We arrived at the entrance of the monastery in the drizzling twilight. High walls with apparently no windows separated the interior from the outside. A strange uncomfortable vibe crept through my veins. It felt like we stepped into the Middle Ages. As if King Charlemagne with his retinue could appear around the corner any moment. Here we stood, six of us. What to expect from this retreat?
We knocked on a small wooden door in the middle of this massive stone wall. Minutes passed before the door finally opened with a creaking sound. A monk, hidden deep inside his cloak welcomed us upon entering. He let us through a hallway to a small visitors room. Here he lowered his hood, introduced himself and explained us the rules and what to expect
Every day started with a Gregorian Morning Wake from 5 to 7. Then breakfast. Then another three hour mass. Lunch. Mass. Study. Mass. Study. Diner. Mass. Sleep. The community functioned like an autarky. Every inhabitant played his role. A sort of Smurf town. We met with Brainy, Greedy, Vanity, Lazy, Clumsy, Hefty, Jokey, Dreamy and Grouchy. Only Smurfette was missing. The sage tells that she was created by Gargamel, Lucifer himself. So they probably banned her from the monastery.
During study hours we met with the monks for discussion. Within seconds we came to our favorite topic; celibacy. Dreamy Smurf explained while babbling about doing his penance on a different level. It appeared that Handy Smurf didn’t always attend the Morning Wake. Dreamy suspected him of feigning his hernia. This mistrust sickened him to the point of nausea. He prayed to God for forgiveness every single night.
A disbeliever among us frustrated by this dodging answer exclaimed: “So you’re telling us that in all off these years you never wanked yourself. Come one! Who are you fooling?”. How coincidental.., the name of this disbeliever; Thomas, doubting Thomas.
It was in a theme park that he met with Petra again. A girl he snuggled with in the West Indies on a blue moon. A mindless miniskirt with massive melons best defined this specimen. Because of the lack of brain the only attraction was a physical one. That is from his side. She on the other hand was all over him and into him.
It was just before closing time that they entered the Pagode. The most boring theme park attraction on the face of this earth. A representation of a Taiwanese Flying Temple. A sort of Ferris wheel without this excitement of a Ferris wheel. If there’s any. A residue from the late seventies when Legoland and leisure pools where the number one activities for us commoners.
They where the only ones on this last ride. The moment the Pagode lifted she dropped to her knees, freed his Willy and started snorkelling on it as if judgement day was near. He later confessed to me: “It was a most pleasant ride.”
He descended from the Pagode with a smile from ear to ear. This was it! How often he had fantasized about a situation like this. At last, the real deal! On passing the toll booth he noticed something he hadn’t seen on the way up. Shock. A control room packed with security behind video screens. All cheering and thumbing him on his way out.
He and Petra weren’t meant to last, but the videos are. Still on some security officer’s hard disk. And probably, in due time, for all of us to be seen on YouTube.
A couple of crafty Dutch Marines cut of the roof and transformed it into a convertible. They must have thought: “What good is living in the tropics without a convertible”. It was a job well done. With an axe they cut holes in the floor to prevent it from flooding during tropical rains. A most magnificent car with some nice extras. No key was needed to start the engine. I just used the key proforma so nobody would find out about this secret. Also no rear view mirrors and no flashers. I named him Horatio Nelson, my flag ship.
Tropical roads become very slippery during rainfall. Especially after a long drought. One night back from the city it drizzled and we got into a full spin on top of the Juliana bridge. Although the spin took no longer than 5 seconds, it felt like ages. I remember a lively discussion in the car about what I should do to stop from spinning. “No breaks!” “No no, no gear!” “No no, Dó apply the brakes.” “No, just steer in the opposite direction!” It was like being part of movie shown in slow motion. I stopped the discussion short: “Guys, embrace yourselves. Incoming!”
We crashed into the concrete side of the bridge and immediately started on another double spin. By a hair we missed a hole in the bridge, 15 feet wide, and came to a full stop on the other side of this big gap. I still can see the Caribbean ocean 150 feet down below. How lucky we were. Somebody must have had a guardian angel at his side that night.
Stranded just before the top with no way to turn we had to roll down backwards from the bridge. A real ordeal with no flashers and with cars racing by at top speed. Much more adventurous and frightening than the whole spin. After 15 minutes of agony we finally managed to park Horatio on a side lane.
The front of the car was crushed like a harmonica, wheels unable to spin freely. I came up with an idea. Paid the tow truck driver some extra to help me execute the plan. We hooked up the car to the tow truck, four wheels aground. I hit the brakes with all my might and the tow truck driver put his pedal to the metal. For 30 seconds he dragged me around. Smoke coming form his spinning wheels. How brilliant, we just de-harmonicized the car. As good as new. In five minutes flat we were off again, homeward bound.
Unfortunately, because of the crash the V8 engine was no longer bolted to the body. It just broke off. A few days later I came again to a halt on the Juliana bridge. This time the loose engine had broken through the transmissions pipes. No transmission, no traction. Nelson’s days were over. And after a good old local custom I found him a suitable graveyard, under a tree somewhere alongside the road. There I bade him a last farewell; “Hooray for Horatio!”
What is that with us guys? Why do we want to blow up stuff? It starts out at the age of 10. Throwing fire crackers at each other. A few years later the fire crackers are replaced with “Widow Makers” and “Avalanche Bombs”. And then for real on to Afghanistan shooting rockets at so called Al-Qaeda fighters. Most likely innocent children used as decoy. Teddy bears blown to smithereens make good television.
Up in the ranks generals with red neck brains order to let down the “Daisy Cutter”. Backed by a President with monkey IQ. All because the cellular of Bin Laden popped up on the radar. The Daisy Cutter; the biggest conventional bomb ever. Size of a freight container. Let down from a B52 on parachutes. It goes off a few hundreds yard above ground. This in order to get some good devastation (?!). Everything gets vaporised within a radius of two miles. Why not use the “Little Boy” as we did on Hiroshima? Just to make a point.
Not the fact that those weapons exists is most worrying to me. The fact that some joker comes up with a name like “Daisy Cutter” and “Little Boy”. Hard evidence to my opinion that they are completely clueless. Not from this world, time or era.
It makes me sad when I think about this. So let’s finish with some good news: Finally, after 13 years of anticipation the moment has come. Upcoming May 15 2011, through out Europe; Duke Nukem Forever. I’ll be the first to buy this game!
The moment they entered our bar, we knew for sure they were undercover. The combination of moustache and their spotless sneakers gave them away immediately. “Hi officers. What can we do for you?”, the bartender on duty asked while he put on the song ‘Cop Killers’. “Next time you want to infiltrate leave the turd under your nose at home”, another added to the conversation. Although you could read the disappointment from their eyes they denied being cops.
Apparently the Bureau had decided that our fraternity needed to be checked out and these two academy no-know freshmen were sent on a mission to investigate the rumours. To give them some ammo we started on suspicious activities immediately. Humongous joints where created while others started on cutting flour. Some started exchanging large amounts of cash. We even arranged an old school student brawl for them, which for the untrained eye looks like a saloon fight.
They sat there wagging their tails like sniffer dogs. A some point they had gathered enough courage and started to investigate, under the guise of “Just cruising” they started roaming. We let them be. Even into the kitchen where no outsider had ever gone before. The moment they walked to the rear Otto had ‘enough’ and intervened. He closed the curtains just before they could look around the corner. Six foot eight with a wing span of seven he blocked their way and added while escorting them outside: “Sorry coppers, but you don’t go there. Time has come for you both to leave the premises now”.
I sometimes wonder what has become of these two. Maybe they’ve helped on writing ‘Undercover for dummies’. Rule number one: Leave the turd at home.