Post Number Twenty Eight

“The Plight of The Gnasher”

See, the thing I was trying to clear up  in the previous Posting was all to do with my (short-lived) lack of revenge enthusiasm. But that’s all history now. Ancient– no: prehistoric— history (just like what the aborigines have). For when I felt the pinch of the Gnasher’s digits on my unwanted horror buttons, The Rage was reborn. Then when I heard her call me “Drunken Drooligan the Turd” (AKA the Name of Shame) the reborn rage was held by the ankles and slapped on the arse, making it even angrier. Ergo, the welt my rage got from hearing the Name will be something I sit on all the way to Siam. Soon as me and the welt have hitched a flight, that is.

Luckily, the job of hitching a flight has become a lot easier thanks to this “friend” I’ve now got “on the inside” (of the airport, I mean). Proof? Well, whenever some sticky beak of an airport security guy questions why I’m standing on the tarmac with my roll bag and my thumb, NATASHA DE NASHA (that “inside friend”) says:

“Hey, Bill. BILL! Chill. Chill, Bill. Just… hey, Hey, HEY!! Bill? Jus’ chill. He’s Okay.”

Then when Chilly Billy tries to contradict my okay-ness, Natasha will (normally) say (re: my flight ambitions):

“Birds do it. Bees do it. Even dodgy refu-GEES do it. So you can do this, Bill: take a flying ‘FUCK’ to the land of ‘OFF’.”

And thus my girl smacks down Old Man Bureaucracy (disguised as Bill) until he (or she) learns his (or her) proper place: under the thumb of those who may one day pay taxes (like me) (although, as a “Social Work Theory Studies” major… well, you know how it is).

But Old Man Taxation System is not important right now. What is important right now is New Girl Natasha’s (taxpayer-funded) job and the questions raised by same. Searching questions like: How the coincidental fuck did she ever wind up working at the same customs point that I, personally, had to go through? I mean, only “reality” gets that weird, right?

Then there’s a secondary question. Specifically, why the inexplicable fuck did the Customs Commissars hire a loose cannon like her in the first place?

Answer: Because She Was There.

And where else would she be? When all she really had to do was make the short leap from a prison guard’s uniform into a customs officer’s uniform, her there-ness became au naturel. But just in case you’re curious about her elsewhere-ness (back when she wasn’t “there”, but was “elsewhere”) I prob’ly should say a few words re: The Gnasher’s relocation.

It all came about (as most things do) because of me.

After she found out who I was (and arguably still am) all those Postings ago, she’d (obviously) been troubled by her lack of schooling– a trouble worsened by the discovery that I (a tertiary savant) was now officially heaps more smarter than her is. As a result, she got herself one o’ them new-fangled, old fashioned inferiority complexes– and with it she decided (I’m analysing now) decided (I say) to take out her bubbling rage on close-at-hand persons of high braininess level.

Unfortunately, she worked in a male prison.

And while those dumps may be bushy with eyebrows, they’re not exactly bustling with highbrows. Therefore, she settled for picking on the smartest of the prison-folk; which basically meant the ones who could count all the way up to twenty-one (that is, one more than the number of toes and fingers {most of ’em} had). And so, by whittling the numbers of candidates down, she isolated the cream of the jailhouse crop– and picked on him.

Unfortunately, he was the Governor.

Didn’t matter, though. Hiding behind his rank would not protect him. Nor would hiding behind one of his other favourite hiding spots. Like a tree. Or a Tongan. His tormentress (Natasha) would leap out from behind an equal and/or opposite hiding spot and grab his craggy old-guy nipples with her bare knuckles, then give them what she called “the Rising Volume Twist” (her specialty)– which is to say, the more she twisted, the louder the volume of his high-pitched objectings. Henceforth, he became so tearfully fearful (did the Governor) that he (the Governor) started (or “Guv” to his homies) arriving at work in disguise. One day he’d come as a Guv-sized pink Mexican sombrero, the next he’d come as a lactating She-Pig, and the following day he’d come as a large, rosy-coloured button. Yet none of these cunning disguises were quite cunning enough to thwart the Gnasher’s failsafe nipple radar. Somehow— Zeus only knew how– she sensed it was him. Ev’ry. Buh-luddy. Toim.

So the work-related stress began to take its grim toll on the Prison Guv, who’d often dodge his punishing schedule by hiding in the cells of the (surprisingly hospitable) guys that schedule was intended to punish. Ironically, though, his very own governing regime had put in place DAILY CELL SEARCHES, and so the Governor got frequently caught (by the craggy old you-know-whats) in his own wicked web. They would find him under the bunk of a random axe-murderer (for example), whereunder twin sets o’ familiar thumbs and forefingers would reach to flush him out– The Hard Way. In response to which he would squawk:

“AAAARRRRGH!! fuck ya!” Then adding: “I KNEW I should’a hid under the bottom bunk!”

(Because… under the TOP bunk is, like… also a bed.)

The hard-pressed (and harder squeezed) Governor fully realized that this could not go on much longer, so he put a big, red X on his wall calendar, and the date he crossed out was the date when “this” (as forecast) would no longer be “going on”. When came that fateful day, he crawled out from under the bottom bunk where he was (now) hiding, thanked his bunk-buddy the Serial Rapist who lived in that cell for being such a generous host (and, yes, it should be said: sensitive lover)  and quickly scurried off to his (i.e. the Governor’s) office, where he fired off a stern (yet whining) e-mail to Old Man Bureaucracy (sometimes known as “Bill”) re: that whole nippular harassment issue.

Eight bureaucratic working days (or two and a half normal working months) later, Old Man B. fired back a solution.  The “problem” (i.e. Natasha) would be relocated to an area where people expected– perhaps even welcomed— a lot of probing and groping: the Customs Office, where that sort’a thing had become (wait for it) a TRADITION! (Or “custom”. Yair… Prob’ly should’a said “custom”. Dammit.)

So my friend on the inside was the one who told me all the above. Now I can be sure that when I go back to the tarmac tomorrow, Natasha De Nasha will keep her colleagues at thumb’s length as I hitch my little red wagon to The Stars. Or a D.C-10.

Or “9”, I’m not fussy.

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