MARY DOWSER KIDNAPPED

 

The unfailingly fragrant Mary Dowser has been kidnapped by unknown agents outside her 4 star hotel in Kiev. Witnesses say her companion was knocked to the ground and Ms. Dowser was tossed into a Mercedes sedan by two men wearing clown masks. The vehicle made a quick getaway down Alla Tarasova Street. To date no ransom demands have surfaced. TVFP will keep you posted as this drama unfolds.

Prior to her kidnapping Ms. Dowser filed the following  two dispatches with TVFP. She writes to us:

Dispatch # 1

Let’s imagine you and I have taken the train from Paris. There is one final question that must be asked. But first, we leave on a grey cold day in June from Gare de Nord. We find ourselves on opposite sides of a compartment. I smell of Marlboros. I am half asleep reeking of German beer and cognac after a grand send off at the Brassierie de Ile du Saint Louis from my comrades and associates. You seem a little disdainful of my appearance. I manage a bleak smile. You retreat behind a newspaper. I scratch around in my bag for an ibuprofen. I fall asleep. When I wake up I find that you are resting with your head against the window nestled in a rolled up Burberry. You have taken off your unfashionable shoes. In fact I cannot help but notice that everything about you is unfashionable. You are snoring ever so gently. It is night. I look at my reflection in the window. Gaunt, haunted, melancholy visage. You stir and then suddenly your eyes open and you sit up quickly and we find ourselves looking into each other’s eyes. Pardon, je m’excuse, I say and look away. You give me a searching look and then reach in your suit coat pocket a take out a pack of Gauloises. L’exterior, mademoiselle, you say and tilt your head towards the sliding door of our compartment. This is where it happens, as cold moon light surrenders everything to the fierce dawn.

Dispatch #2

Mary Dowser on Euro 2012: A Fut-bol Tournament with Some History

My companion and I have made it to Kiev. Our four star accommodation is disgusting. The towels are dirty. The hotel staff smell of booze and marijuana. In the morning there was a pool of vomit outside our door. It was still there when we returned from breakfast. The people here are brutish. Neo Nazi Skinhead rule the streets.

What is also interesting about this fut-bol tournament is that at one time or another most of these nations were trying to kill each other or themselves. They were all pretty good at it. If they couldn't find a countryman to kill or a nearby country they went to Africa and killed Africans or Asia and killed anybody who didn't look like them.

As well as being a terrific fut-bol tournament Euro 2012 also features several countries that are in the midst of bailing out their incompetent greed driven bankers, politicians and business class. Ireland is bankrupt. Greece is bankrupt, except in Greece the bankers were the good guys. It was the petty bourgeois class who dodged their taxes and a government of sycophants who wouldn’t collect the taxes and cooked the books to get into the EU. Let’s see Spain is bankrupt. Portugal is almost bankrupt. Italy is on the verge. Oh and who’s running Europe right now? You guessed it, the guys who coined the phrase: Arbeit Macht Frei.

A note to my friends in Parkdale. My companion, a shy, affable Irishman from Dublin, who speaks perfect French, is Samuel Beckett. He is currently working on a French / Celtic fusion cookbook with the working title PLUS CA CHANGE / plus c'est la même chose / Potato Recipes for Every Occasion. His opinion of the Euro fut-bol tournament is that it is a parable. A house in the neighbourhood is on fire and instead of putting out the fire that will soon engulf them the neighbours are all glued to the televisions in search of glory, some, any proof that their petty, selfish lives have meaning when the true meaning of life and success is the neighbourhood. He also told me this charming joke which I now pass along to you.

 

An Irishman comes home and finds his wife in bed with an EU bureaucrat. The Irishman goes to the closet and takes out a revolver and points it at his head. His wife breaks out laughing. The Irishman glares at her and shouts, don’t laugh, you’re next.

Follow the links on my website and purchase this eBook of terrific short stories

 

Jim Read