Chapter 27 - Vaseline Makes a Walrus Shiny and Angry

Man, the revolving doors here at the casino are enchanting, they rotate automatically in a circle!? Unbelievable engineering. My suitcase gets jammed in the bastards and I become stuck, so the maintenance guy has to come and free me. . . thank you, monsieur maintenance. Maybe this is something bad that happens, resulting in me having some fucking good luck for once. I’ve been metaphorically shat on by a bird.  

Or maybe I’m just a prick. 

I take a seat at a blackjack table and turn red when the dealer informs me that the minimum buy-in is 10-euros, cunty high-rollers. I leave the table to sniggers. No time to dwell and I begin surveying the area for the next target and I tell you what. . . the 11 am casino crowd are a strange bunch, degenerates that are three times divorced and pay out so many euros in monthly child support payments, that money appears as meaningless digits on ATM machines, and they treat it as such.  

All I know is that I need some flipping fumar mata ASAP, because I’m one step away from stealing a pouch from the shop and threatening the cashier’s life if they tell anyone. Do you know what I’m capable of? Not much. . . just be nice. 

That’s last resort business though, so it’s time to figure out how one decides which gambling apparatus to use, when there are thirty to pick from? 

 Perhaps people search for raw, untapped, sexual chemistry - machinery can be hot too. TVs are so slimline these days, when I watch porn on one I’m jizzing ten seconds quicker at least and again, it all boils down to unbelievable engineering. 

In life we search for signs and when a beam of light is gleaming upon a slot machine that’s covered in mermaids, you make sure to have a go. . . mermaids are sexy and mysterious because you wonder if you’d rather use them as a seaman bucket, or whether you’d prefer to deep-fat-fry them.  

So, I take a seat at this machine and insert into the mermaid, not my penis (yet), but my last bit of money – a five euro note. Ahh here we go then, I have no idea on the rules but I’m slapping on the buttons like an angry walrus. . . my balance is going up then down, then up, then down again. 6 euros?  

Not enough son.  

Come on slot machine, don’t play with me. Those smelly hippie chicks with their law of attraction shit, believe in positive thinking and I’m going to join their Tampon Taliban and try this shit out for myself. . . you’re a lovely slot machine honestly and I believe in world peace and equal rights for midgets. I mean small people, who by the way have really interesting opinions about stuff. . . still nothing. 

 Good things come to those who wait slot machine and I aint going nowhere until one of us is dead. I’ve got it. The next prime minister should be a black midget, who’s a woman with only one leg, due to stepping on a landmine whilst serving her country in Iraq.  

BOOM - jackpot motherfucker.  

Nine euros and it’s enough to purchase some flipping fumar mata.  

I rock up to the shop and slap the money on the counter. “I’ll have 30 grams of JPS red please my good sir.” 

“??????????” He responds. 

Oh yeah that’s right, I’m in France. I point to the required items.  

Rags to riches bitches. Half an hour ago tobacco was a pipe dream but now there’s baccy coming out of my ears, and I don’t want to clean them with a cotton bud, ever. . . the first roll-up is an absolute fatty and I have to use roach instead of a filter tip, because le tips were out of my budget, but I couldn’t care less and light up the sexy ciggy, toking the shit out of that son of a bitch.  

Who made smoking cool and sexy?  

Me, that’s who. 

There’s evidence to back this up too as I’m walking down the street - the French citizens are taking note of the fine piece of Englishman on show, they can feel the confidence and swagger exuding from my pores. . . my eyes meet the gaze of a very average French woman and dammit, the interaction was too much for moi and I had to quickly turn my head. . . never mind, still have tobacco.   

I sit down on a bench at the beach and smoke a baker’s dozen of cigarettes, for a lack of alternative activities, and to mask my burning hunger.  

Smoking either replaces food or makes you need a poo, and since I haven’t come close to digesting the required amount of food to form a turd the first effect takes place.  

A woman is playing fetch with her dog on the small patch of grass, that is a few yards in front of me, she looks over then quickly looks away. She thinks I’m an Ebola spreader and could be correct. . . it’s a chilly March afternoon, so I put some extra layers on, the Nike tracksuit that I slept in last night over my current attire, mixing, matching and looking like a fine specimen if I do say so myself. 

The female, woman, chick, bird then turns around and looks at me again in my change of clothing, she looks away and throws a stick for her dog. I’m still freezing though, so I put on another pair of Nike trackie b’s and an orange coat. . . the woman takes the stick from her dogs mouth, throws it, then looks at me again.  

Ha, Ha, I am Solgus the shape-shifting lizard.  

The sky turns from clear blue to muggy grey and it looks like evil is in the air. The woman thinks me responsible for this voodoo and walks past, muttering. “Sacre bleu.” 

“Yes, it’s a lovely day isn’t it.” I reply. 

Nothing more from her, and how do we know that she isn’t responsible for the change in weather? It reminds me of a ‘whoever smelt it, dealt it’ situation. . . and she’s French, so her farts fucking stink of tap water that you’re not supposed to drink on holiday.  

The last thing I ate was that hobo Twix so yeah, I am frigging starving holmes and would love a free choccy bar. . . chocolate is a luxury of the past, so I’ll just smoke a shit load of fags and reminisce on the time I ate the Twix that I found on the ferry. The good old days, remember it like it was yesterday.  

My body could not be further away from being a temple, it’s suffering from dehydration, malnourishment and an excessive amount of tar.  . . if I was to be carved open then my insides would be like Dot Cotton’s ash tray, and there would be a couple of scratch cards, with zero winnings of course. 

I’m smoking a fag as the sun is going down and it’s disappointing that I haven’t become the king of France, as once predicted. More immediate factors are taking priority, e.g. finding a place to sleep for the night. Oh yeah that’s right, I have no money, meaning the only snooze option is to slum it on the mean streets of St Malo. . . the changing room of this morning between the two shops will serve as my humble abode.  

The temperature is sub-zero and my hands are turning blue, I arrive at the destination then place my suitcase and bag on the patio. I’m so cold its painful and it feels as if it will last forever. . . to keep warm, I unzip the suitcase and take out some of my clothes, then hop inside and wrap the top of the suitcase over me as a blanket.  

My new bed is fucking tiny and I’m curled up in a foetal position. . . the cramp intensifies and begins coursing through my left thigh, which starts to spasm. I need to stretch my legs out but need to keep my feet warm at the same time. Backpack, you’re up motherfucker. 

 I put the bag to good use and unzip it, place my feet inside, then zip it back up as far as it will go. Hobo this, hobo that, hobo in a sandwich?  

Nope, that doesn’t work.  

Maybe if I keep saying hobo in a bed, I’ll magically appear in one. . . 

Hobo in a bed 

Hobo in a bed 

Hobo in a bed 

Hobo in a bed 

Oh my god I’m in a bed!  

No, you’re not. Shutup, just let me have this one. . . it’s still cold as fuck, this fucking chill needs to fuck off. . . what was that?  

There it is again - Tap, tap, tap.  

Oh shit, it’s footsteps, somebody or something is coming down the stairs, this must be who normally resides here. I did wonder who that spice rack belonged to. . . a turf battle is going to take place and that’s what all the practice on Time Crisis 2 was for. Allah was preparing me for battle. The shadow is getting a bigger and bigger. It’s fight of flight bitch, I’m a pussy so if flight is an option, then I’m getting on that plane. Tap, tap, tap – the footsteps seem light and fast. Please don’t be Jackie Chan. . .  

And finally, it appears in front of me, stopping dead in its tracks . . . the creature that has entered my domain is a cat. A battle-hardened tabby that has an empty look on its face, void of any emotion.  

Just evil.  

He comes towards my mobile suitcase home and we lock eyes, circling each other. . . what’s strange is that this cat looks a lot like me, with the addition of a handlebar moustache. . . I have to say that he wears it well, even better than the Monopoly Man.  

We’re both on all fours, circling one another. I’m waiting for his first move, as he is mine. The initial strike is the most important, one wrong move and you’re out of the game. . . I hiss at him, and he meows in response. . . he throws a paw at me which misses, I then jump up on my back legs standing tall. This startles my nemesis who scurries away. I let out a victory cry. 

“MEOWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWW.”