restaurants in this city. Or this country. Pieces of mud still clinging, too. I got another glass of champagne and retreated to the rear of the room, still waiting for the last guests to arrive.
It was a brilliantly composed menu, a culinary adventure going through fliers, swimmers and runners with delicate sauces and carefully selected wines. It was a four-course dinner with several side-plates. Cutlery came and went like love affairs, and the company was invariably loaded with style, avant-garde post-modernism, empty conversations, awe of the tastes and joy for the celebrated port-wine. At dessert time conflict arose in the paper-thin illusion of well-being, ever so sweet the sweets were.
While discussing the beautiful nature of this God-forsaken nation with the mafioso-like mother of the birthday child, Nigerian whores were turning tricks ten yards from the window where I sat. This restaurant was the former residence of a bastard child of the Royal House in Denmark. But the once so prominent streets of voluptuous decadence had fallen to social decay to allow for the pleasures of present day peasants.
My kind, to be true, but not permissible for the role I'd been dealt. I looked around at the other tables and the opinionated rich kids dining with their billion dollar parents filled me with disgust. They talked to each other like lawyers and clients, and truly what shenanigans given their mistresses and mischievous underhanded investments. In order to stay rich you’ve got to pump the poor, it's something everybody knows and no one really wants talked about. I was Oliver Twist on a high roll but I wouldn't ask for more. It made me sick.
Or was it the blessed port? I felt a queasy ache run down the sides of my torso only to make a nest of stinging pain around the belly bag. I got up but now I felt a cold sweat coming on. I could feel my face going pale as blood rushed southwards to see what the hell was going on. Other dinner guests stood up, with the belief I was going out to have a cigarette. To my dismay they followed me, I made up an excuse and headed down for the WC in the basement.
It was full.
The basement, which was an old wine cellar, had been turned into a very rustic-romantic restaurant for the slightly lower classes. This meant there was a second exit on this floor which would take me out to the backstreet without anyone from my party present. Without any of these thoughts in what split-second it took to perceive and pass judgment I headed head first into an alley and threw up a dorsal fin.
That was it. Nothing else came up. Blessed be the port.
Suddenly I noticed that I wasn't alone in the alley, and I looked up quick enough to see a prostitute coughing up a recognizable white substance. She looked up and for a brief time our eyes met. Only one window apart earlier, but out here we were both equally being sick. It was a strange moment of solidarity before conventions yet again refused any sense and drew an invisible curtain 'tween Norwegian and Nigerian. It was back to the rich bastards.
Sigge S. Amdal is a word wanker from Oslo, Norway.
I'd spent twenty-five minutes acquainting myself with the culture of suspenders. I am, as always, running a little late. "There's one thing I can trust when it comes to you," Lady C once told me. "And it is that you're always going to be late."
At least there was some understanding in a cold and cruel universe. I picked up the deli bag filled with Turkish delights, put on my mountain boots and headed out.
It was eight minutes to six. No way I was going to make it by means of public transportation. I wouldn't fit in anyway, with the smoking and the shirt, and I'd probably get robbed. A taxi-shark floated idly parallel to the Botanic garden and completely failed to notice my signal. "God damn it!"
I was going to have to walk to the line four blocks down, where taxis sputter exhaust like beached whales on some island in the pacific.
The taxi line is the means of cultural education of this country, and the results are always depressing. It's a murderous line, a high-danger sport, but not as early as six o'clock.
"Welcome!" the cabbie said very unmiserably. Change of pace, I was stressed, I gave the address and told him to step on it.
"But you are right," I said after catching up with current events. "With what you said about stressing. There's no reason in doing it. Being stressed ain't gonna get me there in time."
"You are right, my friend." Punjabi wisdom shone through a mist of mystery with a slight hint of Little Kariachi's finest.
"What's important," he continued, "is to care about the people you love. And to love. And be happy where you are with what you've got. We can only do our best."
We got there one minute to six and I recognized two of my party standing outside the restaurant. It felt like I had just been to a confession, so I gave him a bit extra for the care to talk bluntly.
Wearing my best, I stepped out of the cab and into the jubilee. It was a golden jubilee for a friend of the family. She had invited all of us to celebrate that she had not yet turned fifty. Hence we were not allowed to congratulate nor bring any presents, which suited me well. Welcome drinks, nice salon with champagne glasses, original art, idle chatter and endless pauses.
I was really hungry and the suspenders ill-adjusted. First time in ten years at least. Then I noticed the mountain boots. I had put on mountain boots going to one of the finest restaurants in this city. Or this country. Pieces of mud still clinging, too. I got another glass of champagne and retreated to the rear of the room, still waiting for the last guests to arrive.
It was a brilliantly composed menu, a culinary adventure going through fliers, swimmers and runners with delicate sauces and carefully selected wines. It was a four-course dinner with several side-plates. Cutlery came and went like love affairs, and the company was invariably loaded with style, avant-garde post-modernism, empty conversations, awe of the tastes and joy for the celebrated port-wine. At dessert time conflict arose in the paper-thin illusion of well-being, ever so sweet the sweets were.
While discussing the beautiful nature of this God-forsaken nation with the mafioso-like mother of the birthday child, Nigerian whores were turning tricks ten yards from the window where I sat. This restaurant was the former residence of a bastard child of the Royal House in Denmark. But the once so prominent streets of voluptuous decadence had fallen to social decay to allow for the pleasures of present day peasants.
My kind, to be true, but not permissible for the role I'd been dealt. I looked around at the other tables and the opinionated rich kids dining with their billion dollar parents filled me with disgust. They talked to each other like lawyers and clients, and truly what shenanigans given their mistresses and mischievous underhanded investments. In order to stay rich you’ve got to pump the poor, it's something everybody knows and no one really wants talked about. I was Oliver Twist on a high roll but I wouldn't ask for more. It made me sick.
Or was it the blessed port? I felt a queasy ache run down the sides of my torso only to make a nest of stinging pain around the belly bag. I got up but now I felt a cold sweat coming on. I could feel my face going pale as blood rushed southwards to see what the hell was going on. Other dinner guests stood up, with the belief I was going out to have a cigarette. To my dismay they followed me, I made up an excuse and headed down for the WC in the basement.
It was full.
The basement, which was an old wine cellar, had been turned into a very rustic-romantic restaurant for the slightly lower classes. This meant there was a second exit on this floor which would take me out to the backstreet without anyone from my party present. Without any of these thoughts in what split-second it took to perceive and pass judgment I headed head first into an alley and threw up a dorsal fin.
That was it. Nothing else came up. Blessed be the port.
Suddenly I noticed that I wasn't alone in the alley, and I looked up quick enough to see a prostitute coughing up a recognizable white substance. She looked up and for a brief time our eyes met. Only one window apart earlier, but out here we were both equally being sick. It was a strange moment of solidarity before conventions yet again refused any sense and drew an invisible curtain 'tween Norwegian and Nigerian. It was back to the rich bastards.
Sigge S. Amdal is a word wanker from Oslo, Norway.
April 07, 2008
Magpies Are Better Than That, All Wright?
By Sigge S. Amdal © 2008
I lost a good friend recently, and you know how it is, you mourn for a period of time and then you pick up your life and continue without. Do your best to cope and so on. I found him again in a record shop two stores below looking for the latest Radiohead album. He told me he wanted In Rainbows so I suggested the hippie store by the central station where they've got all the Shangri-la stuff you'll ever need. He was annoyed and left.
After I finished my window shopping without deciding on what to buy I felt as if a weight had been put on my shoulder. It turned out to be the hand belonging and connected by arm and shoulder to another friend of mine. He was also angry with me.
"Do you have any idea what day it was yesterday!?"
I could easily imagine that today was a Friday or a Saturday. No hello? Not today of course, the day that this happened, but I couldn't name two prior days because it would be a silly reply to a specific question. I landed on Thursday. In most cases Saturdays are just Fridays prolonged.
He called my bluff and put his hands on his hips. I couldn't understand why he was mad, so I quickly added that it might just as well have been a Friday all things considered.
"Do you have any clue as to today's date at all?"
At this point we were getting a lot of visual attention from security which was a bad thing, given that I forgot to close the bird cages in the pet store after window-testing. I took him down to the first story which happens to be next to the wine store in case you go there. It sells and ships wine, fine wines and cheaper ones, regardless of my story.
"So?" he demanded.
I came clean and told him how my calendar had never really worked.
"It doesn't work?! What the hell are you saying?"
"It came with all the dates and everything, but apart from that it's nothing! There's no way of telling what date it is, and since one's just as good as the other, I usually just pick one that I like."
He rolled his eyes conveying that I'd probably missed out on something in the instructions.
"Yesterday was my birthday!" I knew the instructions were faulty.
"What?! And now you tell me!?" I crossed my arms angrily, which felt really awkward being that the both of us were now equally pissed off and I was wearing a stiff and bulky leather jacket one size too big for me.
"So why are you angry at me?" I asked.
"You never showed up! I even began to worry. And here I find you in a shopping mall?"
"You could have sent an invitation," I remarked poignantly.
"I did! Don't you ever check your mail?"
"Not since two months ago. Damn bird snatched the key. Why?"
"And your cell phone?"
"Cut off, since I never paid the bills in the mailbox. It's a positive thing, really, if you take away the candle light expenses. And finding enough driftwood this time of year? Forget about it..."
He said something about disappointments and how they disappoint upon coming to be, while he reluctantly agreed that I'd actually made his next birthday a whole lot better given that we'd both survive to see the day, and granted I'd be present to congratulate him.
Birthdays never set well with me. Today so many days ago I was shoved head first through the vagina of a woman I didn't even know at the time, radically interfering with her and her husband's sex lives, economical situation, causing nothing but general dismay for half a year before they finally got used to me and gave me a name. A natal event best forgotten.
Like my grandfather always used to say: "If you can't remember something it might as well be worth forgetting." He had Alzheimer's before he caught a fatal case of death.
And then there are those who start talking gibberish the moment you hand them a balloon. But I like having the option of turning down the invitation.
When I was half-way home it began to rain heavily and the temperature dropped a milestone. My teeth started clattering, and it struck me how much worse it would have been if I'd been a hamster or a squirrel. Not checking my mailbox in the entrance hallway I ran into a neighbor, a girl who lives next door.
"Sorry," I said, and helped her up. She joined me up the stairs.
"Have you ever had this pain that shoots from the spine and causes your eyeballs to hurt like they've been plucked out, rolled in sandpaper and put back in again but the other way around?"
"No, never!" she exclaimed.
"Lucky girl," I mumbled.
"Why? Are you all Wright?"
"I guess I am."
"Are you in pain?"
"No, I'm not aware of any. Why do you ask?"
She didn't reply, but I could tell her games a hundred miles away. I knew she was studying to become a librarian – which can take a whole lifetime depending on the number of books and the size of the building – and everybody knows that most librarians are moderate nymphomaniacs. It's all about sex to them, indiscreetly indirectly, which is why they do the book thing. Reading. It helps.
The librarian at the elementary school I went to was always fondling her necklace when it was the boys' turn to sit down and not read. When I was nine I got my brother to ask her for the Kama Sutra and she had a nervous breakdown right there in front of us. My brother was six. Still hasn't learned how to read.
She closed the door keeping an eye on me, and I gave her a nod and a grin. Grins are well-meant when they come from the heart, which constitutes a good grin by definition. Bad grins come from the liver, or the bottom of the lungs where you collect all the dust, and nothing is felt when you flash one, except for maybe a little spite. Or a chunk of food stuck between the teeth. I thought about it for a while until I got tired of all the people passing by glaring at me. Neighbors are weird. Normal people always live like two blocks down.
I turned on the light and it was off. Sometimes, after a thunderstorm, some say that you can find wandering pockets of free energy climbing on top of the electrical grid, like a power python making love to a fire hose. The benefit from such an occurrence would outweigh the energy spent flipping the switch manifold.
Anyway. The cat was present.
The cat was not a cat, it was girl, a deceased woman from a caustic love affair. I never knew what became of her after I left, but I knew that this cat was she, so she must have died somehow. I had asked the cat about it on previous rendezvous, but it never replied. It had clearly come to kill me.
I had an uncle who always wore stereophonic headphones and used to breathe more smoke than actual air. He never connected them to anything though; the jack just ended in a curl in his pocket, because he wanted to find out what other people were saying about him when they thought he wasn't listening. And if you spoke to him directly he would pretend he couldn't hear you.
He was an electrical engineer. He put electricity to dead animals to re-animate them. They would jolt around the table, eyelids would shut and open, and sometimes he'd even get the heart beating again. His dream was the electrical embalmed brain, kept alive by nourishing fluids. He called it the Think Slave and he owned several patents for it. The idea was that you could lay off the burden of solving complex problems by feeding them to a brain that had nothing better to do. I asked him how he could know that the brain wouldn't just dream all the time, after which he refused to see me again.
She reminded me of him when I met her. She was obsessed by an idea, and she would avoid or destroy anything and anyone she perceived to be in her way. Given her general paranoia that list included quite a few.
She didn't want an electrical brain though; all she wanted was the perfect family. The Perfect Family. This may sound innocent enough until you begin to appreciate the razor sharp edges of the dome of perfection with which she was supposed to lethally separate between places, pieces and people based purely on prima facie whims or mere spurs of the moment.
She fell in love with me after I had convinced her that her body was more bacteria than human cells.
I once met a baby who had a grown-up's head judging by the proportions. Many babies have this problem, which ultimately leads to an early death.
"You have a very big head," I said, and the baby called me dada.
"Who's your daddy?"
"Dada!"
"Who's your daddy?!"
"Dada!!"
And its mother blushed.
The cat stared at me. There was no distracting it. I knew it would kill me once I fell asleep, so instead I just kept myself awake. It was dark anyway, so closing the eyelids was kind of redundant.
It didn't move for four hours and I was the first one to give in to the urge.
Nanyanette was her name, if I recall correctly. Lucille was someone else and maybe from a dream. There are more muscles in the trunk of an elephant than there are in the entire human body, and I was glad I wasn't an elephant, ‘cause it would have hurt more than it did.
"Come, kitty kitty, come kitty."
Sigge S. Amdal is a word wanker from Oslo, Norway.
I lost a good friend recently, and you know how it is, you mourn for a period of time and then you pick up your life and continue without. Do your best to cope and so on. I found him again in a record shop two stores below looking for the latest Radiohead album. He told me he wanted In Rainbows so I suggested the hippie store by the central station where they've got all the Shangri-la stuff you'll ever need. He was annoyed and left.
After I finished my window shopping without deciding on what to buy I felt as if a weight had been put on my shoulder. It turned out to be the hand belonging and connected by arm and shoulder to another friend of mine. He was also angry with me.
"Do you have any idea what day it was yesterday!?"
I could easily imagine that today was a Friday or a Saturday. No hello? Not today of course, the day that this happened, but I couldn't name two prior days because it would be a silly reply to a specific question. I landed on Thursday. In most cases Saturdays are just Fridays prolonged.
He called my bluff and put his hands on his hips. I couldn't understand why he was mad, so I quickly added that it might just as well have been a Friday all things considered.
"Do you have any clue as to today's date at all?"
At this point we were getting a lot of visual attention from security which was a bad thing, given that I forgot to close the bird cages in the pet store after window-testing. I took him down to the first story which happens to be next to the wine store in case you go there. It sells and ships wine, fine wines and cheaper ones, regardless of my story.
"So?" he demanded.
I came clean and told him how my calendar had never really worked.
"It doesn't work?! What the hell are you saying?"
"It came with all the dates and everything, but apart from that it's nothing! There's no way of telling what date it is, and since one's just as good as the other, I usually just pick one that I like."
He rolled his eyes conveying that I'd probably missed out on something in the instructions.
"Yesterday was my birthday!" I knew the instructions were faulty.
"What?! And now you tell me!?" I crossed my arms angrily, which felt really awkward being that the both of us were now equally pissed off and I was wearing a stiff and bulky leather jacket one size too big for me.
"So why are you angry at me?" I asked.
"You never showed up! I even began to worry. And here I find you in a shopping mall?"
"You could have sent an invitation," I remarked poignantly.
"I did! Don't you ever check your mail?"
"Not since two months ago. Damn bird snatched the key. Why?"
"And your cell phone?"
"Cut off, since I never paid the bills in the mailbox. It's a positive thing, really, if you take away the candle light expenses. And finding enough driftwood this time of year? Forget about it..."
He said something about disappointments and how they disappoint upon coming to be, while he reluctantly agreed that I'd actually made his next birthday a whole lot better given that we'd both survive to see the day, and granted I'd be present to congratulate him.
Birthdays never set well with me. Today so many days ago I was shoved head first through the vagina of a woman I didn't even know at the time, radically interfering with her and her husband's sex lives, economical situation, causing nothing but general dismay for half a year before they finally got used to me and gave me a name. A natal event best forgotten.
Like my grandfather always used to say: "If you can't remember something it might as well be worth forgetting." He had Alzheimer's before he caught a fatal case of death.
And then there are those who start talking gibberish the moment you hand them a balloon. But I like having the option of turning down the invitation.
When I was half-way home it began to rain heavily and the temperature dropped a milestone. My teeth started clattering, and it struck me how much worse it would have been if I'd been a hamster or a squirrel. Not checking my mailbox in the entrance hallway I ran into a neighbor, a girl who lives next door.
"Sorry," I said, and helped her up. She joined me up the stairs.
"Have you ever had this pain that shoots from the spine and causes your eyeballs to hurt like they've been plucked out, rolled in sandpaper and put back in again but the other way around?"
"No, never!" she exclaimed.
"Lucky girl," I mumbled.
"Why? Are you all Wright?"
"I guess I am."
"Are you in pain?"
"No, I'm not aware of any. Why do you ask?"
She didn't reply, but I could tell her games a hundred miles away. I knew she was studying to become a librarian – which can take a whole lifetime depending on the number of books and the size of the building – and everybody knows that most librarians are moderate nymphomaniacs. It's all about sex to them, indiscreetly indirectly, which is why they do the book thing. Reading. It helps.
The librarian at the elementary school I went to was always fondling her necklace when it was the boys' turn to sit down and not read. When I was nine I got my brother to ask her for the Kama Sutra and she had a nervous breakdown right there in front of us. My brother was six. Still hasn't learned how to read.
She closed the door keeping an eye on me, and I gave her a nod and a grin. Grins are well-meant when they come from the heart, which constitutes a good grin by definition. Bad grins come from the liver, or the bottom of the lungs where you collect all the dust, and nothing is felt when you flash one, except for maybe a little spite. Or a chunk of food stuck between the teeth. I thought about it for a while until I got tired of all the people passing by glaring at me. Neighbors are weird. Normal people always live like two blocks down.
I turned on the light and it was off. Sometimes, after a thunderstorm, some say that you can find wandering pockets of free energy climbing on top of the electrical grid, like a power python making love to a fire hose. The benefit from such an occurrence would outweigh the energy spent flipping the switch manifold.
Anyway. The cat was present.
The cat was not a cat, it was girl, a deceased woman from a caustic love affair. I never knew what became of her after I left, but I knew that this cat was she, so she must have died somehow. I had asked the cat about it on previous rendezvous, but it never replied. It had clearly come to kill me.
I had an uncle who always wore stereophonic headphones and used to breathe more smoke than actual air. He never connected them to anything though; the jack just ended in a curl in his pocket, because he wanted to find out what other people were saying about him when they thought he wasn't listening. And if you spoke to him directly he would pretend he couldn't hear you.
He was an electrical engineer. He put electricity to dead animals to re-animate them. They would jolt around the table, eyelids would shut and open, and sometimes he'd even get the heart beating again. His dream was the electrical embalmed brain, kept alive by nourishing fluids. He called it the Think Slave and he owned several patents for it. The idea was that you could lay off the burden of solving complex problems by feeding them to a brain that had nothing better to do. I asked him how he could know that the brain wouldn't just dream all the time, after which he refused to see me again.
She reminded me of him when I met her. She was obsessed by an idea, and she would avoid or destroy anything and anyone she perceived to be in her way. Given her general paranoia that list included quite a few.
She didn't want an electrical brain though; all she wanted was the perfect family. The Perfect Family. This may sound innocent enough until you begin to appreciate the razor sharp edges of the dome of perfection with which she was supposed to lethally separate between places, pieces and people based purely on prima facie whims or mere spurs of the moment.
She fell in love with me after I had convinced her that her body was more bacteria than human cells.
I once met a baby who had a grown-up's head judging by the proportions. Many babies have this problem, which ultimately leads to an early death.
"You have a very big head," I said, and the baby called me dada.
"Who's your daddy?"
"Dada!"
"Who's your daddy?!"
"Dada!!"
And its mother blushed.
The cat stared at me. There was no distracting it. I knew it would kill me once I fell asleep, so instead I just kept myself awake. It was dark anyway, so closing the eyelids was kind of redundant.
It didn't move for four hours and I was the first one to give in to the urge.
Nanyanette was her name, if I recall correctly. Lucille was someone else and maybe from a dream. There are more muscles in the trunk of an elephant than there are in the entire human body, and I was glad I wasn't an elephant, ‘cause it would have hurt more than it did.
"Come, kitty kitty, come kitty."
Sigge S. Amdal is a word wanker from Oslo, Norway.
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