Writer :
Klaus Budde |
Contact writer at :
klaus@lineone.net
|
Location :
Spain |
Received :
13/02/2001
|
Summary of characters:
Porter is a
police inspector starting investigating himself, but not voluntarily ...
Klaus Budde, 49,
lives currently in Spain, trying to survive as an IT contractor. The
industry is not really screaming for 49 old grumpy old men - so he reverts
to writing from time to time.
LATE AFTERNOON 5:30 PM,
SOUTHAMPTON HEDGE END, SAINSBURY SUPERMARKET.
Porter was out shopping
when he spotted this battleship cruising around the car park. A big white
Cadillac. Porter was impressed. His British envy - the one wrapped in
screaming kindness - started punching little holes into his forehead. Who
on earth is driving in it? Ordinary law abiding citizens? Of course not!
Must be some scumbag of pimp, a bank robber, showing off his wrongful
acquired riches in public. How stupid. Porter rubbed his shortsighted
eyes. No, this was a woman carefully maneuvering into a marked space. She
was blonde. Right, criminals preferred blondes. Porter smiled. She
couldn't get out. This country isn't made for Cadillac's, darling. While
the blonde to Porter's disappointment managed herself to squeeze into the
open, he jotted down the car's registration number. A police officer never
is off duty. He new he was heading for a case: A white Cadillac, white
leather seats? A blonde with a white fur coat? Cocaine would be the
matching crime! Porters mind started racing mad imagining hot pursuits and
daring shoot outs when he bumped into the security guard at the entrance
of the supermarket. Sorry, he muttered, punishment for daydreams, and
hurried behind the vegetables. He new the security guard would follow him
secretly. They always suspected him of shoplifting.
However, Porter had other things to worry about. Beef! This very morning
he had made a dramatic decision. No more beef. Porter was to become a
veggie. Until now he hadn't wasted a thought about Vegetarians. Maybe MI5
had, because they didn’t like anybody or anything being different.
Anyway matters had become quite complicated. Something was going on - and
nothing a police officer could do much about. The something had even a
name: Bovine Spongiform Encephalopathy. Maybe he could arrest the Minister
of Agriculture. All these cows were dying. Soon people would too and Mc
Donald's would have to acquire a chain of undertakers.
Apart from the suspicious eyes of MI5 it wasn’t safe to endeavor the
path of vegetarians either. Vegetables were contaminated with DDT and
Dioxins and affecting sperm counts. Yes sperm counts. Your kids could end
up with a bunch of missing chromosomes and your only consolation would be
that the community of disabled people was growing. So what! Kids or
veggies?
Porter had to decide where to start. He sailed around the vegetable
department until he got hungry. He didn't know what to choose. A nice
steak would do. Don't be silly; he said to the security guard who came
strolling round the corner, a man's decision is a man's decision! The
security guard looked embarrassed. Porter was tempted to make him pick his
carrots. Instead he turned around and grabbed a couple of items he later
found out were broccoli, zucchini and cherry tomatoes. He already felt
sick. A man's decision - what a nonsense.
Leaving the supermarket he noticed the Cadillac again. There his case was
going to disappear. Quickly he jumped into the car and followed Blondie in
her white monster. Truly he had no reason for this. It was more the
'avoiding dinner pursuit'. It started raining and he closed up.
So far, so good. You hardly can oversee a Cadillac. Porter imagined buying
one himself. No way. They would examine his overdrawn accounts and the
cherry tomatoes for hints. They would suspend him with full pay. The
questioning of his neighbors would unveil that he occasional did urinate
in his garden and that his cars engine leaked enough oil to get
prospectors interested. The press would sneak in and discover the woman's
dress in his wardrobe. Innocently, when he had bought the house fifteen
years ago it had been hanging there. Who would believe him? POLICE
INSPECTORS AMBITION TO BECOME A DRAG QUEEN would make a nice headline.
Suddenly the Cadillac stopped. Why did noble cars never attract noble
people, why only scum bags and blondes? The blonde now came rushing
towards Porter.
You are not following me, Sir, are you?
No darling, Porter said in return, only admiring your transport. Nice car
indeed. The blonde waived her mobile phone.
I'll call the cops if you keep following me. You'll be prosecuted for
harassment, even sexual harassment I would say. Porter showed his badge in
return. And you might be prosecuted for assaulting a police officer with a
mobile phone. Can I have your name please?
Pergola Dumpster, said the blonde smiling.
Porter went silent in surprise. Pergola Dumpster? He repeated stupidly.
The blonde nodded: Pergola Dumpster, write it down in to your bloody
notebook.
Porter made his excuses and retreated. His career as a Vegetarian didn't
start too well. Vegetarian Constable Inspectors never mess around with
darling daughters of Chief Constables.
Porter’s eyes tried to pierce through the ever-stronger growing rain. He
sighed. What is the punishment for chasing big white Cadillac's? A
vegetable dinner.
NEXT MORNING, POPTTERS HOME, 19 SOMERSET AVENUE. 7:45 am.
Porter woke up. He opened his eyes. Sunshine invaded the room. He stared
at the ceiling trying to remember this vegetable dream. Carrots. Something
with carrots. He'd been in court. He was told to identify a culprit. But
he could not see anything but carrots. You'll be carroted for life he had
heard an angry Judge screaming.
Now he was awake and the
sunshine busted into the room. Porter tried to forget the dream but then
he remembered the dinner he'd fabricated last night. What a brave thing to
do. Veggies for dinner. Exclusively, solely, only entirely veggies! He had
- somehow - enjoyed it. Especially the cherry tomatoes when they exploded
in the microwave.
And now he would have to face cereals. Another challenge! He lit a fag.
Give up steaks, give up ham & eggs, give up smoking. Why not stop
living altogether. He should dig a big hole in the garden and bury the
cereals in it. The 300 page vegetarian life guide as well -(even though it
came from the library). The book said that eating good stuff, meaning
vegetables, would not only prolong life, but also shift your mind to the
better. Could there be a better mind as the one of a police officer? All
Porter new was that Pergola Dumpster already had shifted his mind. She was
nice and cute and sharp and - give me a break a voice said, stop thinking
about Pergola Dumpster, you silly butt. She'll never ever fancy a big fat
red faced cop like you, would she?
Porter got up and struggled down to the kitchen. He opened the fridge. Two
eggs and a rather dry slice of bacon smiled at him. Better a dry smile
from a bacon than a dreamed kiss from an untouchable blonde.
The phone made a noise. Porter picked it up, Pergola, he asked? The boss
shouted angry words at him: I've got to report you for being constantly
late if you choose to further arriving constantly late.
Come on, Porter replied, I haven't had my cereals yet.
Then you better have them while driving. We've got a murder case. The boss
continued shouting. I'll see you right away. The Chief Constable is not a
happy man today. Then he rang off.
But I'll be splashing my milk, Porter said into the dead phone. Carefully
he put it back onto the receiver. The boss could be dreadful at times.
Porter was always late of course. It was his privilege grown solid in many
years and the casual attempts of the boss to change this did no god to
anybody. A murder case, well, that was different. Porter hurried to cramp
himself behind the steering wheel. Dammed! He climbed out again. He had
forgotten to put the stove out, the answer phone on, the empty milk
bottles out and to brush his teeth. Pergola Dumpster wouldn't fancy him in
a million light years if he kept forgetting to brush his teeth...
BITTERNE ROAD 8:55 AM, STILL SAME DAY.
Porter’s office was only two miles away but he almost needed an hour to
get there. One of mankind's deepest mysteries is rush hour. Bitterne Road
was packed solid. You could step outside and have a coffee with one of the
poor chaps whose dwellings happened to be next to the road. Yes, and
Porter would have another reason for not coming early. The next reason was
his car's overheating engine. It simply didn't like jams. There he was now
and had no other entertainment than his cluttering radiator. Even a
magnetic flashlight wouldn't have helped. But he hadn't one. Every police
inspector in the rest of the universe owned one, nicely stored away in the
glove compartment. They could hurl it out on the roof and drive like
maniacs. Porter would have loved to drive like a maniac, especially at
rush hour. He could use all pavements, greens and pedestrian tunnels and
scream at everyone in his way. He knew it; in his heart he was a punk. But
he couldn't be one, because Police Headquarters refused to buy magnetic
flashlights. Budgets cuts. Instead they had invested millions into an IBM
mainframe. The IBM mainframe was supposed to match fingerprints. When they
switched it on they discovered that it could do a trillion calculations in
a second, but it was unable to match fingerprints. The ever so friendly
suits from IBM gave hastily assurances: only an unexpected very minor bug
- and promised to fix it. Headquarters would have had rather unexpectedly
their bugs back - which of course they couldn't. Someone had cashed in a
huge commission and evaporated to Brazil. Or was it Colombia? However, the
dooming consequence was that Porter couldn't have a flashlight that led to
the unavoidable fact that he always would be inexcusable late.
The radiator's noises urged Porter to shut the engine down, but the
overheated engine wouldn't start again. So, his only consolation was the
murder case. Someone was dead, really dead - great! The last eight months
Porter had chased car thieves of the age of six or seven. They had overrun
a couple of pedestrians and some of them had died in the consequence. You
could argue about weather this were murder cases. The boy’s excuse was
that they couldn't look over the bonnet. Manufacturers liability! The
parents screamed. The kids screamed too. They wanted to go home and due to
the lack of proper legislation they indeed were given back to their
parents. Then they continued to nick cars and knock everything over in
their way. Porter picked them up, waived his forefinger at them and he
knew, this circus would continue until they eventually would have reached
the not less tender age of fourteen. Then they would be dumped into so
called SIPYO's, Secure Institutions for Persistent Young Offenders, in
other words, they finally would be jailed, yap! But now six and seven year
old did what fourteen years old had done before. Porter didn't know an
answer to this - maybe it should be made a legal requirement to register
pregnancies with the next police station.
What if BSE had infected the human brain already decades ago and then we
had passed it on to cattle? Kids had become abductors, murderers, rapists
and bank robbers. Porter seriously hoped the time of cloning would arrive
rather sooner than later. We simply could outclone crime than and police
inspectors could ask for more holidays.
POLICE HEADQUARTERS, SOUTHAMPTON, ABOVE BAR, 10:30AM.
All parking lots except the ones marked: 'Vegetable Inspector Carrot Mc
Hampton', or so - had parking meters erected on front of them - as if to
symbolize memorials to a fading male superiority. Porter’s favorite
parking lot was occupied. He circled round until he could dash into an
empty space. His agreement with Billy the traffic warden would save him
from further troubles. For a couple of pints at the nearby Alexandra Billy
would feed the parking meter or stuff his ticket book. This worked fine.
As time progressed, unfortunately, Billy had become more and more thirsty.
The summer had been very hot and Billy started to complain about a sore
throat. The cure apparently was a scotch here and there to compensate for
all the dust Billy had to swallow. Additionally, all this walking made him
hungry and the Alexandra served a wonderful chili con carne. Billy liked
chili con carne, the bucket loads. Now Porters convenient parking had
become a liability. Something had to be done. With a helpless 'Oomph' he
got out of the car and fled into headquarters when he spotted Billy duck
walking in a distance. He scratched a tick mark into his memory 'Kill
Billy'. Something had to be done very soon indeed before Billy would start
asking for roller skates.
Thank you, Porter said to the elevator, when they reached 10th floor. He
was grateful the old thing still did its duty. One day it would stop
working and probably kill someone (preferably Billy) and Porter thought,
if he treated the elevator with a bit of respect, he wouldn't be the
someone to be killed. Then he entered the office where he found his boss
closely bent over some paper work. The boss didn't say a word. All his
concentration was focused on a bunch of tiny documents. When Porter
reached the desk the documents turned out to be scratch cards. The boss
hoped to win 50.000 pounds and Porter hoped he would, because then the
boss had promised to retire and hopefully then - Porter would be the boss.
Any luck? Porter asked.
The boss shook his head and continued scratching.
What's about the murder case then?
Murder case? The boss tried to remember - ah! Well, there isn't any. I
only wanted you to show up. He consulted his watch. You gained 20 minutes.
That's not good enough. We certainly have to improve on that.
PERGOLA DUMPSTERS HOME; HUNTINGTON AVE; CHANDLERS FORD.8: 30 PM.
Pergola stopped the Cadillac on the drive way in front of her home with a
demonstrative squeak. The big car rocked for a moment like a cradle with a
baby in it. She gave the attached garage a dismissive look while she
trotted around the back of the Cadillac. The garage obviously has been
build for Minis, Cortinas and Reliants. Cadillac's were beyond any British
garage builder's imagination. She got out of the car and entered the house
throwing handbag, car keys and the white fur coat in any direction. Then
she sunk herself in one of the white leather sofas. Pergola loved white.
White was the color of the innocent. Maybe because she wasn't. She grabbed
the white telephone and dialed a number.
It's me she yodeled.
What's up? A quarrelsome male voice answered.
She told him the encounter she'd had with Porter.
Hmm, the voice said.
Does this mean anything? She asked.
Don't know, the voice said. We'd better get rid of the Caddy.
No, Pergola protested. It's my darling. She thumped her feet on the white
carpet.
The voice new he had to skid the cow off the ice now.
I'll buy you another fur.
Don't be silly, Pergola said. The Caddy or nothing. Now we got the
attention makes it even more suspicious, if we dump it.
Well, the voice said. But don't bump into any more constable inspectors.
I've got an idea.
You've got an idea? The voice said in disbelief.
What if I indeed bumped into Porter? Get some information. Is he hanging
out somewhere?
The voice went silent for a moment. Could be dangerous, he said.
Could be fun, Pergola prompted.
Ok, give it a shot, the voice said resigned. He knew he couldn't stop her.
Try the Alexandra.
You are a darling, Pergola yodeled.
Yes, yes, the voice answered and rang off.
Pergola went into the white kitchen in order to feed her white Angora.
Hi pus, she said. These guys always think I'm a bimbo.
Miao, said the cat.
No, I'm not. And now I'm going to stir things up. Big fun, I guess. The
Blonde and the Beast. He probably hasn't seen a girl for decades! She
laughed. He will be mine in seconds and then he'll spill the beans and
make us rich.
She continued to explain a detailed plan to the cat, which jumped on her
food and listened to her mistress at the same time. You know, all cats are
multitasking. The detailed plan so far contained nothing more as how to
prepare female parts to the extend that they could make male eyes pop out.
The cat stopped eating and turned her head: Careful, you're dealing with a
police inspector. They are trained to smell a rat from a mile or so. I
only smell rats from 2 yards away or nearly two yards. Not bad for an old
degenerated pussy, isn’t it?
Pergola only understood
"miao". Hey, don't you like your food, silly cat? It's the most
expensive one I could get hold of. The cat sat down and licked her paws.
Nice food indeed, she said. Maybe you invite this inspector of yours for
dinner, which might work better than some extracted nipples. Pergola
sight, these cats are so ignorant today. A 3-pound cat dinner and she only
eat half of it.
If both of them had only
known better the contents of the nice colored printed tin, they wouldn't
have touched it. The huge cull of BSE infected cattle had given the animal
food producers some good profit margins. Of course the carcasses should
have been burned but the incinerators couldn't cope. How delighted the
managers of the incinerators were when some discrete gentlemen helped them
confronting the tidal wave of dead cow bodies they were now drowning in.
Well, some smart journalists wondered about the efficiency of some small
incinerators and speculated that maybe the dead meat was exported to
Africa - giving some smart managers of small incinerators additional ideas
- but after some head scratching they said: "Well, we are doing night
shifts. It's our national duty, isn't it?" The smart journalists
couldn't argue about that. The headlines next morning therefore changed
to: "Millions of dead cows are polluting the clear British
skies!" With that the manager of small incinerators could live. The
producers of effective air filters had their say now and affordable
advertising the same time. Nobody raised the question though why air
filters in cigarettes didn't reduce any cancer rates. Where air filters in
incinerators better? Did they really reduce any bad stuff? Probably they
did, but the remaining particles probably killed as good as the filtered
ones.
If Pergola and her Angora only had known, the story might have been
different but the price of colored printed cat food tins as well.
Pergola added some ice and some more Martini to her jar and went outside
into the garden. She landed her nice bottom on a white plastic garden
chair and put her feet on a white plastic table. The cat followed her and
jumped on her laps. Pergola offered her some Martini, but the cat declined
politely. Both looked over a small piece of loan that was square, simple
and easy to maintain. A barbecue grill was standing in a corner unused for
years. The people who had occupied the house before had left it from the
people who had occupied it before them and probably it had already stood
there before the house existed. Some charcoal, bathing in rainwater, made
an unsuccessful plea for immediate ignition and Pergola wanted to through
it away. But then, somebody might come for barbecue one day. Pergola
thought about the conversation she had with Fred, her boy friend. He was
tall and blonde, handsome and kind of rich. Pergola liked his expensive
toys. The source of his riches was a little bit frightening though. It had
been hard work to extract some information from him, but eventually he
admitted that there wasn't a rich uncle at all. Instead Fred kept bad
company. Some of these guys looked quite smart and decent. They had
businessmen like acumen – maybe a too strong one, and when one of them
accidentally dropped a nine-millimeter wahteveritwas gun, it became
evident even for Pergola, that Fred was dealing with something slightly
more sinister than a rich uncle. It took a while until she could come to
terms with the fact that she as the daughter of a chief constable
inspector was part of the Southampton drug cartel. She was thrilled while
Fred tried to play everything down. No, he wasn't dealing with drugs, no
way, he only provided a service and then it dropped like ripe tomatoes
from Pergola’s eyes. The sound studio Fred was working for! Pergola
found out he owned it and further down some months when she bumped into
the office she found Fred chatting with a sympathetic tax inspector. The
tax inspector padded Fred's shoulder. Don't be worried about us young
friend, with a quarter of a million in the red we wouldn't bother you for
the foreseeable time. Anyway, you must have extremely patient investors.
Do they ever expect a return? Fred tried to look depressed. I'll manage,
he said to the departing tax inspector and when he was gone he burst into
uncontrollable laughter.
UNSUCSESSFUL HUNT IN HAREFIELD SHRUBBS.
Kevin stumbled through the
undergrowth. Not far behind him he could hear the gang in hot pursuit.
They shouted angry words at him. Seemingly they had lost him. Stupid fags.
They were better trained and on a plain street they would have caught him
in no time. Harefield Shrubs was different. It wasn't really a wood; it
wasn't a park, maybe a sort of city planners don't know. Big oak trees
mixed with hedges and all sorts of shrubs, water pools and secret garbage
dumps. An ideal place for hiding or holding out a nuclear war.
Exhausted Kevin flung
himself into an earth hole. Being the only fat boy in your class makes you
easy prey for would be bullies. But the guys behind him were not would be
bullies. They were professionals. If you had the misfortune of bumping
into them you paid road tax. If you owned a successful business like Kevin
did with his hamster breeding, you paid income tax. You had to be three
foot taller and ten years older than Mickey, their leader, or being able
to demonstrate pretty nice martial arts to escape them. You're exempted
they would say to anybody beyond their reach and turn around. In Kevin's
case it meant choosing between his savings and hospitalization. Now he'd
picked a third option: running. As he stared through the treetops he could
hear his pursuers furiously trampling around.
Hello, Fatty", Mickey
screamed, "Show up or we kick your ass in". Silence. "You
can't hide for ever, can you?" Silence. "You know, when we catch
up with you, you'll regret this!" Silence. For a while Mickey
continued making exotic suggestions, then he gave up, calling his lads and
then they were gone.
Kevin remained flat in his
earth hole for another hour. This wasn't an easy exercise at all. He
imagined life in the army could be like this. Kevin wished he could feed
his hamsters with a magic potion. They would inflate a hundred times and
finish off Mickey and his gang. Mickey was 2 years older than Kevin and
very tall. You could take him for a 15 or 16 -year old. Kevin had a bit
more horizontal volume though and could use his weight to run Mickey down
but that wouldn't help much. The deputies Pete and Ray would instantly
jump on him. They were real Karate Kids and never took prisoners. Mickey
rarely involved himself in a fight. He was a pampered mothers darling and
without his deputies he would be lost. If only something could be done.
Kevin remembered poor Leslie who was found hanging in the loft last year.
It was thought he couldn't cope with the pressure of the curriculum test.
Kevin was tempted to tell his parents then. But instead he went straight
to Mickey’s desk and called him a murderer. His bravery had cost him a
broken arm and a doubled tax and his second desertion now asked for real
action or else. Yes, what else? This earth hole wasn't so bad after all.
He could build a roof of leaves on top of it and live from beetles and
wild berries and would slim down the same time. The first rain would
change it into a swimming pool though. What else then? Maybe he could
involve this neighbor of his, Mr. Porter, some kind of cop. It wasn't very
honorable to resort to parents and teachers and it was a deadly sin to go
to the cops. But Kevin just couldn't think of anything else. Finally Kevin
struggled out of the earth hole. The kids would look at him as a traitor
of course. Better a traitor than hanging down from the top of a loft or
paying for other kids video games. Anyway, he felt hungry? Kevin looked
down at him. His mother would clap her hands bang over her head and
scream: Do you know, what a new school uniform costs? Yes he knew, five
and a half hamsters.
PORTERS HOME, SOME OTHER DAY IN THE MORNING.
Porter looked at this wardrobe with nothing hanging in it but a woman's
dress. The people who had occupied the house before had left it from the
people who had occupied it before them and probably it had already hanging
there before the house existed. Porter imagined the builders looking up to
a dress hanging in the middle of the air scratching their heads. They
called for the architect who thought he was the victim of a prank. Who was
this, he shouted, ready for the dreading words: you are sacked! The
builders swore by the Queens beard it had been hanging there, apparently
with nothing to hang on. It was a complete mystery. The architect looked
at the plans. It was exactly hanging near the outer wall of the upper
bedroom. Ignore it, he said to the builders. The commissioner of Hampshire
County Council who ordered this housing estate would stop the next payment
and order an investigation if there was any delay. A woman's dress
wouldn't be a very good excuse. So they built the house around the dress
and kept their mouths shut. Porter liked his home and if it were only for
the mysterious dress. It was old, built in the fifties to a council home
quality standard that never existed. It had rusty iron framed windows but
he called them my French air conditioning. The secluded garden hadn't been
maintained since - you're right - the time of Richard III where they just
had started to import modern words from France, like "jardin".
When they finally managed to translate it, it was 1950 and still - was
believed to be a peace of grass and called loan. Porter’s loan was
growing wild and looked like the Serengeti after a rainfall. Three apple
trees in it meant that the house had three owners from new and Porter was
the fourth - but he wasn't in the business of planting trees. From his
kitchen, which looked out to the front garden, Porter could see the nearby
Housing Estate, called Little Manhattan. It represented a continued threat
to the quiet Somerset Avenue with its neat single houses and its suburban
peace. The time where people used to leave their front doors open had been
gone for good but the Somerset Estate still had a glow of it. People were
trusting and if you passed by you got invited for whatever just bubbled on
the stove. Some, like old Crimsby, paid that old-fashioned attitude with
his life. Some kid from the other side of Somerset Avenue had bashed his
head in with a frying pan. All he could steal then were 5 pounds that were
subsequently invested in sweets.
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