The besieged Elves of Lithuania

Lithuania was always the real mystery one of the Baltic states, an aura of old heathen mystics around it, expressed in names and magical landscapes with springs and small rivers, creeks and then raped by German knights again and again for centuries until only wooden houses remained beside some mighty stone buildings of the Deutschorden scum. That’s how it looked like for centuries and nobody cared for them except the Nazis and the Sowjets occupying them one after the other. 

They are the subtle and dreamy Baltic people who had even a Partisan army to fight, a guerilla with fierce women and romantic male heroes with a tuft on old pictures but they were not too good at fighting. They have lost it too often before, being raped and plundered again and again by the Deutschorden and their fellow sectarian terrorists educated by a disturbing blend of religious and fake religious believes they gathered in the orient again and again until it was all empty. But they kept the nice and simple wooden houses and their secrets and gods everywhere, also in Vilnius and Kaunas and the seaport and their outstanding women, many descending from the raped and murdered priestesses and wise ones from the old days. I was just arriving from the Tatra mountains in Slovakia and avoided being cast or crew member in the next sequence of the „Hostel“ series and that is the natural born job for many there I felt with an inner dark shudder before I jumped out of remarkable big wooden houses with strange men into a bus to Vilnius.

KURVA Electronics Ltd. as a main sponsor of Polands private bus fleets equipements did a magnificient job to maintain an eight hour nonstop shift with its highly efficient electronic „mood shift“ devices. I asked the driver after four hours if it would be possible to stop „for toilet“ but he could not answer but was staring out of his widely opened popeyes into a far distance while the bus toilet was covered with excrements from at least thirty horrified passengers oozing out of the small cabin into the passengers area. Creating mood swings there as well. At the border to Lithuania he had to stop because some terrified Lithuanians tried to escape into the nearby woods and even for a Polish bus driver under the influence of the waves from KURVA Electronics Ltd. and speed he could simply not go on until he crashed into a wall in Vilnius. He had to do it, he had to stop somewhere before that would happen and that was the border area and I asked the few Lithuanians outside the bus what was going on and if I could go to the next restaurant plus toilet. They just stared at me and said „no“ before they disappeared into no mans land at that giant road stop. BROOOOOOMMMMMMI heard the engine howling BRRRROOOOOOMMM as if he is driving a Formula 1 Ferrari and his shouting in Polski because we stepped out of his piss and shit infested bus too long and off we went over the border into the Lithuanian wilderness.

In Vilnius I was so numbed by the ride before that I stumbled out of the bus and couldn’t believe my eyes. I suffered from a sudden reality loss because it looked exactly like bloody Oberhausen or Frankfurt in Germany. All new rightangled buildings, clean and bureaucratic, square like modern shops with European articles at the lowest prices imaginable. No hotel in sight on empty streets around so I lost hope but was was watching out for a taxi driver and boom he was there with a huge new big BMW and I was sitting inside and as I wished was driven to a lower middle class hotel for 25 Euros with breakfast when I asked him: „where are you from?“ because I could not believe this shift of attitude since I just came from the Polish diaspora of travelling and taxi drivers. He did not answer, then I asked him again and he smiled with a huge grin and displayed some of the best row of golden teeth I had seen for a very long time „Poland“. We both went into silence because we both knew what this meant. But he was absolutely cool and I was treated as a well known old guest at that Lithuanian hotel, He got his 10 Euros plus tip and we shook hands when he departed. I always get along well with old school criminals, no matter where they are, I thought. They have rules that matter, based in a different but efficient look on reality and I don’t break them but get out of the game quickly when it is necessary. That is my rule and it sticks, I thought.

The Wolga Hotel showed a complete eastern european display of what a hotel has to offer in the former Eastern block: Russian maids, a solid stock of drunkards and junkies in the hotel rooms and russian breakfast in the morning with blinis and cream for the truck drivers and workers living there who were the „good people“. The junkies did not pay for that, they had special rates – without breakfast because they were shooting up in the early morning when I stepped out of my room with the old time Eastern block furniture. „Hey man, how are you doing?“ I asked. „Uuuhh, oohh, man, Uhhh, ohhh“ „Yeah keep on going strong“ , I said, the two man had a completely distraught women with them, half crawling, half walking on the floor with a face like she had been under a drill hammer for a while. „Huh huh, nice man,huh huh“ she said waving and shouting. Her man or whatever looked at me with rage and anger and shouted out loud to her: „KURVA, KURVA“ and pointed at me. I had to intervene because I feared for her life and said out loud „Polski, Polski, very good, very good“. He began to smile at me and waved his arm like a shattered windmill with one wing broken off and smiled like mongoloid, dragging her behind him while she kept looking at me. 

I went for breakfast while they were fixing themselves up in their room. The Russian ladies working at the Wolga Hotel were showing me a menue with about 20 or 30 items for breakfast and talked fluently Russian with me that I do not understand at all. I pointed to something on the menue and said „That would be nice“. „Njet“ was the answer. I pointed to another item: „Njet“, another „Njet“. I remembered my days in the DDR, the GDR,  as a tourist visiting my relatives and answered politely: „So what do you have?“ „Blinis!“ „Excellent choice „ I said, „I take them“, she smiled and went back into the kitchen. After 15 or 20minutes another Russian woman came back with a huge tablet with a staple of fresh blinis as high a ten centimeters steaming in her face and several cups with jams and fruit creams and salmon and sour cream and whipped cream. „Where is the caviar?“ I asked her. She slammed the tray on my table „look, all same“ she said and I looked around me and all the Ukranian, Russian and Polish truck drivers and workers there had the same enormous breakfast for about three Euros on there tables and stared at me with full anger. I underestimated the lack of humor in some east european men who are not laughing at all or just about another mans mistake and enjoyed the good meal, surrounded by nice smiles of the Russian waitresses who thought I might get a swing for being a joker.

While strolling around town I found an extremely friendly Lithuanian population with fragile looking and sensitive local attractive women and quite delicate men who always liked to talk to me about which way to go and where to be when. I asked a young couple about the way, a young slim typically Lithuanian girl who was had such open and vivid eyes I rarely seen before and a Slavic man with her who was so damn proud to be with here. She was really falling in my eyes and wow, I thought, there is something true about the heathen godesses they have worshipped here and are still worshipping, while he was playing the tough one what she obviously did not like. “I am from Ukraine” he said, being proud about is as hell and that meant: ” I control her and maybe I will use her as I like". That was not unusual for Ukrainians or Beloruss men, no pimpism involved here, so I said, "Cheers, good to hear that." She felt absolutely was was going on and what I was thinking about him and explained the way for me in such a subtle manner and being inside my head all the time when I went away and wished them good luck. Vilnius has not much of its old beauty anymore, it is besieged by a display of obscene modern buildings as if they came out of a German Baukasten, with an orgy of rectangular boxes terrorising the eyes but loaded with a set of supermarkets with such cheap foods that nobody in a market economy could make a profit out of them. Somebody, maybe the EU under Germanys leadership has intervened heavily and put the whole magical country of Lithuania under the siege of the Baukasten. And its citizens step by step under siege with cameras and police but easying their fate by subsidized prices in the modern markets so anybody can make a living and: there is even money for recreational drug use like heroin to ease the fate of the underdogs. 

But Vilnius still has some old parts the AOI has not destroyed yet, nice old streets with some old restaurants beside the cleaned DIN (Deutsche Industrie Norm) areas with shops and restaurants with local foods. Here were more Elves, as I called a special cast of Lithuanian women, who were displaying their unique friendliness, so subtle and at the same time remarkable that it was hard to believe. They were serving food with such politeness without being submissive but gave you the impression that they knew you a long time from within and kind of jumped into you the psychic way the second time this day that this deserved a close research of the matter. I paid a small bill for local food with fish and salad and dessert, stepped outside and they were waving to me, two of them, just a nice waving from he doors entrance. I had never experienced anything like this before. It was so far away from the behaviour of most Slavic women not to speak of Polish receptionists, that I was cleaning my inner lenses all the time because I could not believe it at all. No "see you again", no stupid remarks about the idiotic foreigner stumblings over his own shoes, no greedy fishing attitude but just this elvish subtleness in the midst of the greatest cultural destruction of a natural habitate I had seen so far in Europe. 

It were their men, off course who were responsible for this in a way, I thought. They had been beaten again and again through the centuries by the Deutschorden and their disciples and successors until the Nazis were replaced by the KGB and its troops until the 1950’s. I had seen the horrors they did to them in a museum in town, how they were destroyed again and again by brute Russians after the Deutsche Bestien. And they were still genitically weak by that loss of good men after centuries of slaughter rape, pilage and plunder by the German Christian sectarian forces in the Middle Ages and even later. So more and more men who had fallen were replaced by female Partizans but they could not win such a war. Too subtle is their nature, losing the strongest again and again. And that is how the Lithuanaian men appeared on the streets to me: very slim, very shy, very polite, friendly the shere opposite of the Polish proletarians and Ukrainian workers around. Same in the old pictures as partizans in the war: like actors in movies with long hair and subtle bodies, smiling like a new version of the elves from Lord of the Rings with machine guns.  Some of them walk around with sunglasses and umbrella in the rain, just straight out of another movie…..But they could not help their women nor their culture and so the EU under the Germans had an easy prey with the Lithuanians: destroying them finally by taking their land with concrete obscenities and tearing down their wooden houses, sending spies around who report any utterance of discomfort with that and pay not only for cheap food for the obeying population but also for surveillance cameras everywhere. You need a woman for that: look at her in Vilnius or her German counterpart in Berlin.... There are also those posh districts with the typical display of Central Europe inner city modern architecture by leaving historic buildings at their places and “cleaning out the area” from undesirables like real artists and low class people with French style cafes and the Turkish embassy with a pompous buidling in the middle of it. Waiting to protect and serve the one or two Döner Foodstalls in Lithuania...... Can’t find no other resons now, sorry, please inform me or ask the junkies...

So I stepped into a tailors atelier because my French anarchist coat by Pierre Cardin lacked one button down there and it had to be fixed. If you keep on wearing a coat without its lowest button it will fall apart after a while, the inner structure that keeps it up loses its shape and it will look bizarr on you after a while and then it decomposes. Just one button, remember. Just because of one bloody button. I stepped just inside a small tailor atelier and showed the Lithiuanian lady my disaster. She just asked me to take the coat off, showed me the old button she could stitch on to the jacket and went off into the back to do the work. After fife minutes she came back showed me her masterpiece with a smile. “Brilliant” I said, “I thank you very much, how much ist that?” “fifty cents” she answered. “No that is not possible, I give you five Euros for it” I answered and handed her a five Euro note. She refused to take it and I gave her the fifty cents and told her how delighted I was about that. She waved me goodbye and I went further to the old parts of Vilnius explore more elves territory when I passed the gates of an artist colony that described itself as an independent state long ago before the power in Germany was switched back to the KGB area and there was a lot of free artistic life everywhere in Europe.

It reminded me slightly of Copenhagens Christiania that was still going on but nothing more these days but a realm of the dark forces, of AOI agents of the worst, handling bundles of cash I have never seen before in public, like 100000 Euros  as if it was nothing and off course in islamist and AOI hands, guys walking around with “Support Holy War” T-Shirts with an AK on it from Somalia, Turkey and Syria fresh from the “camps” dealing dope, I mean heroin with a free pass – but not on tables outside. While citizens and travellers like you and me are not allowed to pay ten Euros in cash without raised eyebrows or being denied a hotel room in that ridiculous country with its phony plastic card fetish.
Paintings were sold in Christiania that were so horribly bad that even the AOI agents in charge of that turd that once was an art colony had to throw up sometimes when looking at it. Yes, with a smile. But the idiots bought it because of  Christiania. 

But this here in Lithuania was different, its energy had nothing to do with Christiania. There was emptiness and spirituality around, I saw a room where spiritual women met, priestesses and shamans I thought but I did not walk in and there was a creek running thru the whole thing with a place of worship. But something was wrong and it was not the emptiness but a cold an hidden danger, an enemy within until I saw the surveillance cameras everywhere hidden in that area and especially directed to that place of worship. I walked away slowly because I felt that staying there would cause even more trouble than those I was already in. Because nobody liked those things anymore. The top tier of the Western world has declared war on them. They can not send them to psychiatry anymore so easy but they deprive  of civil rights in Germany at least and put them under constant surveillance and harassement. In other countries I would not bet what they do if somebody orders it, as here. 

When I was going out an attractive young woman approached me. "I am from here" she said, “you are one of us, but you do not come in. We are under siege, they are destroying everything here until we do not recognize ourselves anymore.” “Who is doing that?" I asked. ”You know, police at first, they installed all that cameras so nobody likes to come here anymore. If you come here more often they will harass you at home." She looked at me with a very deep understanding look, I felt her deep inside me again and I wished her all the best and went away. 

When I went home I felt that something has changed. I was no longer the little known but well liked tourist who was visiting restaurant to talk with the girls and maybe take hem out later to a bar but a strange person from the realm of the unknown and dark. Police cars seem to appear more often around me than usual and the many surveillance cameras annoyed me. In my hotel the receptionist was not too friendly anymore but I did not take that too serious. One junkie stared at me first and then looked away. I went too bed and at three o’clock in the night I woke up from loud talking. It did not stop. I listened closely and it was defintely a radio pressed against the walls with Polish voices. "Hi, my polski junkie friends" I thought , “how nice” and I knocked against the walls. “Shut up there, shut the fuck up!” They did not stop and I gave it up at four and tried to ignore it but it was not possible. “Lithuanian police is quick” I thought and used my ear plugs so I could slumber a bit until breakfast. That should be brilliant as usual and served again by friendly Russian waitresses who showed me the menue but this time I did not fall for it. “What is it today?” “Look menu” “Ok, I take the blinis again, they were marvellous yesterday" I said in an attempt to avoid a situation. “Njet, today omelette royal is recommended” “Ok, this one please" I looked at her and saw some sadness in her friendly face and I asked: “What else do you recommend, going out with me to dinner?” She did not even look at me after that and said with a cold voice: “you better leave hotel and maybe town, next night no more sleep here, police say.” “Why is that?” “You dont believe!, You dont believe!” “Ok,for ten Euros I believe you and I gave her a ten Euro note.”
“Polski piece of shit drug dealer live here complain about you that you want to fuck his girlfriend and disturb him”. “WHAT?!” I asked “Are you fucking kidding me? That ugly skank” “No, they want you to go otherwise maybe arrest you or beat you next night because drug dealer dont want you here. Better not talk anymore but go, Polski shitman pay a lot of money here, bye" And off she went and I knew that I had fallen out of many good graces by not buying heroin from an idiot pusher, not boning his skank for money and then talking to the infamous artists and spiritsts of Vilnius. I packed my things and went out, nobody seemed to care a tiny bit about that and I drove to the bus station, that was as rectangular and clean and with European style shops as an EU official likes it and drove immediately to the town most far away from Vilnius as possible without leaving the country. I knew from bad experiences that police likes to follow their victims in cases like that or talk slander across borders when you leave.

The land was mostly flat with some hills and creeks and sometimes only the old spirit of Lithuania shines through in the last wooden houses the regime did not destroy so far. But they did a phantastic job doing it with German Gruendlichkeit, I presume: always the same architectural structures throughout the country, just out of a Baukasten of a neurotic city planner. We arrived at the Seaport-Town and I admired exactly the same shoebox sized shops in the bus station you find everywhere in that country with the identical chain cafes and restaurants and shops, no matter in what town you stop. I left the bus station and walked around town that looked empty with wide and open streets when a small car stopped beside me. The drivers window opened and a female voice said: “can you explain me the way to Wolga Hotel please?” I looked into familiar and laughing eyes and yes, it was the second elve of Vilnius, the one with the most intense inner view and without sadnes and the most pretty one of all. “Is this your car?” “No, I just borrowed it after I left my Ukranian boyfriend” “I do not understand quite what you are saying” “Lithuanian women are very much afraid when we leave men that they turn wild and I left him because I did not feel much for him and when we met I felt more with you, that is why.” “But how do you know about that hotel and that you find me here” “Many of us are from the other world and know things and read minds” “Yes I felt that strongly with you but also some others but most strongly with you, do want me as a new boyfriend?” “No no” she laughed, you are much too old for me but we can do something." “You mean, here in the car?” “Why not, I dont have a hotel and if you take me to a hotel and they see me, more problem for you with criminals here make prostitution with girls. Maye we are both dead tonight” And yes we drove out of town and had what I call free and spiritual elve sex in a car at the baltic sea in Lithuania and nobody was allowed to know anything more about it because the elves are under siege in Lithuania by many dark forces.

Copyright 2018 by Ronald C. Kaiser

The Skunks of Riga

Being equipped the most unexpected way by the mystics of Lithuania with journeys to the real non-reality and other world of the not forgotten heathens, Polish wise men and their crews and the bottomless sadness within of a country with destroyed architecture housing all this and more I was heading to Latvia with an adventurous esprit. Promenades with long legged whores lookíng like model godesses guarded by criminals with pit bulls and Makarov guns plus an architectural design loaded with shady pubs and a drug and prosi underworld of Europes most ruthless offenders with a Russian taste to it made it for me.

So I was told by an old Jewish friend from the Soviet Empire who was taking on the Germans and he even wrote that to me about ten years ago. I believed him then but not much he ever said later anymore but he still fed my appetite for the cheap an dirty aspects of a life cartoon style still.
I did it straight the trodden path this time. For our age this meant: checking out things on the internet and believe all the greasy lies it establishes as never before in human history, creating whole realities these days by the Allmighties to make you feel exactly the way they want it. King of your universe or downtrodden piece of shit. Whole crews of AOI agents are having meetings right this moment you read this and discussing it maybe for you personally how to set up the screen for your next vacations or the next week in the office.

AOI agent Smith: „The Millers showed some unexplainable lack of gratitude to the authorities last months“. „Yes he wrote an email to his auntie saying he could imagine somebody else like an old plastic bag of milk from the east for head of government this time“. Sudden silence in one of the thousands of AOI offices and then very loud: „yes he has he has said this, that is sooo sad, that is sooo sad, did he say rancid milk, fresh milk, yoghurt or sourmilk? We have to doooooo somethiiing about that, what did auntie answer?“ replied agent Gertrud Winterbothom with red face. „Auntie Elke did report this, we stopped feeding her male hormones in her food as a sign of our gratitude. I suggest we change time and date in the Millers whole families computer systems regularly before important meetings for a month and we change the data in his sons computer before his exam works in school with falsified informations so he can’t get through for a while, that will teach them.“ „what about frying his genitals, frying his genitals“ agent Winterbothom yelled through the room „I want his genitals fried for this, I want his g…“, then her head banged on the desk with a loud sound and she passed out. „Poor Gertrud, she gets so excited when something important happens in the country, a real pillar of socity, so close to it, Just perfect. So yes, fry his testicals a bit in the Metro next week, but just a bit, put something under his seat and bring in a complete fake train for that, we do not take any risks. Let us do this for ouŕ poor agent Winterbothom, who has passed out in service due to the horrible actions agents reported to us.“ They all stood up and sang the national anthem while agent Winterbothoms woke up, went to the bathroom to freshen herself up with a small line of a completely unknown phenylamine derivate from dark corporation sources. She had done it again and she did win again. She was an Alpha agent of the AOI.

Yes, that is the way it’s done sometimes, but usually youŕ basic informations might be changed a bit in your computer in travel websites to alter reality a bit, so do not be suprised. „Nothing is real, everything is permitted“ as Hassan I Sabbah used to say. or it is done for a whole travel destination for all of you, „to help“ somebody a bit, maye some friendly regime that needs some tourist money or just visitors to show off. You for example, just check youŕ computer or even better your smartphone and pick out the juicy travel bits for a phantastic holiday in….. let’s say Oman or Dubai and enjoy plastic phantastic helter skelters and joyrides in skycrapers while watching public whippings and executions on your smartphone or in real life.

So I went to Latvia with solid informations straight from the net this time and I knew where I was going and I was clever, yes, I left out the usual AOI hotels and hang outs with names like: „Primrose Timberwood Hostel“ or „Straight Shooter Inn“ – I was bloody clever when we stopped in Riga with the usual bunch of travellers this time, who are still travelling to Riga, from Italy and Spain and Sweden and Norway, all perfectly styled by Tony’s and Tucker’s book from the Lonely Planet and that was good because I had something to do. To sweettalk some of them into an imagened sack in Riga before they turned out to be the usual Lesbians travelling in couples, but nice people with home made rucksacks with flowers stitched on them and „VENCEREMOS“ written on it with ink. But we changed the topic by singing „Bella Ciao“ and „socialismo en libertad, bandera rossa vencerat“ loud in the bus while the girls were smoking joints. That was not too clever because all the Latvian reactionaries in the bus tried to revolt. I could nip that in the bud but not allowing them to use their smartphones to inform somebody. The chubby women were the worst complaining out loud about this outbreak of female adolescent enthusiasm to better the world. They did not want to better the world I understood but regarded us and our ilk as evil intruders. But they would have done this anyway, they regard anybody as evil intruders in their way and world and lacked any Lithunanian subtleness about that. I thought when looking at them and their squarehead outrage. It lacked any understanding and humor, so it was good to bring that bto he surface – bus group therapy. 

So I stepped out of the bus without an erection and sneaked away showing off my erected fist to the young women and shouted „venceremos“ before I was hiding around the narrow lanes of the central bus station in case the Latvian reactionaries and Nazis had switched their smartphones on again to call the Tanks of Danzig maybe or the local police. It was snowing and I did not use a taxi first but tried to find my way alone. It was all set up perfectly by myself: avoid those evil looking taxi drivers – not KURVA at all but more the Makarov issue I thought when I saw them before I sneaked away in a snow rain. I was hiding in an old house entrance and began to feel well. It looked old, not renovated at all on this side of town, real life, I thought, real life. I saw some tents looking like a market far away and decided for food before asking my way to the middle class hotel I had chosen from the internet.

A real market in Europe these days is hard to find but they have one in Riga with flowers and clothing and food mostly sold by promising housewive types. And a real old Soviet style restaurant with Soviet style housewives with accompanying hair dresses, clothes and Soljanka, Borscht, Blinis, Boef Stroganoff and Pelmeni and and. It was cheap as hell and tasty as in the old days when we were stranded in Moscow 1983 with Aeroflot from Lagos Nigeria to Bangkok for some days waiting for a connecting flight to Bangkok and Bombay, locked in a state run hotel at the airport with some liters of vodka each, a hot bathtub because it was 20 degrees minus and we were in slippers and shorts and they were not giving us our luggage back. Passports were in the Kreml too and we all had Russian ID cards for those three days in Moscow but were not allowed out of the hotel except for one state run sightseeing bus tour thru Moscow and then we were not allowed to leave the bus. I wore woollen socks with my African slippers and a blanket around my hips, my girlfriend the same. But we all had the vodka and a huge ghtetto blaster with the Africans from Benin, Laotians and people from Mozambique and Cuba and the whole bus was singing the Internationale and the Russian national anthem except the Polish when we were wiggling completely drunk in tropical outfit thru christmas Moscow at 20 degrees minus. We got nearly the same food as they have at Riga market today with its snowstorm in spring but served in giant luxury dining halls for free with lusters as big as in the Kreml and waitresses in white and black uniforms as solid as elite soldiers shouting at the Polish only because they were always complaining and tried to behave as American as possible. „shut up polski, shut up, put that food back, you are not in the row“ But we also learned some late revolutionary discilpline in the height of a wave of alternative and hippie independent individualism of the early eighties. When strolling around the giant hotel visiting each others from all around the world, mostly the socialist „third“ world, who were there en masse, we had to overcome the soviet concierge in our floor to go back to our room. Around sixty, with Perücke and glasses and fluently in about ten languages always except those you were able to speak. „Passport!“ And we had each time to show her our Russian Provisional Passprt  that she copied with time of arrival at her desk and anything else that did not matter at all on some machine. „Why you here?!“ „As I always say, plane to Bangkok delayed, we are waiting for Ersatzmaschine“ „Who delayed plane?“ „We do not know that“. „International conspiracy against independent African development, imperialists“. Stern look at us, then she was shaking her head and said: „go to room now“ as if we were both lost cases for the international antiimperlialist war that was at its peak in the early eighties. Our engagement in Nicaragua and El Salvador did not count because we were all decadent individualists travelling to the wrong countries but they never seized any contraband from the freak travellers they regarded as anarchist opponents of capitalist system, like some kilos of hash or weed or 10000 LSD blotters the Freaks had with them sometimes in Moscow in transit, or false passports or whatever was fashionable in Goa and Manali then. They always put it back in the luggage and it arrived at its destination if it was a capitalist country. So all the African weed, not ours by the way because we had our money from car business, was passing thru Moscow when it was not tooooooo much, but two kilos were good, some freaks told us travelling to Europe. „no problem man, they do not even comment about it.“

Solid heavy food from the past so, excellent for a Baltic snowstorm we were just in in spring. Satisfied for a day, Russian salads in an endless row in old fashioned refrigerated display units. Somebody did preserve that culture and that is absolutely rare and interesting when this is happening these days and it became my favourite food hang out in Latvia. Soviet style toilet women included who still behaved as if they saw her jobs as a part of the battle to fight US hegemony in the world. It had to begin somewhere and they created toilettes according to the soviet bureaucratic system and sometime one of them shouted at me as if had committed a crime I was never able to understand by even giving her 50 cents. Because toilet system changed today back to coupons….
So there is quite some Russian and even Soviet influence in Latvia but only in the food and toilet sector. I arrived at the hotel only with the help of a friendly Latvian taxi driver off course who was unavoidable in the snow.

It was a real three star hotel for a good price but I just could not believe my eyes when I approached the receptionist. A farmers girl maybe with an extremely chubby figure, square looking and a broad face plus a Spaceship Enterprise hairstyle. She looked at me at the reception desk and began to breathe heavily. Her skin began to turn wet and her pores opened. Pearls of sweat were running form here forhead when she said „ credit card or cash?“ I said : „I hate this plastic shit, I am in the real thing, you know“. „thirty Euros, Sir!“. I laid the thirty Euros on the table and she began to smell like an ape in the monkey house suddenly, her pores opened even more and more sweat was running down her face with heavy breathing. I turned away because I could not stand that raw and fresh aroma suddenly with a very dull scent and went into my room. I knew what was going on now. I was the star in a Latvian peasant drama with livestock ińsemination with the ugliest receptionist in town. I thought about the scenery before and just could not believe that performance of her glands that I had never encountered in a girl before I did not know. Meanwhile I heard noises from the reception. A family man from France was just in interaction with our little skunk and I heard loud laughter and complaints about that „horrible smell, what is this, par bleu, that smell, what can I think“. I went down to have some fun watching the scene and saw him with red head trying to bring their thing to a happy ending. „ saw your family just walking out to town from my window“ I told him,“yes that is good „ he said, „she needs new slippers and the kids some shoes they are all wet and losing form. I can’t belive that smell, I can’t believe that smell! Phantastic, grotesque, it is shining thru everything“. „Where are you from?“ I asked him the typical traveller question, playing innocent, „from Camenbert?“, „No from Pays Basque in France.“ „So you know the secret about Corse cheese, do you, the thing that crawles stinking from Corsica?“ He stared at me with absolute delight because he knew he has found a comrade of the science of the scent of women and of all other kinky stuff unimaginable for the most travelers today. She came back from the basement and the room filled with such a dense aroma mostly from her now older sweat that I had to supress spontaneous vomiting. The Basque guy nearly had an orgasm and slapped on her giant behind with a pleated skirt and said as loud as he could: „I neeeeeed rooomservice!“ and they both went upstairs with red and horny faces while I stood in the lobby and simply could not believe that a hotel lobby could smell so absolutely horrible at female sweat. A middle age couple entered the lobby and looked at me with utter disgust. „ No, this is impossible, impossible“ she cried. I looked down on the floor because I had nothing to explain, I just could not. „What an ugly scenery here, yesterday it was much better here!“ he said watching me me with such a contempt. I asked myself if I should start a loud farting attack to give him more credit with his wife that I was responsible for this thick stench from the monkey house wafting thru the whole hotel now. I decided not to do that and went upstairs shaking my head. „What a horrible man, he never washes himself“ that were the last words I heard when I closed my door.

I looked at my room: nearly Western three star standard with kingsize bed, TV desk and wardrobe, big toilet with shower and everything, nice new towels, thick linen on the bed, mirrors here an there. Mirrors, mhm….that made me feel horny a bit, could it be that there were some options more avalaible, let’s something more on the bright side of consensual sex than a meandring Corse cheese about 25 years of age with a figure like a rectangle and a chubby ass with a little brown moustache from a farm in countryside Latvia with a Spaceship Enterprise haircut? I checked the menu. It promised everything from peanuts to Boef Stroganoff „from our charming bar ladies served to your room“. Well I wanted to search that cheese&sweat factory of a hotel for all of that I decided and went out again strolling thru the hotel still in a snowstorm. She was not at the reception, the stench downstairs had an additional fragrance of fresh and unwashed genitals plus her sweat plus basque cheese as well plus some roomspray a sensitive soul had dispersed to prevent the building from collapsing suddenly. All was in bright lights and I saw light in the basement as well when I went down the stairs.

She had her skirt up, it was a blue Faltenrock and her white blouse was above her suprisingly big and well rounded tits when one young guy, a typical jock was taking her from behind while she was blowing another jock with a baseball cap on without any sound in the room. She was solid as a rock while the boys were working inside her and on the whole scene that was for me as an oldtimer of erotic history and connoiseur a persiflage of a sexual act, not even acting but more like a gym teacher has shown them how to „make sex“ for the first time. Since the scenery lacked any atmosphere of privacy or erotic I asked loud: „Is the room service available, I want some fresh peanuts please, I am hungry“. „No service!“ was her answer without looking up. The men kept on working without any interest in me but looking up. No emotion, na anger, no excitement. That is what I always liked about the Eastern girl types: The remained sophisticated and cool in any situation when it came to sex. All normal service. I went up again and felt so demystified about any sexual encouter in the hotel and far beyond after what I have seen and smelled that no imagination of what could possbly happen could lift up my spirits. The smell from her has now even entered the second floor where I stayed and I was wondering if she was boning all the other guests just to prevent her being taken out for not washing at all.

I waited for half an hour and then went down again to the reception. I could not make it further down than the first floor because now the stench has entered the stage of a biological weapons but still her horrible sweat was overturning the strong genital and rotten sperm fragrance mixed within. She had not washed at all after her next intercourse with the boys in the basment but stood there with a stained blouse behind the desk, her face red and shining with wide and open eyes. I hold my breath first and she was the Queen of the swamps of disgust and she knew it. It was her thing, the stench from not washing at all after sex. With all those decaying fluids inside her. She wanted men to take her that way again and again until something happend that nobody even could imagine. ‘what are they doing when this goes on for days or weeks’ I asked myself, will they take her to hospital? She was in another state of conciousness, she felt herself like a shining star, above all earthly matters. „One extra large portion of peanuts please“ I said and she smiled and made a courtsey „I bring it to your room, Sir“ she breathed and was looking forward to another shift in her own cheese and sweat factory with my dick when I replied:“ no, Miss, that is not necessary, I am really just hungry“ and that I really was ,in the snowstorm outside, „ I wait here until you bring me the peanuts and I will take them to my room myself, I watch the reception for you meanwhile, saw some shady figures around“. I was still unsure about what would happen if I would say something like ‘why do you smell like an old sheep meanwhile that died during insemination with a whole flock?’ or something like that but something warned me that this was all far away from harmless. When women are really dirty and into dirt of many kinds, real danger is hiding in the back always and may attack you as quick as a jaguar finds its prey. Playing the innocent without a clue is the best bet always but that may not be enough. So I took a glass full of peanuts from her, paid her with a small tip and went up to my room to eat them.

I went to sleep with an uncomfortable feeling and between two and three I heard such a loud snoaring from another room that woke me up completely. „RRRRRRRRRRRRRPUUHHHHHHHH, RRRRRRRRRRRRRPUUHHHHHHHH RRRRRRRRRRRRRPUUHHHHHHHH“ but as loud as if the person was next to my ear yelling into it. It went on and on and I realized that before I went to sleep a couple has taken the room next to me. That was unnatural I decided, nobody can create a sound like that. After one hour the snoaring was even louder and I heard a woman yelling out her orgasms from the next room. ‘Oh, I am n trouble’ I thought somebody is angry at me for not marrying the fairy of the day and I decided to pack my bag and leave since sleeping was made impossible again. I opened the door and looked into the red eyes of a giant dog with two stern looking young men with caps left and right of him. „Nice you are protecting me“ I said, „but that is not necessary. I just got a call from my bride, she has landed in town and I have to take her out of her misery of missing me for a long time.“ „ KURVA, you stay in room motherfucker“ with a Slavic accent and the door closed into my face. I laid down and the noise stopped immediately until it came back around seven. I went down at eight in the morning and found a freshly smelling and clean reception, nice flower scents in the hotel with a beautiful blond and slim young woman who smiled like a goddess and said: „Good morning Sir, do you want to leave?“ „No , I will stay a night more or two“ „We are so sorry, it is all booked out, the people from the neighboring room are having a kind of function with their friends from the Finnish embassy.“ “What are their names, could you give them to me, maybe we can stay in contact, they are so brilliant and smart“. „It is the Helmensdorf couple from Finland“ „yes from their embassy here you said, than I wish you a good party with their German friends I guess“ I replied and left the premises immediately passing her suddenly dark glooming face. I went through the yard passing one of the men from the night before with the dog and found a taxi to take me out of there.

Riga was not a bit as it was described to me. There was police everywhere, not only in the myriads of their „eyes“ in form of surveillance camers everywhere in the old town. Sometimes even four cameras in a row above each other in the very last corner of this town that once was described as a party hub in the North-East. It simply was not. It was a conquered territory by an unnamed force that has diminished all real joy and left over chain shops and a clean environment again in Copenhagen style with flickering torches in front of overprized and sterile restaurants. ‘Who created those turds’ crossed my mind, they create such an artificial atmosphere even if they place a young whore in front of it to trick the men.’ I went into a local beer bar in the old town and was immediately approached by a young Latvian woman who told me with broadest American accent where to sit. „What did you say?“ „Sit over her Sir, a very nice place“. „I want to watch the game on the screen“ „Do you have reservation, Sir?“ „No, but it is all empty, the game is running and I want to watch it“ „You need reservaion to sit there“ again in broadest US accent. I couldn’t stand it anymore „ No Sir, no, Private Dumbstick has no reservation Sir, no“ I replied totally pissed at her. All the seats in front were empty and the game was running already for 20 minutes and I left without saying one more word. I had been on camera too often that day I guess and seen to many smiling police faces in police cars so I returned home.
I was staying in the Green Ear Hostel now, when two Brazilian travellers arrived who were really into me. Waiting for me in the dining room to have a cool travelers chat as in the old days. I am not to fond of Brazilians generally speaking, contrary to Argentinians, they are very friendly off course but I do not like to look into a muzzle of a gun because it is „just a robbery“ after checking me out and playing a bit table tennis or soccer or whatever, so I left them after a longer chat about this and that and the chicks in Riga. I met some lady friends in cafes in the real parts of town were the Latvian and Russian people lived and were you can still eat and drink cheaply while you are constantly watched by the local police who do not want that at all anymore. Maybe there is an old KGB officer in charge in Western Europe annoying private travelling to an extent as in the former DDR? I do not know, but as atraveller who really travelled in the old DDR for about two weeks I have to say: „It bloody feels like it!“ Only posh tourists who enjoy the myriads of eyes in the now clean old town and who appreciate their nice and clean uniforms, worshipping the unkown powers in Europe doing all this to us. That night at the Green Ear, the reception was empty, but an old lady moved in „who had only little money“ the owner said before she „went the night out, it will stay empty“. This night it didn’t take until two to three but at midnight a pungent smell of burnt plastic hit my nose. I raised up quickly because I did not sleep really and run down the staircase, nobody there except that old Latvian lady who stepped out of her room and looked very sad and distraught and sniffing the poisoned air. At the same time I heard my room door opening and some people rushed out of it within seconds when I got back and saw that they had looked under my matress where they thought I kept my money. Mistake motherfuckers from Brazil. The whole lodge was smelling like a chemical warehouse, burnt plastic or whatever they used to get me out of my room in an emergency. I packed and hasted down the staircase when I saw the old lady again. „You better go too“, I said, „not good here, ok, poison smoke“ and I rushed out of that dungeon on to the streets of Riga where the usual suspects were hanging around smiling idiotically. I moved my ass and my bags around some corners , always watched by the sophisticated cameras of the Riga police and saw some unknown hostel that was not in the internet so far. Guys with piercings and a lot of tattoos from another planet but I asked for a bed in a dorm and was told to go around the corner, they would phone there for me, „they have places free for the night for 11 Euros.“ ‘Ok, they have to phone their gay friends with tattoos and piercings that some non-homo is looking for a bed or a room but they do not want him in their own place. But good, if it that what it takes, I do that, for 11 Euros , I will do that.“ 

I arrived in the other hostel and was non-served by a tattooed and pierced lesbian who told me: „I have to serve other clients first“ and then I looked into the typical German weasle faces who had followed me on the streets and who presented their German ID cards with a broad accent from Pullach AOI in Bavaria. I waited in silence to let these two skunks pass who were served with such a servile politeness I have nerver seen before in Latvia. „It is ninety Euros, your bed in a dorm with these two men from your country“ she said to me without a tone in her voice. „Yes that is what I expected, they told me this, your friends, I just take some money from the ATM outside, don’t have a credit card I will be back in two seconds“. I went without any reaction from her, somebody has portrayed me as the wrangler from the swamps to her and her ilk in that hostel and I escaped to the market where I started in Riga. I was hiding under a market tent until morning and left with the first bus. With my money and with my lungs.

Copyright 2018 by Ronald C. Kaiser

Radio Macron: „Propre Camp!“

In Casablanca they placed me in a bus to Tangier, being ridiculed before by grinning islamists in leather jackets with and without beard. Making it clear to me and everybody else, that I was just a pet to them that they could feed or discard whenever they liked. They did this by continous loud shouting and yelling for no reason while the bearded masters in dirty kaftans remained silent in the back. The bus was better than I expected, normal people, a lot of women as usual in 2018 Morocco, even a couple and she without veil or headscarve was sitting in the row behind me. 

The bus started and exactly at that moment I received my travel-mate, my seat neighbour for the journey: a young bearded islamist with a bald head a dirt stained kaftan (the islamists do not wear jellabas), and a meagre stature with a solid angular head. I pushed myself over to the window and he was seated next to me to teach me a lesson, how kafirs have to be treated in King Nchaouis land by exposing them to the healing influence of the new holy people the world of Islam in Morocco has to offer. That was done by him, no no, they never do, it was done just by a normal Moroccan working for the bus company, he advised the seat to him, he did not sit there by himself. I did not complain or react in any sense, I was used even to gun waving Taliban stoned as a bear driving in jeeps with me across small rivers bridges and vomiting around because they had just taken some smack or opium. But this was something special. A peculiar smell was oozing out of somebody near me. It was not fresh or old sweat or unwashed genitals, no it was durable at the beginning, something in between mutton and goat with a mud pit bass note, no fresh shit, sweat or urine among it. 

But within one hour it got stronger and stronger permeating through the air around us and oozing forward to the other passengers. No comments were made, nobody was shouting, no women was crying, but I am sure, I was the offender off course when they were talking about me and the shitstorm later. But no, it could only be a person in the state of advanced holiness able to permit himself not to wash for some months and smell how dried shit smells. In crusts somewhere in places I do not want to know between his cheeks and around. That’s what it was: old, dry human faeces mixed with scent of unwashed stained cloth. It was not overwhelming at all but it creeped into you after a while.

In Laos we had similar but different experiences with human discharges. Laotians, the most gentle people I know, tend to vomit as quick as nobody else when transported. As soon as a bus started somewhere, but especially in the North, about ten people or more started to vomit in all colours on the floor or out of the windows and the smell was overwhelming but that was absolutely normal I got used to it soon and realized how sensitive they are when it comes to technology and its effects.  Especially when that happened in slow speed and the vomit was sliding down the bus’ outside body and some dogs were licking it away for lunch or dinner when it dripped down. That was an amazing sight always especially in the North of that beautiful country: dogs waiting for the bus.  But that story is not complete without our part to it. I had stayed several days in a beautiful town in Northern Laos with female companionship from Europe and it was not bitter cold but just unpleasent wet-cold about 5 degrees constantly and we just decided not to wash even when crawling out of bed with some love juices of us because it was just bloody fucking unpleasant wet-cold and the water was ice-cold. We just couldn’t. Do you know what wet-cold means? Without any heating but only dog soup and sex for warmth? So we stayed in the warm cozyness of our lovescents and just did not realize that young boys around us were getting a hard one when we even passed by and women got horny or angry and men were grinning. But it was still bloody cold constantly without heating but the buy was heated generously up to 25 degrees. And all our layers of juices and dirt began to melt down and an aroma began to develop in the bus that the sensictive Laotions, they are by far the most sensitive and attentive people I have ever met all put out perfume bottles and laid handkerchiefs with perfume on their faces. Only some men resisted and were grinning and smiling. Marvellous people with a weak stomach when it come to movements. They had to remove the handkerchiefs and were vomiting after one hunderd meters out of the windows when they could or on the floor.That was as normal as eating good dog soup: it helps against the bloody wet-cold climate in Northern Laos in winter.

The young couple behind me was moaning and belching. I looked back and they had opened a perfume bottle, poured it on handkerchiefs and laid them on their mouths and noses, splashing some of it over my neighbour in front and me and at ther back. Other women followed. Aftershave and lotions and perfume was thrown around and soon the bus was happy again smelling like a whorehouse in the late nineties in Cologne with multiethnic staff who did not wash for some days or longer. But next to him – that was me – the inner value of that scent could not be overtoned. Its note got darker and darker, I felt like in a mutton breeding farm after three, four hours, when the bus stopped for a piss break. I know that was not all they had for me to convince me that their new to be adopted lifestyle by all was superior by any means.

I walked around the picnic station trying to find the sink and wondered what it would be the Salvation Front of the AOI is going to do and then I ran like a wheazle back to the bus that was already heading to the exit doors and jumped inside. The islamist was waiting for me without saying a word, He stood up and let me inside on my seat at the window. So, they were trying to abandon me and steal my luggage and my notebook in the bus. Interesting but I expected that. I looked behind me and the young couple was missing. I yelled: „hey, stop!“ And after ten seconds the bus came to halt and after sixty more the couple hasted through the rows of seats and rested breathlessly behind me again. The AOI had its favourite and unfavourite persons divided nicely and that showed openly now. To such an indecency, that nobody could deny it is actually happening and they all obey. 

No more artists, no more loving couples in the open daylight, no more hanging around, no more brain storming, no more free development, no more indivíduality, no more music everywhere, no more humanity. 

We arived in Tangier and he stood up and went away without even noticing me and the couple behind, knowing that we were an inferior infidels. He was satisfied as was the crowd in the bus following his ways without commenting it in any form.

I took the next transport to Tetouan and there I found one of the old guys taking care of others as it was done in the Old Times and he placed me in a Taxi collectif to the center where I could find further transport to Martil, the famous beach town. I began to feel better, this was the old feeling again, the old ways that worked. At the center I met another caretaker placing all the travellers, I was the only European as usual, in taxis to all the villages around, what a nice and easy way to handle things. These were the mountains, the Chemel, the rif  was near and things began to turn to the better. There I met a beautiful lady in her twenties with her mother travelling to the same direction. They came from the mountains and she was totally free, her hair open and fluently talking to me without any inhinbitions. I was in a new land. The traditional mountain people were also around, the women in red/ white skirts with stray hats seling excellent bread, olives and cheese, making you healthy. Everybody arounds us was stoned smoking joints while waiting until we were seated with five poeple in an old Mercedes and drove off to Martil, she was chatting and her mother was beginning to look worried but she just wanted to show me, that the live does not end in Morocco with the islamists in the big towns, that there is stillsomething left, waiting to be destroyed if we obey and do not open our mouths and act accordingly.
We departed from each oother with good wishes and I went to a camping ground to book myself in a bungalow who were avalaible cheap, because camping is out these days everywhere and campers are always watched and regarded as suspicious. The owner was a friendly French-Moroccan and there were no problems at all I thought when I was smiling about all those Grandessa huge campers with French license plates who looked like constructed by Jules Verne driven by posh and proud French holiyday makers walking around in striped French T-Shirts blue, fancy white shorts and white, short summer dresses always around their vehicles and always happily greeting: „Bon Jour Monsieur, ca va“.

Next morning I was ill as hell. I could not breathe properly, my head was aching and I was coughing. It was the worst bronchitis I had since more than twentyfive years. The AOI had severly destroyed my immune systems and my lungs in Essoauira by radiation. I tried to write and it did not work out really, although I had a really good cafe around the corner with cool people from the Old Times running it serving good food for cheap prices. But it still worked out being in Martil, it still had some Mediterrenean flair and there were unveiled women around and many normal Moroccans and still old people in Djellabas. I was only hanging around now, more or less with any drive, the bronchitis had me in its grip. I was sitting on my balcony with a new load of paper towels when a giant French Winnebago, a huge camping vehicle parked directly five meters in front of my door and veranda. ‘What an nice sight, thank you Monsieur Macron for the greetings from Grand Okzident de Paris’. The French couple owning the vehicle was showing off the usual French style being overwhelmingly friendly by administrating the technoloy hidden in their futuristic wagon. A quad was driven out of the back compartment and just put there on the lawn to be there. I came closer and watched at it: the tyres were new, it had not been driven ever. They were just acting out, he took care that any action the did had an obvious reason, that he is not just making holidays or is strolling around, but that any of his ridiculous gadgets and toys on his Jules Verne mobile had a function that is good for something. So every morning he let down his quad, parked it on the lawn next to the Jules Verne mobile and it stood there like a monument of how it is to be a real French citizen watching above the others who are still waiting for their masters to tell them. And the other were there and they were under siege of the French Masters. Some freaks from other European countries still on the old trail to the Rif from Martil with small and bigger tents, self made caravans, Hanomags and Volkwagen busses and all surrounded by elegant Jules Verne trucks with electronic gadgets and antennas everywhere with elegant couples from France. 

The French Caravans were all parked around the others, the freaks cars and tents as close as it was possible. As soon as I passed by a man or woman came out of one of the Jules Verne caravans and smiled at me. I nodded and passed but when I looked at the few freaks in tents there, I could feel the negative vibe around. ‘What can you do?’ I asked myself ‘they are normal people but they just behave as they know something special that makes them feel superior to us’ How I failed.

Next day I was in Tangier for a dentist date. The city has changed, it does not show directly, it is creeping into you like an evil scent. The Salvation Front is taking over. I walked just in one dentist practice and was told to wait by a nice and slim Moroccan paramedic. I waited patiently and a fully veiled woman in black with gloves at her hands arrived and waited with me in the waiting room, looking into another direction. Nobody said a word. The doctor was a small good looking woman who cared for me in the most professional way by checking my teeth, but the tensions were rising in the practice. The veiled woman began to shout to the paramedic: „What is this here, is this one bordello? I come here for my teeth and men are here for having sex with two women. People are all crazy that they let this happen, everybody is still crazy in Tangier. I can not come here again, I can not tell my husband“. The other women tried to behave as if nothing has happened and I paid and went away to get some money from the ATM. I was told to never come there again by the look in her eyes. Something really weird and dangerous would happen. 

I was followed by a French consulate member around the corner who stared at me with angry eyes. He had watched me at the ATM already. I avoided hím and passed the French consulate where I greeted the surveillance cameras by scratching my ass and took a seat in Cafe de Paris just nearby, still the number one of the old Tangier scene delights. It was still there, the Tangier of Burroughs and Bowles. I was greeted friendly by the waiter, it felt like the Old Days for some minutes with the chatting of men around with hardened faces who had seen a lot and a lot to tell, winds from the past were blowing by, but then I realized the looks in my backs and from the sides, the gays strolling around the French consulate area were walkin in Cafe Paris and it made everything shady in the wrong way, it was breaking the male male bond. I took a bus to Martil son convinced that something is going on that reminds us of the old rule of the Regie des Tabac in Morocco in the colonial days. Tangier was still looking as it did before in the centre, at the Zocco, it was still there, but no artists at all, and when you were looking at the outskirts and the completely destroyed railway station it was easy to understand that the AOI had taken the whole city into siege and that the French were there as agents again. And they ruled with the evil eye in cafes, in the banks, in the hotels and the streets.
I was coughing even worse after days of recovery and I could not breathe at all at nights and writing seemed impossible. Martil, that had appeared as a mediterrenean cool beach resort was also under the grip of Middle Eastern Islam and Islamist. Only maybe fivehundered meters of the main road and main basar and beach promanade were the old relaxed Martil. Some women were walking there without headscarve or veil but contacts were made impossible by the Islam jockeys around with eyes everywhere. All the rest was under siege heavily. You could not see that immediately and obviously, it creeped into you after a while when sitting in cafes trying to write how they were smiling at your back, how they were belittling you, how they downgraded you. Except some old men who were happy when you visted them for some shoes to repair or such. I found one who did a shoe repair for just two dirham. I gave him ten for the old times and that we were both going to be exterminated here. How did it feel? Par bleu: like a Banlieu in France or such and not much more. 

At the camping I had another French Jules Verne Camper in front of my home suddenly. The overwhelmingly friendly French couple had disappeared and their friends here from France with Jules Verne camper with all gadgets and antennas on top and on the side you can think of and they did not have a quad they never used: they had a huge shepard dog in a small cage integrated in the campers side from he could look out. I could not believe my eyes. That was a huge camper with a build in cage with steel bars to the outside. „barf barf barf, wowwwww, wooooww“ endlessly, I had never seen anything like that, that looked too bizarre and hopeless: A German shepherd locked in the whole day in a small cage inside a caravan Camper driven by a French Grand Okzident mason and his service Club wife with a typical Lagrand haircut – the haircut even gas to show the angle it can not be flowing with the waves or whatever. That was all they did the whole day. Sitting in front of their luxury camper or inside, the dog was always in his small cage except for a short walk for shitting in the camping ground and harassing non-french campers by slander of his and our master. And he was barking all day and night and that did nót seem to disturb anybody. I could not write no more, not only because of my heavy bronchitis that did not go away at all with headaches and thick sputum and closed nostrils but because of their energy. I began to read Kafka’s Trial on my veranda and that drove him crazy. As soon as he saw that book one time out of his yellow eye slits and me sitting there doing cool reading with my feet up on my veranda they began to act even more weird as usual. 

They went over to the other French Jules Verne campers and began their rant about „les boches commeca“ and then they hurried to the owner and complained: „Ueeh, oeehh, what it this commeca, we dont want this heeeereeee, I dont waant people reeaading Kafka here when I am heeree, I ammm Master, oeeh, ueh, I have called police in Paris, oeehh, ueeeh, he can nót stay herreee“ 

Meanwhile I saw other campers leaving, a freaky family from Belgium and single campers with annoyed and sad faces while the French Grand Okzident expedition to Martil was growing bigger and bigger. Around each German, Dutch, Italian, Belgian, Czech or whatever tent or caravan were three Jules Verne vans besieging them like aliens from Mars have just landed here and were going to rape, pilage and plunder everybody alive not Marsian. I passed the Grand Okzident parcour and a blond French bitch ran out of her van and was runing around like a headless chicken and shouting in French.

I went out of the camping and tried to eat Harira soup in a small lane near the premises and was sent away that they would no serve nonmuslims. ‘So this time is up too’ I thought, the Salvation Front has received orders from their Masters. I went downtown, ate in a Oman style snack shop where I was treated like I came from outer space and went home. „Bang , bang, bang“ it made i front of me. A half naked lunatic hammered with a long metal rod against a street sign. „bang, bang, bang“ he was staring at me and swang the rod in my direction. Death was in his eyes. Death to all infedels. Death to me I ran to a side road and speeded away as fast as I could. I knew now I had to go fast and in secrecy out of that French – Islamist hellhole that once was Morocco. When the Islamist send „lunatics“ who are doing a „amok“ it is five past twelve. Or the French police, that does not matter. I speeded away and he did not follow. I knew that nobody would do anything if he would hit me with that rod from behind.

The camping ground was closed suddenly at ten pm and I was knocking and knocking at the steel gates. That was disrespectful and annoying to close that early, only me was out on the streets, I have never seeen any foreigners there, not one, in the streets of Martil after dark. After ten minutes an old man in Jellaba appeared and opened. I did not say a word. He was watching me as if I am the worst disgrace ever on this Grand Okzident holy ground. When I was passing the Jules Verne Van the dog was barking from more than two hundered meters away and did not stop ever, He just did not stop for an hour. His masters were absent, I thought, when a old car with Moroccan license plate appeared after midnight and two men and one women left who were typical French moroccan working for some secret service or special police. 

Never ever would one woman and two men get a bungalow in a Moroccan camping ground over night that late. Never, it is forbidden by different laws. Boom boom boom it went, against the wall to my bungalow, a woman was shouting and crying and shouting and crying again. men were laughing. Off course they were given the next bungalow, next to mine while everything was empty around. ‘OK., that’s it’ I said to myself and went out. The German shepard was not barking anymore, the cage was empty. ‘are the walking that poor bastard around?’ I went over to sneak around the Jules Verne Camper and tried to look inside. I had never seen a high tech vehicle like that before. After a while I found a window that was not electronically darkend but had a kind of jalousy and could take a glimpse inside. I saw the German shepard dog from behind and in front of him Madame Grand Okkzident with spread legs on the ground and his head had disappeared in her crotch. Not a sound was to be heard but the dog whined.

The Grand Master was not to be seen. I decided to attack to annoy the supremacists and just opened the door. Bang, it opened and I stood inside the camper and saw a set of dildos lying around and the dog at the pussy of Madame. She shrieked like an animal and I saíd: „Bon jour Madame“. She turned aroud and kicked the dog and he began barking again. „Make that piece of shit shut up. Where is your husband?“ „What do you want?“ „I am protecting animal rights here“ „You stupid bastard, he is with his brothers in Tangier making something there“ „And what is this here?“ „We don’t care anymore if we have sex with men, women, children, animals, it is all the same for us now“ „Not for me“ I said, that is disgusting“. „Maybe „ she said, „what are you doing?“ „Fucking women like you never in the pussy where the dog was maybe, but just up the poop chute and I know your husband is inside nothing of you“. „Ok, come here then he will be back tomorrow, they will feast with the same thing too in Tangier“. „No, not here in that Jules Verne electronic shit, come with me to an empty bungalow.“ 

She did not even dress but walked with a long T-shirt with me to one of the empty bungalows next to mine. They were all open and fully furnished. „Go on the bed like a dog“ I told her and she did. I know that kind of women from the rich and initiated. They are mostly into kinky SM and I just greased her ass with olive oil from the kitchen and sticked it in. She moaned and said some stupid things in French and came within five minutes. It took me longer and I just pulled it out and cleaned ang got her T-Shirt for cleaning my dick. She did not say one word more than „merci“ and went away. I expected nothing else from her and her husband at all. 

I just stayed in that bungalow and watched them in the next bungalow how they installed a radiation machine in the space between them and my bungalow, using the electric system from the back of my bungalow. I was just sleeping well there and the next morning I took my oil and salt and other stuff out of my kitchen and threw it in the big waste barrel while the three pieces of French-Moroccan assholes were watching. I grabbed my bag and left after paying at the reception. I did not even look at the French Moroccan owner who set this up there and went away without a word.

Copyright Ronald C. Kaiser 2018

Ghouls of Lisboa Part 2

This literary text was deleted after writing and posting it on the early morning of 30/6/2019 by the fascist regime of the German government under Angela Merkel and her Nazi Secret Service BND under the fascist criminal Bruno Kahl. Obviously they found themselves portrayed in here with their French occultist friend Macron. They are responsible for the fascist takeover of Europe, backed by Donald Trump and the CIA . Under the neverending regime of Angela Merkel artists are secretely persecuted in a way that closely resembles the Soviet Union and the German Democatic Republic, DDR, where she was trained as a secret service agent. "OIld friends" are often used for this i.e. "Dr. Stefan Römer", a major CIA agent in the art and media scene.

This blog is not listed in the Googe search engines because Google is part of a secret service operation to destroy artists for the US and German regimes. 

Ghouls of Lisboa Part 2

The camping ground outside Lisboa was under strong fire by the AOI from Germany, lead by a toad like woman who before served as a uniformed dish cleaner in some KGB dungeon during her course of studies in Moscow. That paid well: the camping ground in Lisboa, where she, her cock sucking and rug munching chief of secrete police and the AOI found ot that the last remnants of old freaks were maybe housing was a military radiation ground in 2018. „Hail Salazar!“ the Guardia Nacional officer shouted while standing of his pick up patrol wagon with an iroquese brush on his head. „Let's raid the fucking lefties in the project again!“

Opposite of the Lisboa Camping Ground is a terrain covered with a typical seventies housing project for working class people – most of them from the socialist, anarchists and communist party. Some of the houses were absolutely run down and the entrances blocked and sealed, windows covered with planks. AOI and Portugese police were going to ruin it all, since they still had well visited workers pubs there and cafes where I got a small cup of wine for some cents only. So they send in their A-Team look-alike police forces on pickups as in a Mad Max movie driving around the whole night with sirens and flickering blue lights searching for people like me and switching on the gigantic telephone masts that were sometime as low as people heads in Portugal.

I was hiding my backpack and sleeping bag under a huge plastic sheet in the middle of the mediterrenean forest around the Camping Ground that was stretching quite far, I marked some trees too find it later and went back to the restaurants of the Camping Ground where the were able to serve some good Portugese food. The waitress gave me a horny eye before and all the time and I was wondering what was happening when I got back there, since I expect nothing good these days when younger women do this with older men. Except when quick money comes out of it the easy way an all parties split happily ever after the good old fashioned seeing thru.

She was sitting there behind the cashier desk and gave me a look as if I had just pissed on her Bacalhau with legumes. In those cases I immediately close up and treat them as pieces of furnuture and that's what they are: little commodes in AOI offices around the world and wardrobes in police offices. I ate that fish, plugged in my notebook to the power line and went to the toilet. When I heard the door slamming again while pissing in that smelly porcellain. „What you do ere, buying women an give them cocaine, par blue?“ I looked around and saw a hooked nosed face of a elderly French bigot who was watching me with disgust the day before when I was writing o the terrace. „No, I wait for gay rug munchers from Paris who could not score enough young boys in Tanger to hook them up on Portugese dogs with tight sphincters, By the way you looked good last week when they made alive broadcast from Paris Rue Cadet when you were feating on dogshit as a market introduction of your new sacrament.“ He stared at me with such a disgust, same as Mitterand, when Kohl served him Pfälzer Saumagen as main dish to really piss him off in Bonn in the eighties. „The woooman complained about you that you look at her before with the AOI, maybe you stop writing ere better forever.“ He paid her for later testifying anthing he wanted for the AOI that was the game, that was obvious and so boring that I resisted any answer and grabed his cell phone in a kind of Blitzkrieg against the arrogant Grand Orient shitface and threw it in my piss that was gathering in the sink of my pissoir since it was clocked. It was covered in the liquids completely and looked peaceful down there when it moved around very slowly in my and other mens piss, dangling around, that had gathered there. „Anything else from the Grand Masters?“ I asked and went out, grabbed my things and left while she tried to look away, playing the shy one since I had never talked to her. It was raining cats and dogs when I went out of that fucking place. The cuisine was still good there. Portugese housewife kitschen.

Back in the woods I felt like in a rain forest in Malaysia, that was the closest resemblance that crossed my mind. I had just felt a little piece of bad old Portugese black magic with a typical Mulatto woman, who would have sworn that I had eaten her babies for 50 Euros bribe from a French Mugface. The forest had changed its apperance and vibe totally. Moistness and fog was omnipresent and swapping slowly inside me, despite of the ridicoulos umbrella I opened. My torch was showing a scenery I had never seen before, huge brances were coming down on me, dripping wet, nothing seend the same as in the morning. I searched for my backpack and stuff and got totally lost. My marks on trees were lost, all the small paths I remembered lead into more strange things I had never seen before and the rain intesified in the dark and was running down my neck. I did not give up and ran into another direction, after starting from the beginning again ang ended at exactly the same worng group of trees as before: no plastic with my backpack and sleeping back hiding under it. So I went back again and heard some voices suddenly „Are you looking for your things my dear?“ loud and clear. „yes I am fucking lost in that fucking rain forest“. „We can lead you to your belongings, just follow us“. „So who are you by the way“. „we are the fairies here and know evertyhing and alos you because you was here before“. Ok I thought at least some positive magic in that fucking country with Grand Orient noses everywhere and and snitching hookers on camping grounds, evil dolls in empty houses and such. The voices were loud and clear, no whispering in it. „Go left now, ok, now turn right an go on“ I did and asked: „What do you want for this, is it free of charge, since you are unknown spirits to me, I did not give you anything before.“ „You must not talk to any other woman ever after this when you got your things“. What would you have done in this situation? I agreed and they led me on my way back to my belongings bin the npouring fucking Portugese rain of cats and dogs and Portugese fairies. The Spanish have none of this as far I know, but I wondered if the Portugese ones keep on being as good as they seemed. At least theye were absoluteley loud and clear and kept my on my way for quite a while now. I had to crawl under hanging branches, climb over a nature stone wall in the forest and after another „now left“ I stood in front of my bags. „Thank you, that was great“ I said, now you may leave. „Remember: we are the only ones, don't talk to other women.“ I did not answer an they left me with my bags.

I found a place to sleep nearby under a huge tree and covered myself with my plastic foil from the pouring Portugese rainforest rain and that went well. Those fairies left a remarkable vibe behind I did not know before, quite energetic. I slept well and woke up the next morning, sat up and looked into the rising sun in perfect weather. I looked around myself and thought, wow, they still have some good nature here when a bleak whiff hit my left nostril that wasn't so good. SHIT, that it was. I stood up, dressed and walked around. About less that five meters way from me i ran into a real shit place. Fresh human shit turds with toilet papers thrown away around it.- I couldn't believe it. Where was I? I was about more than hunderds of meters away from a main path in a forest and cked it out: they had really scatted around me in that rainy night in about five meters distance, what the fuck. I had never experienced such a contempt and disgust for that animals who did this. So forest was spoiled and desacrifized and downtrodden now. That was a kind of ritual place of scatters or whatever and the saddest thing in that is the toilet paper with shitstains on it, not the turds in different colors intself. It is the ultimate obscenity for me: a shitting place with shit stained toilet papers in different colors. Difficult to beat that in obscenity for me.

I packed my things together, my knife ready to use if the shitters party by for an ass rape or whatever. It was quite obvious that they fucking and fondling each others asses to realy get into the caviar to get it out and created a little ritual around me. Men off course, these animals were male who did this. I checked the area and was wondering about the many small paths everywhere without any reason. Not were I had slept but further outside. I did some serious boyscouting then to get the clue of that mess and crawled inside the dense parts of the forest and found a wall of nature stones in some terrace someone build a hundred or twohundred years ago. I checked out the wall and took out a stone that did not seem to fit. My torch found a kind of jewlers box inside. I took it out and opened it: there were some childrens toys in it like little cuddle figures and many small hand written leaflets and papers most of them in French with strange messages and time and date notices. I was so disgusted, without an official reason that I did not know what to do. I took out the childrens toys and buried them and put the box back, put in the stone and was about leaving that horrible space when I heard footsteps. I hid in the woods nearby and a young man with a mountain bike on his shoulders crashed thru the bushes and branches, throwing his bike on the ground shouting „merde, merde!!“ and grabbed at the stone immediately. He took out the box and opened it. „Qu'est-ce-que c'est“ he shrieked and looked around him on the floor. He read the papers on top and threw them on the grond, trampling on them. Then he placed the open box on the ground, took down his pants and shitted in the box. He closed it with his turd inside an sealed it with the stone in the wall and went away.

I felt like in a theatre or candid camera, but it wasn't. There was something so bleak and perfectly constructed in that reality I had just witnessed that I felt the world around me slipping away. I grabbed my things, curious that none of the mysterious cophrophiles watched me and went back to the Lisboa Camping ground. Now I realized how many small paths were build into the forest and I realized some strange folks on mountain bikes and BMX bikes everywhere. In the end it was just trees between a network of paths for only end: they lead to always the same: meeting someone here and that should not be avoided. Not avoided at all,there was a secret message behind it – that this is the only reality they, the AOI accepts. Even for the price they shit you on your head while you are sleeping in something YOU regard as nature while THEY are changing it to a matrix.

I arrived at the camping and was welcomed by the full set of AOI personell choreographing the stage for me. The long haired agent form Hannover was there staring at me with a a look of sheer disgust in evil eyes, while the Grand Orient Master from France was dining with his wife and doing the scene for him. She asked him in French if I was the pimp from Germany trying to buy out the Mulatto women in the restaurant cum camping shop. That bored me to such an extent that I steped in the kitchen like a raiding police goon and sweettalked to the Mulatto waitress: „How much did that French peodophile pay you ta talk shit about me? By the way, it was you who stared at me, as if you would like to fitten the pipe already here in your kitchen. I did not talk to you at all, remember, always regarded you as a cashier in all aspects and waited for the price.“ „ Just a job in Paris, I hate Portugese men“. „The only good people I meet here are Fairies and people in the concentration camp, just across the road, you asshole“ I said and went away. I passed the table of the French couple who left a mobile phone for me there and were already gone. I grabed the cheap cell phone, full of hatred for the frog eating motherfucker. I looked around outside and the Hannover AOI crew was staring at me – without saying a word as usual, alllong haired, full freak show from AOI Hannover. I could not see the French couple ad wöked to the bus station, whe he was sitting with his so caled wife. The phone was ringing. I took the call and a French voice told me „ You can not harass and attack and harass Monsieur Lafitte all the time, this is Interpol Lyon“. „ Right, you are AOI France, the Grand Orient.  Did you bury the children in the forest before or after shitting on them, you French fucking Grand Orient piece of shit from Paris, that phone smells like kikeshit, you hear me?“ Klick it made and just had time enough to throw the fucking piece of shit in the direction of Monsieur Lafitte who was just climbing into the bus to the centre. Baang, it burst into pieces at the bus door just closing behind my French friends from Paris.

I had enough with cheap symbolism from the Seine. I swore to myself to never enter that Camping Ground again but to stay with the downtrodden poor working class in the Gettho or in the forest. The first one was unavailable after a short time, since the police made it perfectly clear that I was the most unwanted person in Portugal and zthey did not want a witness by exterminating them all for having social values of all so I moved to another part of the forest. I was again attracted by the magic of it and found a small and steep hill in it to rest there, since nobody could see me there. The fairies were back in the evening around me, talking loud about the nice new ground „I owned“ there but with a different attitude.But they were watching me when I moved out on he street to that aprt of forest. Slimy freaky Portugese guys were standing in the way, backpacks of lost people were on he side of the road, contact lense containers were down in the dirt and dust. The shit was hitting the fan the Portugese way, they were encirceling me.

In the night I stayed on top of the hill and it felt perfectly safe. A hilltop is a gift from heaven, even without a rifle or another gun, only siege can get you out of there. So climbed into my sleeping bag, felt cosy and good, with my moneybelt around me, inside my trousers even. In the morning I woke up and climbed out of the sleeping bag. My moneybelt felt very slim. I opened it and all the cash, the cards and the USB sticks were gone. All of my valuables were placed around the edges of the hilltop, 5 to 10 metres away from me on the ground: money, cards and USB sticks. I did not even questioned myself why this has happened, I took this is as normal reality like ringing a door bell. I just collected my items, counted the money, it was all there and stuffed it back into my moneybelt. Any natural explanation was absolutely excluded. At least I had just pissed of the Fairies I said to myself, I will keep that hilltop and look for myself, nobody has seen me here, I will stay and fuck them all. I had just made myself ready after packing my gear together when they attacked. Three French byciclists with expensive uniform like biking outfit where moving up the hill, the first one had a new jewellers box in his hand. They were waiting for me. 

I escaped to Porto where I found the system of the French AOI perfected. French AOI personell is buying the whole town piece by piece turning it into a Grand Orient homosexual play ground and place of occult worshipping with masnonic rebuilding of the town off Porto that does not deserve to be portrayed at all. From there I fled immediately to Spain, where the German Nazis were waiting for me personally. They appeared personally with their Spanisch friends form the Guardia Civil.

Copyright 2019 by Ronald C. Kaiser