A Romanian Pea
Romania, 1994.

We were there to teach, but had discovered that being English was our credit card to pretty well anything at all, and that the £300 we'd saved each for the duration, added to the fact that they were paying us 50% of a teacher's wage as well - which we hadn't been expecting - meant that we were among the richest people in the city. This was not something of amusement for the ex-KGB-type who was our guardian, and who really wasn't very impressed with this invasion of capitalism into his once-great motherland.

We were 18. All we were aware of was that we could get 40 cigarettes and shit-faced for under a tenner for the both of us.

We'd been warned about drugs, and warned about our behaviour in general - although now technically a democracy, the hangover from Communism in Romania was by no means over, and people still had a tendency to sort of disappear-and-only-emerge-unrecognisable-several-years-later occasionally.

Late one evening, we were swaying down a dark side road, trudging through pouring rain, loomed over on each side by enormous, faceless grey tower blocks. Quietly over the top of us floated the music of a house party, and we discussed drunkenly and earnestly whatever matter was at hand that evening.

Up ahead a big, black Mercedes pulled into the street, splashed through the puddles, and headed slowly towards us, just as I finished my cigarette, and flicked the butt towards the middle of the road.

Instead of behaving politely and falling into the road, the butt flew upwards in a slow arch, pausing momentarily at its zenith, and falling in a splash of glowing red embers exactly in the middle of the windscreen of the car - it was the sort of shot it's impossible to repeat.

The driver hit the brakes with a squelch. The door opened, and from the driver's side unfolded a guy who made Jaws in James Bond look like Penfold. Sillouetted by the street lamp behind him, he was dressed entirely in black, and wore a leather trenchcoat, which gleamed softly in the reflective orange hues.

I watched with rapidly-sobering numbness.

He crunched towards us more purposefully than your mum to a cake shop.

Oh shit, I thought, I'm going to disappear. I'm going to disappear, and my mum is going to cry for the rest of her life, and all because I was more interested in beer than manners. Oh shit. He's going to wear my balls for earrings, and then he's going wander around the dimly-lit room they hold me in, saying "Look at me, I'm wearing Vagabond's balls as earrings" while his friends laugh and stub out cigarettes on my tiny manhood.

"I'm sorry!" I squealed, "I'm sorry I didn't mean to it's just I was smoking and I tried to flick it and I didn't mean to flick it at you I'm really sorry I just meant that ... " as he came closer, ever closer dear Christ this guy is built like a fucking aircraft carrier oh Christ "I just meant that we'd been for some beers and I just wanted to ... "

He was in front of me, blocking out all direct light. My mate watched with disconnected fascination.

"It's just, you see, we're from England, and, well - I didn't understand, I mean, that wasn't deliberate or anything, it's just that I was, well ... " I whined.

He leaned down, his face level with mine, as I stared, terrified, up at him.

"I just ... I'm really sorry ... " I had gone beyond whining now - my voice was pitched somewhere in the range between dog whistles and bats.

"Sorry is all I wanted to hear." he said, his accent thicker than your sister. "It is no matter, I know you didn't mean it."

He turned, walked back to his car, got in, and drove off.
( Je suis un vagabond is an unfunny, up your own arse middle class knob, Tue 10 Apr 2012, 14:22, 12 replies)

Vag
Did you read Richard Herrings column in the metro this morning?? ;)

" I had gone beyond whining now - my voice was pitched somewhere in the range between dog whistles and bats"

If not that's a weird conicedence. Also I think he may be a Lurker B3tard, as the subject fitted totally into this weeks QOTW....
(bROKEN aRROW PUA HVI Master, Tue 10 Apr 2012, 15:39, closed)

I didn't! This is a repost - I wrote it ages ago!
The fucking cunt!

EDIT: I've just read it - what are you on about?
( Je suis un vagabond is an unfunny, up your own arse middle class knob, Tue 10 Apr 2012, 15:49, closed)

Hehe
It made me chuckle on the train this morning either way.
(bROKEN aRROW PUA HVI Master, Tue 10 Apr 2012, 15:53, closed)

See above edit - I don't know what you're on about now.

( Je suis un vagabond is an unfunny, up your own arse middle class knob, Tue 10 Apr 2012, 15:54, closed)

Richard Herring
Writes for the Metro every Tuesday, this week he was writing about being scared, I won't go into the story but it was fairly funny. He used your metaphor/similie it appears. Pick one up at the Station it's almost word for word.

Edit - If you tried to read the online version the stories not there yet....It's last weeks.

Found it - www.richardherring.com/press/press.php?id=31

Wasn't as close as I first thought, as you were.
(bROKEN aRROW PUA HVI Master, Tue 10 Apr 2012, 16:14, closed)

Just in case you're right
may I just say Richard Herring is a fucking wanker.

Thanks. Carry on.
(username failed moderation, Tue 10 Apr 2012, 16:18, closed)

You
May
(bROKEN aRROW PUA HVI Master, Tue 10 Apr 2012, 17:09, closed)

This is excellent...

Brilliantly written, with some great similies. (My favourite has to be the Jaws / penfold one)

*clicks hard*
( Pooflake braces for an onslaught..., Tue 10 Apr 2012, 15:54, closed)

^What Captain P's bitch said^

( The Mock Turtle ™ --- Thinks you are a cunt, on, Tue 10 Apr 2012, 18:22, closed)

Ha haa!...

( Pooflake braces for an onslaught..., Tue 10 Apr 2012, 18:45, closed)

Fuck...
This is really rather good.
(The Magic Number is neither magic nor a number, Wed 11 Apr 2012, 10:00, closed)

What a lovely man

(thefuckestuppest cheapened this, on, Wed 11 Apr 2012, 16:22, closed)