Dodgy police § Corporate justice § Cup of tea, Sir?

Please devour my mammoth dream if you have the guts

I desperately need to gain employment in my current Swedish climate. If I don’t within 1-2 weeks then I will run out of cash supplies and be forced to go back to England. I have found my way into an English speaking office where they require a person to complete some vague, data input work. I am chatting/flirting with the manageress and another office girl for many minutes. A lot of laughter and eye-lash fluttering eye contact is involved. It transpires that another man has been given the position. Rueful looks indicate that they really wish they had given it to me. Further sour facial expressions reveal that they also are not too keen on this time-travelling usurper and inform me that he is employed on a trial basis only. If he fails this testing period then the job is mine. Definitely mine.

"I'm gagging for a cup of tea" I say "do you mind if I make one for all of us?"

Showing my “new-male” house-trained side makes them even hotter towards me. I make sure to offer the same kindness to my work-based enemy, in fact, going one step further and asking if he has a special little mug he likes to drink his tea out of. He looks like an archetypal stoner: Long greasy hair, scruffy ripped jeans, hole ridden t-shirts brandishing ancient metal bands nobody listens to anymore. I give these people some credit though. It’s no mean feat to be so cluelessly out of touch as a 40 year old whilst technically aging half that number. I feel deflated that the destroyer of my Swedish dreams is so completely devoid of wit, charm and is unable to fully open his red, sleepy eyes. A general air of self-served, unsubstantiated doom surrounds him.

Next I find myself in the kitchen with a mug in my hand that somehow I know for certain is his -Even though he never specified which mug is his and even though all the mugs are the same.
The tea is already in his cup. Out of my pocket I pull out a box of high strength sleeping capsules. After splitting each one, depositing the white powder into the drink and giving it a quick stir I was all ready to present to him with a lovely cup of tea. I give my mobile number to the office ladies, leave the building and simply wait.

Whilst pacing the streets I receive the anticipated phone call.

"There has been a problem with one of our employees that has lead to his dismissal. Would you mind coming in now to start work immediately. I'm really sorry, I know it's short notice. Do you mind?" says the womanly voice

'No, No.’ I soothe.

‘I'm up and raring to go. I'll be there shortly'

On my journey to the office I see a Swedish, Telia phone box. This brings to the surface previous anger against these people. During my time in Sweden I have made phone calls that equate to £1 for less than 12 seconds of talk time. I enter the phone box with the intention of twatting the phone receiver against the metal box a few times to gain some futile satisfaction. On the wall I see a new notice, in English, which I have never seen before. It states that charges begin, credit starts to deplete from the moment it starts to ring. If you ring for 20 rings and no one answers you will still lose all your calling credit. I am incensed. I try to tell the Swedish people walking past me what this company is doing but they don't care.

"We use our cell phones"

Cell phones? Typical Swedish-American wannabes. I storm off towards my new work place, releasing my anger with every step until when I arrive I am completely calm.

The office is now a large, corporate tower block with an elaborate stair case donned in red carpet. I see a short, podgy man in a suit climbing the stairs. He wears round glasses and looks like a mole. After a couple of seconds I recognise him as the head of the entire Swedish public telephone system.

"You!" I shout whilst pointing at him.

My hand is trembling with pent up emotional anger. He instantly looks sheepish and afraid.

"I know what you're up to. Causing the price of the telephone box to become so expensive that it forces people to use their mobiles. Once people view the phone boxes as obsolete they will remove them and then you, with your position as head of various mobile phone companies, will sky rocket the price of mobile calls because no one will have any alternative. There will be no competition"

He starts to run away. I begin to chase whilst shouting…

"You idiot. In a few years time everyone will be making phone calls over the internet anyway. Think you're clever?"

The CEO of Telia runs into an office, managing to hurdle over the solid front desk. I follow his manoeuvre with grace, then pounce, grabbing his tie in the process. I head butt him with the intention of breaking the lenses inside his framed glasses, forcing shards of glass into his spongy, rat eye-balls. I start to lift him off the ground with his tie and repeatedly pound his shiny head into the ground. I then embark on a frenetic, bezerker style fit which involves smashing the table and office furniture around me whilst making rabid growling, panting animal noises.
My power is immense.

I'd spent about £10 in real life on these phone boxes. Once it took 3, £1 phone calls just to arrange a time and place to meet. I am pissed off

After a brief period of fruitful smashing a horrible realisation fills my body causing me to stop dead in my tracks.

It is such a shock that my mouth is

h

a

n

g

ing

open

( )

and

I am

staring

>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

off

into

space

¤-¤-¤(-0-) ¤¤¤¤¤ *

* *

* *

*

with a

catatonic

expression `^´ `^´

on my

face as

dogs often do.

This office is my new office.

On most peoples' first day at work they make some nervous small talk and worry about whether they can actually execute the job description which they confidentally claim they can whilst lying their way through the interview. I'd just chased a very important looking man who actually WAS a very important and powerful man into my work place, given him a Scottish style beating and then broken a lot of expensive looking furniture. The look of sheer, aghast, horror on my ex-work mates’ faces sends a stark shudder down my spine. I am racking my brain to think of a witty one-liner that may in some way rescue the situation when I see a team of security guards coming towards me.

The Swedish security guards are slightly different to the over-weight, stupid, under-trained, slow, apathetic security guards that laze about English shops and offices. The Swedish security guards act with military style training. They carry telescopic batons, handcuffs and walkie-talkies. They don't bother trying to talk down a situation with sweet words. For the most seemingly innocent of offences -not paying for a ticket on the underground metro system - they will happily slam you into the ground face first, handcuff you then drag you away to a secret place where even more guards await you. There you may receive a vicious beating, but this all depends on your nationality. I am pretty startled by the site of these people, as afraid as if it was the actual police themselves.

I pelt it away from the office and execute a magical, Disney-like slide down the banister of the staircase with the plush red carpets. I continue running. The gravity of the carnage, the harshness of the Swedish legal system coupled with its possible punishment is growing inside me. I now know that I need to acquire a get away vehicle.

As soon as I have entertained this thought there appears a strange man who looks something between a circus performer and a Marilyn Manson fan. He has long black hair, a top hat and boots covered in tin foil. He juggles bowling skittles as he moves. This man isn't walking though, he was moves utilising a very odd contraption. It’s a cross between moon boots with springy, bouncy heels and a unicycle. I calmly tell him to get off and he silently submits. I place my feet on the metal foot holders and try to get to grips with the control. It’s a combination between walking normally wearing a rucksack full of bricks and cycling except that it takes much more effort and energy than either of them. The top speed is a snail’s pace but I decide to venture on to escape the security men. I turn round to see how close behind me they are but they have disappeared.

No feeling of relief comes over me after this miraculous escape. The piece of shit the freak gave me I dump by the side of the road then set off walking. Moments later I notice a policeman on my right side, talking to me about where we should patrol. I look down at myself, spy a police uniform and realise that I too am now a policeman. Nothing seems peculiar to me about this situation.

I decide it’s best to go back to England for a while until I can make sense of everything. To do this I need money. A shady looking character is skulking around on the other side of the street.

"Let's illegally search him" I say to my partner.
'Ok' comes the reply

we shake him down finding a large quantity of cocaine and a large wad of English cash on his person. My partner starts to handcuff my potential cash cow and reaches for his radio.

"No" I Say.
"He's learnt his lesson. Haven't you?" I say turning to the man with the drugs. The man who hasn’t uttered a single world

'Er..yes' he says in a confused and hopeful manner

"Ok. We'll let you off this time. We're going to give this money to orphans and tip this coke down the drain. Don’t tell anyone about what happened here today though"

The lucky criminal wanders away.

'Wow. It's like Robin Hood' exclaims my partner

"Yes, isn't it just?

I better go and take care of all this now. Carry on as you were"

As I depart from him it doesn't occur to me at this time how utterly naïve my partner is and how utterly terrible my lies that he has swallowed are.

Openly,

in broad daylight,

whilst wearing a Policeman's uniform

I start snorting coke in the middle of the street. The next moment I am in England -Minus the money and the cocaine. I head back to my old house in Withington to see Olga. Now that I am in England this is my main and most important mission. In real life I know she has been suffering from flu. Inside her bedroom I find her curled up in bed, asleep, with her head at the opposite end of the bed to where she usually rests.

I wake her up by calling her name.

Her sleepy eyes are very pleased to see me but because of illness and sleep she is still groggy, probably thinking that she is in a dream herself. I start tenderly kissing her neck on the areas that all girls seem to really enjoy. Even in the dream I’m aware that Olga is a close friend and that we have never kissed each other before, but it seems like the appropriate thing to do and so I follow my heart. The noises she makes as I kiss her are ones of longing satisfaction.

She realises that I am real and lifts up the duvet as an invitation to climb inside the bed. The bed is comfortable, warm and we start to hug. The hug is strong, feels emotional and perfectly right like we are missing pieces of a jig-saw fitting together at last. I feel safe and at peace.