Bob had woken up on the wrong side of bad today. His head was pounding and he needed alot of water, and at least a few expressos. His hangover was a reminder that Guinness was not a friendly word in an aftermath of talking shit at the local bar the night before. “At least the damn car started this morning” he coughed, as he headed to the bar for a remedy, and then to deposit his checks in the bank. He was still sore from getting his ass handed to him when he landed in the icy snow. He still felt the sting of cuts and bruises along his spine from where the ice ledge had cut into him. He rounded the traffic circle to the right, used his turn signal, and gassed it around the corner just in time to catch the eye of the local Gendarmerie doing traffic stops. “Great, just what I need this morning” he mumbled as the traffic cop looked back to young guy who was pulled over and displaying paperwork. There were at least 4 Gendarme, 2 on brand new BMW motorcycles, and 2 more standing around the old Peugeot 205 with the kid inside. Bob’s old car doesn’t attract much attention and he meandered passed the traffic stop on his way to the bar with a slightly renewed sense of relief. He didn’t need to get stopped today, because most likely he was still drunk from all the Guinness that he’d drunk the night before.
He managed to park the ole clunker near the front door of the bank, and walked down to the bar at the corner for a coffee or 10, and some sparkling water. It was a perfect day. There was a light film of snow on the tops of the mountains from the night before. The day was clear, and there was a lot of activity from the local business airport. Small planes were taking off and landing in about 5 minute increments, and a few gliders had already started to circle overhead. The sun was at about 10 O'clock in the sky, and it was about 10 O'clock in the morning, and Bob calmly brought the first bitter sip of black italian bean juice to his chapped lips. It was tangy on his tongue and you could see his posture relax a bit, and he sat back and took in the scene around him. He was feeling better already. He noticed that the Gendarmerie was fairly active in the area today. There was alot of marked cars and trucks circling around, and a few vans full of what looked like new recruits. They were wearing baby blue golf shirts, and dark blue fatigues with black boots and modern thick webbed belts. A few had stopped in for a quick croissant and coffee at the bakery next door, and looked happy to be out and about on such a nice day. Bob didn’t pay much attention to them, but gave a nod to one old sergeant that he’d recognized from a karate class that he’d attended a few years back. Bob felt good. It was nice to be in a familiar place, with familiar faces and sounds, and he even looked forward to his afternoon run after his head stopped pounding and his stomach stopped growling. It wasn’t long before he’d get back into his car and head for the sports field on the way home. Maybe he’d run into that cute little blond that he’d seen a few times on his runs. She was young, pretty, and strong, and Bob had imagined that she’d be pretty nice to talk to if he could time it just so that they’d arrive at the field at the same time. He smiled and winked his eye to himself, thinking of how he’d open up the conversation with her if his timing was good.
Slowly Bob looked around from the picturesque mountains and small village life and recognized the music that was playing gently in the background. Something made him perk up, but he didn’t recognize what it was, or come to a realization that there was anything wrong. He glanced around, and picked up on someone whistling to the tune playing on the speakers inside the bar. It seemed to be coming from the two guys sitting at his left. He turned his head slightly to the left in order to tune into where the sound was coming, but as he cocked his head to the left, the whistling stopped. That made Bob actually turn his head and face the two guys on his left. He glanced over at the first guy, who was sitting facing his friend, and as Bob turned more, another guy came into view. The whistling stopped. Bob glanced past the two next to him and noted that there was a line forming at the bakery, and that more people were slowly marching up to the door of the bakery, and walking out with that all to familiar long bread stick called a baguette. He thought of how foreign it all was just a few years ago, the bakery, the bar, the coffee, the communal routine of mornings in a small alpine town.
The whistling started. At that moment, the hair on the back of Bob’s neck stood up straight. A slight chill ran through him. His head gave one last thump of hangover pressure to the back of his eyes, and he felt instantly chilled. He turned to locate the whistling, but as he turned to the left, it stopped. The two guys on his left didn’t look over, and didn’t speak. He scanned their hands, and looked at what was sitting on the table, he looked at their feet, and glanced up at their faces. Nothing out of the ordinary, just two guys, sitting there smoking Gaulloise cigarettes, and chatting about how many times the Gendarmerie circled the round-about, and about how the day was looking better and better. Bob wasn’t sure what gave him the chills, but he was suddenly alert. He heard more, he saw more, he noted more, but he’d been partying all night, and didn’t want his paranoia to speak louder than his hangover right now. The whistling was on again and off again, and it became annoying. It was also clear that it was the big fella to his left that was facing the same way that Bob was facing that was making the noise. His friend was doing his best to silence a grin by sipping his Pastis and sucking his cancer stick. Bob had finished his coffee, washed it down with sparkling water, and went inside to pay. He glanced out to where he’d been sitting, noted that those guys were still there, and headed out the back door toward where he had parked his car.
On his way to the car, he decided to have a peak inside the local appliance shop. It was about 50 meters from the door of the bar that he’d just left. It was a place were new, but damaged kitchen appliances were sold at a discount. On the way in, he was deep in thought about the last few days, and how things had goon pretty good. As he entered into the store, a tall, dark man with piercing blue eyes and a slight limp locked eyes with Bob. It was just for an instant, but it was an unmistakable. The guy reached into his pocket, turned on his heel and suddenly pulled out a cell phone, and at the same time, went to the counter to ask the guy about the price of the TV that was near the door. 900 Euros! 900 Euros the guy repeated, merde! quelle connerie, neuf cent Euros pour cette merde! Bob’s spidey senses were off the chart. What were the chances of feeling so odd twice in one day, let alone in the last few minutes. The guy with the eyes and the phone headed out the door. He buttoned his light blue denim jacket and started speaking in arabic. Bob caroused around the store, sensing something unpleasant, but thinking that he was loosing it, and went to the section where the fridges had ice makers on the door. Hmmm, he throated, ice makers...Finally they sell fridges with ice makers. I need one of those. After a few minutes of checking out the goods inside the appliance store, Bob decided that he’d get going. The guy in the jacket with the eyes was standing outside. Bob headed out, and walked past him. Just at that moment, the guy whistled loudly, like at a baseball game, and was motioning with his hands, waving his arms about in frantic gestures, like he was trying to get the attention of someone far away. At the same moment, Bob heard two scooters fire up. both were two stoke versions, and were loud. Bob made like he didn’t hear or see anything, but he knew that he’d walked into something that was not going to end peacefully. He just didn’t know what.
Bob was walking more quickly now, but still calm and cool. He was walking to the north, toward his car and the bank parking lot. He crossed the street to where he’d be along side the parked cars to his left. He heard the scooters rev up and heard the pitch change, indicating they were moving now. He felt those blue eyes burning a hole through the back of his neck. Just before reaching the opposite side of the street, a scooter shot out from the side street on his right, and crossed just inches between him, and parked cars in front of him. At the same moment, he glanced up and noticed that the guy on a scooter was headed to the spot just between him and the parked cars. There wasn’t much room in between, and Bob tensed up and planted his weight to prepare for a blow. He didn’t know what was happening, but he knew that it was no longer something peripheral. It was real, and he was in it. The guy on the scooter was wearing a black helmet with a reflective visor, A thick winter coat, blue jeans and white tennis shoes. He was big, maybe 220 pounds. It was hard to know how tall he was, but guessing that he was a good 6’2”.
Breath. Breath. Breath. Suck in air now! Just as the scooter shot in front of Bob, he pulled his closed folder from his right pocket and gripped it hard. The guy on the scooter kept both hands on the grips and stuck his right leg out, with the heel forward, like he was gonna plant his foot in Bob’s gut. Bob parried the foot with a lower brush block and drove the end of the closed folder into the plastic visor and simultaneously threw his chest out to body punch the guy with all his weight. The scooter screamed forward, but the guy landed on the car that was parked just in front of Bob. The guy didn’t suffer any damage, but landed on his ass after a brief crash into the parked car. The scooter leaned and careened left and right before crashing into the curb about 20 meters down the road. The other scooter was screaming loudly away, and Bob heard the screech of tires round a corner in the direction that he’d just come from. He heard another whistle, and prepared to do battle with the helmeted motherfucker that just tried to kick and run him over. This was a worst case scenario. A big, heavily clothed guy with a motorcycle helmet on, fully intent on doing bodily harm. Others coming from unknown directions and unknown strengths, and Bob, with his dinkey little old timer pocket knife, a hangover, and a full bladder, not to mention his sore back. This was supposed to be rest time, back at home in the Alps. This was not supposed to be happening here.
Bob heard two doors slam, and the rev of an engine and the scream of tires. Here comes backup, and not his. Just as Bob looked up, he eyed the front of a Citroen headed straight for him. He half jumped, half scampered into the crevice between two cars parked in front of him. The car screamed to a stop just passed where he was, and as he was scurrying toward the front of the parked cars, someone grabbed his ankle, and down he went. He landed hard on his left elbow, and his left ear smashed into the curb. The front underside of the spoiler of the car on his right caught his nose, and his finger was cut and bleeding from the holes in steel wheel where his fingers landed, as he grabbed for balance, escape, and stabilization. He turned on to his back, ass down, elbows back, one foot up. He kicked hard to the hand that had hold of his ankle. The guy released. Bob instinctively back peddled over the curb into the grass that was separating the parking lot from the main street. He got to his feet, turned and sprinted out across the street into the middle of the road. There was a group of Gendarmerie down about 200 Meters but they didn’t notice anything at all. Bob didn’t have time to try and get their attention. He bolted across the second, far side of the street, and turned to look back at his pursuers. They were gone.
He jogged back to his car, got in, started it, rolled down the window and backed out of the parking place. Then, noticing how badly he was bleeding, decided to pull forward again and park. He had to get out and go to the trunk to get the first aid kit. Blood was everywhere. It was on the window, the window crank, the steering wheel, the glove box, the shifter, the seat, and all over his clothes. His heart was pounding, and he’d lost his new sunglasses. he quickly bandaged himself up and took note of the situation. So far, so good. Not dead, not arrested for DWI.
Bob finally caught his breath, and pulled out. He circled around the round-about and went back to where the action was. He tried to piece together what-ever the hell had just happened. Parts of broken rear windshield wiper were on the ground where the big scooter driver crashed into the back of the parked minivan. Plastic parts were spread out near the curb where the scooter slid to a rapid halt. The bad guys were gone, and Bob was left with a crime scene where no crime had been committed. It was an elaborate scheme of some sort that didn’t make any sense at all. Bob drove up a little further, parked his clunker in the same spot that he’d just pulled out of, went into the bank, deposited his checks, and walked out, shaking his head at the crazy scene that had just taken place. There were no witnesses, and if there were, they would have been driving by quickly, and would not have had a chance to see the scene play out. It was not like he was going to put an add in the paper to ask about a team of jerks who kicked his ass. After reflecting on the whole thing, he decided to head home, take some aspirin, and get some sleep.
