Electric Animals

I met Alain in Montparnasse in 1998, when I spilled a carafe of red down his trouser leg outside the Cafe de Flore on Rue St Germain. Normally when you do this (not that I do this often), the recipient of the aforementioned cabernet suavignon would look up or comment, but Alain was deep in thought, tapping his pencil on a pad of green paper in an abstract fashion.

Besides, his pants were filthy and he knew it.

Alain was like most men, in that clothes washing was considered to be a chore best tackled at speed, and with as much disregard as possible. With this in mind, he would often wash his pyjamas and bedding together in the same cycle with his day clothes. As Alain had a definite proclivity for nocturnal emissions, his semen encrusted nightwear would distribute its microscopic load across all items present in the cycle, making his clothing appear as urban camouflage under ultraviolet lighting. Citric acid, free amino acids, fructose, enzymes, phosphorylcholine, prostaglandin, potassium, and zinc betraying his thought processes in the small hours; like a recipe that hates you, and seeks to embarrass, just like cakes and beer do, in their own way.

If we had UVA-reactice phosphors for eyes, Alain would appear to all of us as an angel, glowing blue. Radiant, as his semen decomposes around him.

I apologised, and slipped ₣300 Francs under his bread plate to replace the wine, but Alain failed to notice. I hurried away, to reach the Musée du Montparnasse before it closed. I had an urgent delivery of New Zealand clover honey for an expatriate Kiwi, currently aiding in the latest exhibition of Picasso and Modigliani works, created in that very quarter, many years before. 

Having previously struggled for money, I worked during that period as a smuggler of human beings into Europe, but occasionally dabbled also in less conscious foreign produce, such as honey and Indonesian Durian wine (which smells like rotting flesh, and is quite a hard item to get past the dogs, and a harder item to get past your lips).

Human trafficking sounds like quite a hard line of work to advance within, people being quite bulky things, and hard to succesfully stuff into sealed containers. But is in fact not so bad, when you consider you get a maximum of one year in jail if you're caught in the Netherlands (which is right next to the ocean, and where I am a citizen), and even then you have to be caught with 'the goods', which isn't as easy as authorities might hope. My game plan- move them in plain sight through highly populated areas, as a tour party, with the occasional musical instrument peppered in their posessions as a wordless explanation. Should authorities descend, blend into the citizenry and deny all and any knowledge.

I dealt predominantly in medical professionals from Africa, who commanded roughly $250,000 American dollars each. The bottle of New Zealand honey however, was a free delivery for an acquaintance. 

It would be rude any other way.

I made it home before it started raining, and even though I had 1.25 million American dollars in the hotel safe, I didn't particularly feel like missing 'CHIC' on the Arte channel by going out for dinner. I did have a lonely can of baked beans, some cheese, and a microwave, so to the horror of every French ghost in the hotel, I combined them. When they were ready, I put the plastic container between my seated knees, and got to eating. The warmth of the container made me realise how cold I hadn't known I was, and I ate hungrily with both eyes on the screen, and Josie Maran.

Everybody knows Thursday is the only night worth going out in Paris. Well, it was back then. Now it's Tuesday, in case you're planning a trip. The rain had stopped, and so had CHIC, and my phone rang, and it was Bertrand, who is one of those annoyingly attractive French Algerians who started out with all the other poor Immigrants in Chateau Rouge, but who now had the suite next to mine in Le Murano Urban Resort, or as we call it "L'hotel Expensif". 

 He's a 'land-on-your-feet kind of guy', which is great if you have his luck, but is utterly and excrutiatingly frustrating when you don't. He worked as a croupier at an underground casino for visiting Arabs, and was heavily into 'swenking'. If you don't know what that means, Google it. I can only educate you so far. 

I can tell you that he died the following year from a brain embolism, as it doesn't happen within the confines of this story, and as such doesn't spoil the ending, so to speak. In a grotesque, but fitting twist, he was getting out of bed as he died, and as fate would have it, landed on his feet. The paramedics commented that he looked as if he was casually waiting for them, feet to the floor, head on a pillow, one hand on his hip. "Style, bitch."

But tonight he was still with us, and on the phone, and demanding I come rock out with him at Black Cavalados. I protested I had other plans, but he got his way as he always does, and so I ventured out, meeting him in the hallway. Bertrand was smuggling also that night, carrying a bladder of Vodka at the small of his back, with a plastic hose and valve at his wrist, in a champion attempt at beating B.C. bar prices (barrels of crude oil are cheaper, and take far less time to acquire). If you knew him, and shared a drink with him at any point, I find it only fair to inform you that the bladder in question was the receptacle for a urethral catheter Bertrand received when in hospital, after overdosing on GHB. He washed it, apparently, but I really don't care. I'm Dutch, not German, therefore, I don't like piss, or being P.C.

So we're at B.C, and they're blasting AC/DC, and all in all it's a good vibe with bus loads of impossibly perfect West Parisienne's hotting the place up. Now, call me racist, but being black, Bert (pronounced like 'camembert') could dance. But whenever we went to B.C, he loved to get up on something (like the bar), and do a black person who can dance's rendition of headbanging. To be fair, all of the elements were there (apart from hair), but it didn't work, and there's no point trying to pretend it did. Everyone in there was drunk to the point of falling over (a tactic to overcome the shock of aforementioned drink prices), so apart from me, no one cared. In fact, they generally liked it. 

He had met his (sometimes) girlfriend this way, and she was here tonight. Aline was an absolute freak who cannot be without a sex partner for more than two hours, which suits Bert, as he was pretty much the same. Thng was, Aline can't climax unless whoever she is screwing makes what can only be described as silly faces. You know, tongue waggling, squinty-eyed, "hey, it's your birthday, and you're three, and I'm here to make you laugh" kind of faces. Again, this suited Bert fine, as he made just these kinds of faces when doing the crossword, lifting heavy objects, or fucking Aline. I shudder to think what experience in her early childhood caused her to turn out this way, but if you have ever read a book on childhood psychology, or even walked past one in a shop window at some stage, I hazard you could guess quite accurately.

Having said all that, if this condition isn't as rare as I imagine it to be, and you get off on the same thing, I apologise. I guess I'm just kinda vanilla when it comes to sex, I only like things like...actually, I'm not telling.

It was 11.15, which meant it was time for Aline and Bert to go fuck in the toilets or an alley, or the dancefloor, or your car. I had been talking to a 56 year old gent with unkempt hair and a nasty smell, about how all language can be broken down into mathematics, and therefore regulated by the logic of calculus. I suspected he had come to the opening night and had been here ever since, witing for a drink, which was half true, as he was in fact the owner. 

With authority comes power, and Per liked to demonstrate this by, instead of verbally disagreeing with a person, or shaking his head, kicking you in the shin/knee area. Not hard, but with just enough force to be annoying.

I made my excuses ("I have to go, I don't like you"), and left. Per made one last desperate kick for my knee, but it was already halfway out the door and on Ave Pierre Ire de Serbie. "Bastard!" I heard him say, in that cute way the French do so well. He's not so bad.

I was into the idea of spending a little time at Kong on top of the Kenzo Boutique, so I headed toward Rue du Pont Neuf. About 5 minutes before I got there, while short cutting through a narrow alley, I gasped with the shock of a good 2 litres of cold red wine dousing me from the head down in the cold night air. Looking up, I saw Alain, waving cheerfully from what I gather is his apartment. He popped his head back inside, and I made my way home before I froze to death. I guess he noticed after all.

I gave up on going out.

So I'm on the bus, and before you ask why someone with a crapload of money would catch a bus, you obviously don't know Paris. So- the bus. And someone gets on, and sits facing me about three rows forward, and they're psychic. You're thinking, "How could you know they were psychic?", so, before you think I am also, allow me to educate you about psychics.

Everyone hates psychics.

They are, I'm sorry to report, the smarmiest assholes ever. They think we don't know, but we do. So they're not so clever after all. It's always easy to tell a psychic. When they sit near you, and watch your face while you stare out the window, imagine reaching into your pocket and pulling out a knife, then walking up to them, and thrusting it repeatedly in their eye. The trick is to do this really quickly, and if you're extra good, you think of green fields and other relaxing scenes, then go straight for the eye stabs. WITHOUT FAIL, THEY WILL JOLT UPRIGHT IN THEIR SEAT, AND LOOK SCARED OUT OF THEIR MINDS. 

It is your move then to look at them and smile sweetly. They will get off the bus, and that's how you know they're psychic. Because they are smarmy assholes, 9 times out of 10 they will call the police and tell them they saw you with a knife. Then when the gendarmerie search you, all they find is your ordination card from the Uniting Church, that says you're a fully ordained Minister of God, and they apologise and glare at the psychic, who starts to think that they're losing it, until you smile at them and point at your eye, and make a motion like it's dribbling down your cheek.

So I'm on the bus, and a smarmy psychic is checking me out, as is their wont. This one is an elderly female, and you can tell that 50 years ago, she was the absolute shit. In 1967, every man on her arrondisement feverishly sweated themselves to sleep at night, dreaming of slipping their wrinkly Gallic cocks inside her Mons Venus, while she dragged home U.S. servicemen for a culturally correct indoctrination into 'soixante-neuf', and other pastimes Française. But not now, and not for a long time.

The secret to fooling psychics regarding what you're actually thinking is: Always think as if you're simply remembering song lyrics. If they're older, dropping rhymes will confuse the hell out of them, especially if you abbreve evz and drop stoops slizang. If you don't know what I just said, and you're under 40 years of age, I want you to go stand in the corner facing the wall until this story is over. You'll know when it's over because I will slap you. In your face. Like the olden days.

So I'm thinking about this old fox, rapping in my mind, taking her from be...you know, and she has no idea what's going on, and starts to tune out. Psychics regard everyone else's mind to be their own personal newspaper. So I decide to up the ante, and start to full blown pretend like I'm fantasizing about giving it to her. In my mind, my cock is 14 inches long, and I'm feeding it into her, hands on her tits, and generally going all-out porn, and you see her eyebrows arch in surprise, from her reflection in the bus window. And I guess the jokes on me, because SHE LIKES IT. So I imagine I'm turning her over, and pushing her face into the bus window, and violating her ass, and all kinds of other things that enterprising people do when presented with a delicious rump, or on holidays in Greece.

And she likes that too.

So then I take out the knife in my mind, and start stabbing her in the face with it, and from the look of her face, that's like, the ultimate aphrodisiac, and sickened, I hastily beat a retreat at the next stop. As the bus pulled away, the 70 year old psychic sex vampire looked me right in the eye and made a motion, like an eye dribbling down her cheek, and to be beaten like that by my own technique just made me hate them all more, so I thought "I'm gonna buy a knife and actually start using it on these bastards", which visibly shocked her, so I guess I won after all.

So I got back to the Hotel, and began to combine 1 teaspoon of laundry soap, and 1 cup of hydrogen peroxide in a small bowl, so I could blot the red wine out of my clothing, when I remembered I was rich, and threw them all in the trash.

That was Tuesday.

On Wednesday, armed with new clothing, and a good idea of where not to wear it, I plotted my route to what can only be called a secret sex soirée, at the Slow Club. Every major city has at least one of these. 

Not the suburban key swapping do's you hear about in the lunch room. These are high class, members only, reassuringly expensive, hot beds of anonymous, hassle free, fantasy level sex. Sometimes they offer other services, like live people hunts, or cannibal cuisine, but tonights destination was just a plain old 'sex with models and porn stars' affair. You have to be invited, and you have to be okay with getting your blood and urine taken on arrival, for what has to be the fastest turnaround on a sexual health check ever. They have their own lab. And if you're cleared, you can just wade in and bang anything that catches your eye (unless it happens to be another member, whereby it is always polite to ask first).

Now the reason I'm telling you ths is not for the sake of showing off or being puerile, but to set the scene for the whole point of this recollection.

While waiting for my test results, I was relaxing in the bar, or 'outer sanctum'. If you've been to the Slow Club, you know it is a series of vaulted caves, and the bar is no different. I order a Cuba Libre with no rum, and realise the member sitting next to me at the bar is an old friend/ex lover. We smile and excitedly proceed to reminisce, as we never really parted so to speak, just drifted as international people often do. 

Kate worked for a major oil company, and to cut a long story short, was just plain bored. We met for the first time while we were both still open to the idea of clubbing (as opposed to our new policies of upscale wine bars and events only). We knew we would fuck after the very first look, so it was extra nice to prolong the agony for as long as possible by making small talk and flirting.

So that was then. We started to catch up on recent events, and where everyone from the past had gotten to. Lots of dead friends. And from out of the blue, Kate declares that we should indulge in a FFM ménage à trois.

I agree.

Once cleared, we enter. I won't describe the scene, because it's much more fun if you just imagine it your way. Suffice it to say, it was quite visually arresting. Kate and I held hands, which triggers all manner of predatory alarms for sexual deviants, and tends to start a feeding frenzy. This means you have everyone's attention, and can thusly choose your 'fuck du jour' while ensuring you will be remembered the next time. Handy. 

Plus, of course, it feels nice.

After walking a circuit of the soirée, we both decided on a girl who looked to me to be Sri Lankan. There's no telling of course, but to my mind Sri Lankans generally look better than anyone else from the surrounding environs. Like I said, I'm racist as hell. She was a gorgeous shade of black, with perfect white teeth, and a body that again, I will let you imagine your way. The effect she had on the both of us was breathtaking, I can honestly say I have never seen a sexier human being. Her name was Amanthi.

Kate and I took her by one hand each, lay down with her, and that's all your getting because this blog has been pretty filthy already, and I never intended it to be.

But after an hour or so, there came a time when Amanthi was above me, and I was inside her, while Kate licked my balls. And being in such a position should haver rated as one of my finer moments of sexual conquest, but it wasn't. Amanthi made way more eye contact, and kissed me more than is usual in such situations, and considering the aforementioned fact regarding her general state of physical perfection, I should have wanted to explore her endlessly. But I didn't want to.

For some reason completely alien to me, I just wanted to be alone with Kate.

I heard my mouth say "Amanthi, thank you for tonight, but I would like to be alone with Kate now." I heard her say "You want me to leave?...Are you serious?", to which I replied "Yes I am."

I felt terrible, but I had to be honest. I guess I just don't care about threesomes. I'm not sure I ever did. And I guess no matter how physically perfect a person can look, another person who doesn't look that way can steal all of your attention and desire, with some inexplicable x-factor, pheremone, or irresistable personality type. So Amanthi gathered her clothes and moved to the next situation, looking puzzled and not unlike a scorned cat, while Kate slipped into my arms, and I slipped into her. "You could have just called me if you wanted this", she smiled (her smile is devastating, but I'm sorry I don't know how to describe it.) "I didn't know what I wanted" I smiled back, tracing her dimples with my fingers. "I'm so glad you do now" she whispered.

That's all you get.

I had to go to Turkey on important business, and because I am still involved in this business, I won't divulge further detail. But what I can tell you, was that when I arrived at Reina under the Bosphorus Bridge, of course Alain was there. He was puzzling over his omnipresent green jotter pad, and by peeking over his shoulder, I could make out:

"...= Eo2eio-io + EoErei(o-r) + ErEoe-(o-r) + Er2eir-ir..."

If you know what all of this means, then you are exceedingly clever, cleverer than I am by a long shot. Which means, by process of association, that Alain was very clever indeed. Every now and then, he would change a quantifier here or there, making the whole thing look even more impenetrable and unknowable, like cats and female humans.

I had settled down with a drink by this stage, and decided because Alain was so much cleverer than I am, that I would spare him the embarrassment of dousing him in wine again, or even better, throwing him in the river, as payback for the last time we had seen each other. Also, Turkish jails are hell, and the cops love throwing people who waste good wine in there. So, comfortably forearmed with two good reasons, I left him to it, and got to work on my first cucumber ayran of the evening.

Chuneyt, who works the bar at Reina is an ex soldier (like most Turks), who's brother Chengiz he insisted many times was psychic. Both were present tonight, leaning on opposing sides of the bar, talking with their conspiratorial eyebrows. It's a talent Turkish men have, where they can make a conversation about Lego sound like the terrorist plot of the century, the way they lean in close like that. 

I was quite comfortable sitting where I was, so I decided to test this 'psychic abilities' claim out, by thinking "If you're psychic, Chengiz, do me a favour and come see me when you've finished your conversation over there".

Five minutes later, he strolled over and said "Hello my friend!"

Now, we're not friends, and we have never been introduced before, but Turks are a very welcoming and warm people, so it isn't unusual. He casually ate my eggplant, his moustache was magnificent. 

"I have a job for you..." I announced "...if you're interested?" "Yes." said Chengiz, so I proceeded. I asked him "Do you see that man over there?" Chengiz glanced over and said "Who? Alain the Frenchman?" Not yet knowing his name, I asked Chengiz if he knew him. Chengiz said "No, I have never seen him before."

Psychic.

"Chengiz, I want to know what he is thinking". Chengiz' face was curled in a rather unsavoury fashion, and I asked "What is it?" Chengiz related to me the story I have already related to you regarding Alain's method of washing, and the ethereal blue results. "He's thinking about his laundry?" I asked, but Chengiz said "No, he is thinking about electric animals."

Upon further enquiry, it became clear that Alain wrote the mathematical blueprints for holograms, and that contained within the pages of his green pad, lived the codes for several hundred species of extant animals, and quite a few extinct or yet to be invented ones also. He could see them in three dimensions, and would extrapolate his equations accordingly, lengthening a spine here, an extra horn there, that sort of thing.

Chengiz' eyes were wide with amazement, and he related how beautiful these creatures were, roaming and flying through the vast and vaulted ceilings of Alain's mind.

When I was very young, I used to see the world as it was, only overlayed with the objects of my imagination (or, in Hieronymous Bosch's case- faith). If the televsion was on, my parents often worried why I preferred to stare at the coffee table. The answer was quite simple. Being obsessed with Africa as a child, I imagined herds of tiny elephants, as tall as a toothpaste cap, roaming between the coffee mugs and the tv guide. Lions, watching and stalking zebras from behind the fruit bowl. Hyenas and giraffes. All as real to me as the table itself.

So I could definitely relate.

Chengiz' day job was as an illustrator for an advertising agency, and much to my delight, he said "Here, let me show you". He produced a pad of his own from his bag, and laid it on the table. His hand began to flow across the page, with such precision it looked more like the cutting tool of a C&C machine, and within a moment, he passed the pad across the table top, to show me a horse made of lightning.

Every muscle of its body, every hair of its mane, radiated with inner light, and I couldn't imagine how beautiful such a creature would be in actual motion. But Alain knew, and now I could see how he could tune out so completely, lost in his own inner world. But according to Chengiz, these image calculations also contained sounds, and could move. And furthermore, were part of a much larger equation, that being, the world they lived on, and how everything interacted with everything else. Alain was building a planet made of light and sound waves, in his mind, and on a green pad of paper.

Chengiz had me thinking maybe psychics were people after all. "Thank you, my friend!" he announced, clapping me on the back, and returning to discuss the imminent destruction of all Lego pieces in the known Universe with his brother, under an awning of eyebrows.

I didn't see Alain again for many months, and thoughts of his fantastic creation slowly faded. I ran into quite a bit of trouble in Egypt, involving the mysterious appearance of a number of high quality laser measuring devices used in the construction of nuclear warheads in my Hotel Room near El Tahrir Square. Luckily, Cairo is run by two crime families, just like the Montagues and Capulets, except they're Egyptian, and one is much more powerful than the other. Being down with the right side has its privileges, and my assumed identity made it's way out into the Sahara again without any nasty incidences of imprisonment.

I did run into my Australian hairdresser in the middle of the desert, halfway to Jordan, which surprised the hell out of me, but didn't seem to phase him at all. At first I thought the approaching camel train was Bedouin, and I was looking forward to trading some US dollars for meat, but there at the head was Jac, who casually waved and interrogated me as to when I had last conditioned. Being vegetarian, his party had no meat, but I did receive cheese and nuts, which is almost as good. Also an amazing massage from an Edinburgh Scot named Julie, whose voice soothed and excited all of the parts of my body her fingers hadn't yet reached. I felt terrible when I awoke 3 hours later, and she was still working my feet with both hands, her knee holding open the pages of the book she was reading. She didn't mind at all.

Back in Paris, I made a few runs of people and produce over the next six months, before deciding to get out. Bertrand and I started a club, our focus being to bring over the hottest DJ's from New York every weekend, with a live ISDN hookup (which cost an unbelievable amount back then) with a sister club in New York, who imported their French DJ's in the same manner. The three walls of the dancefloor were screens displaying live video of the sister club. The 6 hour time difference didn't really affect things at all. Bert was right in his element, and spent most of his time on the floor, or in his office with Aline, and often others. Through this new scene, we met a number of people, one of whom was a contract killer. 

Normally you don't know when a contract killer is a contract killer, because the brief for the job involves and indeed relies upon, not talking about it. But Marcus (obviously not his real name) was about as arrogant as they come, and considering he was ex Russian Spetnatz Special Forces, that was pretty arrogant. So he talked. A lot. 

He claimed to have a number of friends in high places, which we eventually found out was true. Local residents had started to object to their windows rattling from an over application of bass frquencies, which was fair, but threatened our club. One word to Marcus about it, and the whole mess disappeared overnight.

One evening I was enjoying a Pad Thai at the bar while Bertrand supervised the staff, when a very glum Marcus entered, and sat down for a drink. "Kill anyone today?" I asked casually. "No- not til tonight." "Who's the mark?" asked Bert, his face far too happy for such a morbid question.

"You guys".

Bert wasn't smiling now. I was curious. "Who'd want us offed?" I asked, not all that hungry. "It's the neighbours, isn't it?" moaned Bert. Marcus said "It would seem that Alain the Frenchman is being watched, and that all those who watch Alain the Frenchman are becoming dead..." He ate one of my noodles. "...Your Turkish friends being the first."

"So...um...what do we do?" I asked. (I've never been killed before.)

"What?!" Exclaimed Marcus. "I'm not going to do it!" he broke into laughter. I broke into relief, and Bert broke into a run for the mens room. "Listen", Marcus started. "We need to work out a course of action, that will eliminate those who put the price on your heads, before they realise the job hasn't been done, and they hire someone else, not only for the two of you, but for me also." 

I said "Look Marcus, you do this all the time, so I'm guessing you have a play that can work here?" Marcus said "I do- we will hit them with a PFK."

For those of you outside France, PFK is what they call KFC, and a PFK gameplay (for those of you outside the murder biz) is a situation where a person or persons come to you requiring something of importance (like food, for example), and all you do is serve them up a big, greasy bird. For those of you outside the USA who may not know what 'the bird' is, it is a euphemism for 'the finger', the finger being an Australian euphemism for "fuck you", which... look, basically, you just humiliate the crap out of them before you kill them, so they know who it is that is fucking them over.

"Is anyone else on this hitlist of theirs?" I asked Marcus. "There is one other" he replied. "Alain himself".

Once we managed to extricate Bert from the toilet, we formulated a plan, the first part being finishing my Pad Thai, then moving on to deciding which of the myriad sick and twisted methods of revenge available we felt were most justified under the circumstances. Having trained in the New Zealand army for a spell and on a Playstation for even longer, I felt utilising my skills as a rifleman would be most satisfying. Bert wanted them to literally eat his shit, and Marcus wanted their money, and some socks, as he always neglected to buy his own due to what he called "time constraints", which we knew meant "always drunk".

Marcus left at 7.28 pm, and returned at 8 with a lovely paint ball gun, with a scope big enough to mount on a submarine. The paintballs were an horrific lilac colour, which doesn't go with anything. Marcus pumped more gas into this gun than is either safe or legal, and performed a number of Dragunov engineering-type processes to the weapon, the end result being the thing would deliver a third eye to a hindu from two kilometres away. My rifle was ready.

Marcus sent an email to his employers, asking them for a meet, so he could deliver proof of death, and arrange transfer of funds to his account. Three seconds later his reply came, with a time and a place.

When the time came, Marcus was at the place. A car arrived, and from it emerged employees of the employers. And that's all. Having counted on this eventuality, Marcus approached the car, casually slipping a magnetised GPS locator under it with his foot, and informed the employees that there had been a hitch, and that the job will be completed in one days time. The employees nodded, and took the GPS beacon back to their bosses for us, so we could do business with them in a more direct fashion.

Tracking the beacon, we were all quite surprised to realise the trail led back to the Slow Club, and Per. "This is fantastic!" Marcus exclaimed. "Per and I wear the same shoe size! Marcus checked the registration of the vehicle, and saw that it indeed was registered to Per.

"Let's paint the town lilac".

Per was on his way home early that morning, walking from the open car door to the apartment entrance, when he felt a whump, and an intense stinging in his ear. He lost his balance, and hit the pavement, crying in shock. Two of his employees ran to his aid, only to have their noses broken in the same fashion. One and a half kilometres away, on a flower warehouse roof, Marcus and I watched through a scope and binoculars. "Hit him again" Marcus breathed. I gently squeezed the trigger, breathing out as I did so, and spat a paintball halfway across Paris onto the bridge of Per's nose. He screamed, but we couldn't hear it. Marcus clapped me on the shoulder "I had no idea you were so skilled! I could have used you in Melbourne!" Pause. "That was you?" I asked in utter disbelief. Marcus turned and looked at me through the binoculars. "Indeed."

Per went into hiding, not leaving his house for fear of being painted that horrible colour again. The employees who had not gone to hospital with massive facial trauma stood guard and looked very nervous. After the second day, (where I nailed another six in the same fashion), they took to wearing riot helmets, which looked hilarious, and just made me shoot them in the balls instead.

Per knew he was being hunted, but obviously had no clue why they were using paintballs. We rectified that on the tird night, when Marcus shot the remaining employees with real bullets from a silenced rifle, and we paid Per a visit. We walked into his lounge room, and I shot his nose out again. The impact was so strong his head bounced off the wall four feet behind him, which I found quite satisfying. Bert kicked him in the knees while he was down, while Marcus went into his bedroom to raid the sock drawer. While in the bedroom, Marcus found Amanthi, tied to the bed, and far from happy about it. He left her there.

"PER!" (We had to yell, his ears were ringing). "WHY DID YOU TRY TO KILL US?!" Per, with tears streaming down his bloodied face, couldn't hear. He shook his head, desperately pointing to his ears, one of which, was decidedly purple. "We need to write questions to him I think" mentioned Bert, who turned to look for some paper, bumping straight into Alain. "Here you go" Alain smiled, handing him a green and familiar pad, and a pen.

We elected to ask Alain if he knew what this was all about instead. Alain said that Per had retained Alain's services as a holographic engineer three years before, to program and create 3-dimensional holograms of naked children, for Per to indulge his love for paedophilia with. Alain, had taken the money, done none of the work, and had instead indulged his love of nature, hoping to create a holographic, photo-realistic zoo, so that real animals could be spared from a life behind bars. Per, being Per, decided everyone involved (directly or indirectly) had to die, and that brings us to today.

"It's a shame he can't smell right now" said Bert, force feeding Per some good old fashioned African shit. I couldn't really watch, I have my limits. Marcus was mesmerised, and Amanthi yelled from the back room. I went to see what the fuss was about, and seeing her there, freed her. She wasn't pleased to see me, and didn't say thank you. She did grab the paintball gun from the kitchen counter and beat Per around the head with it until he stopped breathing, then strode out the door, on those incredible legs that I'm still not going to describe, but that you're imagining anyway.

"Alain, what are you doing here?" I asked, with more than a little annoyance. "Well, I have to say, I'm sorry about your friends in Turkey" he started, Marcus cutting him off. "How do you know about all of this?" Marcus demanded.

"The truth is, I am a psychic. I know many things not said directly to me."

"A psychic?" I asked, in utter disbelief. "Yes." he replied.

"You smarmy..." I raised my finger to his face.

"Asshole. Yes, I know" he shrugged.

Ladies and gentlemen, The French.


This is knifey, from 'the internet'.