The Kaiser Edition

As I mentioned in my original post, I’m working on a book. I had a meeting on Friday which sort of changed the direction some, but I wanted to keep my promise and start posting bits and pieces of the book here. You should really consider the stuff that appears here as being very rough, and as you will see it is a work of fiction. I’ll repeat that; it is a work of fiction. I’m a bit nervous about this one, but here we go anyway. This is the prologue to “Saligia Advertising International”.

My name is Lewis and I killed someone today.

There.

There.

There I’ve said it. I’ve gone and come clean and although it’s against company policy to discuss such matters I’ve come clean and told you; yes, today I killed somebody.

I squeezed a little harder.

I pushed a little harder.

I was more concentrated this time.

Yes, it is fair to say that I was mostly concentrated on the task at hand; the task of snuffing out the life of the man I saw this morning. I was breathing through the nose and out through the mouth and although there was a bit of a climb and a bit of a descent; a roll and tumble of land, of moist soil and of stone, I arrived at the spot full of calm and ease.

A professional going about his task and looking smashing to boot.

There were caves.

And he was looking in them.

And I looked smart in a tightly knit tweet suit that smells of lavender when I want it too. A right dandy if you wish.

I’m not fond of France, but I am fond of the morning. That’s why I always arrive just before dawn, a little earlier than maybe I should, but I like to watch the dew happen and I’ve been given a hell of a lot of freedom in this job so I can come and go pretty much as I choose. Arriving early makes France bearable. Within three years there will be nothing bearable about this place at all. In three years this place, this country, will be a pile of rubble, tangled men, broken women and bloodied children. Tears will flood throughout this country and the cold chill of everything cruel will shake it to its bones. No, I don’t like France, but I wouldn’t wish it its fate on anyone.

But that is a while a way. We’re not there yet. We know none of this yet. Let us move on.

I killed a man this morning and although this is all fresh in my mind it will take a group of small children weeks to find him and when they do he will be rotting and quite horrible to look at. It will take experts to identify him and the place where he will be found will forever be none as “the place where we found that horrible corpse”. Believe me, he wasn’t a nice man, in fact, he was deeply unpleasant in a bookish kind of way. Yes, bookish and arrogant; an academic. I fucking hate academics.

I believe in learning by doing.

I’ve been learning by doing for a very long time.

I’ve seen much.

And I’ve done more.

None of which, you would probably approve of. In fact, I know you don’t approve but frankly I couldn’t give a flying fuck.

No, the fact of the matter is, I really didn’t like this chap at all, and if I hadn’t been explicitly asked to take on this assignment, I would have asked to do so myself. Yes, a horrid chap, a worm who had to tendency to write ghastly books about herbs, and heretics and all sorts of other nonsense. All of which written under the banner of research. All written under the banner of science.

How naïve.

How absurd.

The busy academic boy, digging his busy academic holes in history.

He smelt of piss, the kind of piss that only an academic in a tent can smell like. He smelt like an old raincoat. Quite a disgrace if you ask me. I would never go out smelling like that, but that’s just the way it is. That’s just the way the story begins. That’s just the simple start to this story. I killed a man this morning who smelt like an old raincoat. He smelt of piss.

And he was way too close for comfort. Too close. Way too close. And we, the network, can’t have people coming that close to our assets. Even though he was looking for something a little different, he would have stumbled on to something that he shouldn’t have. So he stumbled of the fucking mountain and broke his neck instead.

I got a note from my line manager that said this:

“Otto is too close. He is in France. It is 1939. Dress appropriately.”

I told my friends to gather around me for, today, was the day that I was going to kill Otto. And kill him I did. I walked straight up to the little academic bastard, straightened my tie and push the fucker straight over.

Down he tumbled.

Down he fell.

Down he snapped.

Skull, spine, spleen. Snap. Snap. Snap.

And then the sun came up. How lovely.

I would have checked his tent, but that smelt like piss too and had I gone inside I would have soaked up the amber smell and my evening, this evening, wouldn’t have been have as pleasant as it actually is now.

Yes, I killed young Otto, struck him down at the prime of his wormy life and his passing tickles me in much the way that a fine wine would tickle the gums and tongue of your over friendly wine snob.

Young Otto got way too close, but we put a stop to that nonsense as quickly as we could. The network simply doesn’t tolerate it.

If you think that others might been interested in this would you be so kind as to Stumble it?

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