When I was five I was slapped by The Wine Waiter (he will never be a sommelier to me) for the first time. I found out when I was seven that Father was slipping him a note (bank wise, not Presidentially) to reimburse him for the effort he excreted in such a motion. After spending the night in the comforting arms of Arthur C. Bear, the novelty, man size bear that Father had dashingly won from the fairground, and who he would send into my room whenever I seemed to be upset, I realised I was going to have to hate one of them irrevocably. As Arthur stroked my hair and asked if I was feeling a little too warm I decided on the waiter, who had the rotten misfortune of being a Spaniard. Could there ever be an easier man to best? It would be moderately pleasant finding out.
I noticed that the chap always kept a pair of leather gloves close to him. He would periodically don them and play with his pet rabbit Platon in moments when there was little demand for oenological provision. This was obviously his weak spot. I used a version of the old ‘magic bean trick’ on The Belgian, telling him that the gloves contained a fantastic property which would transform the wielder into no other a mythical entity than the Lion of Flanders. I then filled him with hate by recounting the events of Nov 4th, 1576.
I kicked back and expected a petty theft might occur, smugging myself up beyond the reasonable limit. I was a bit shocked when I read the papers fourteen years later and found out what had actually happened to the chap: he was brutally murdered, and his body was marked with a white hand on green. This episode, reported at the time as the ‘Belgian Fury’ apparently lead to some other Belgian getting eight years in a Tunisian jail. The Belgian was eight at the time, and therefore above suspicion about being the dastardly perpetrator. A spectacular miscarriage of justice occurred; last Friday he confessed that this was, in fact, the first murder of his (exponentially) prolific career. He still holds the gloves in his possession, though there are, as far as I can make out, soiled beyond the point where any human could ever have rewarding interaction with them.
- I was sentenced to fifteen consecutive hours of listening to (smog) records by The President, who locked me in his basement with DcaD. After fourteen hours, I was cured.
- Our ironing lady is in need of lessons, or my shirts are in need of a talking to.