Qayid Aljaysh Juyub

Almost a thriller: The corrector

Well shielded from the less pleasant environment, the solvent tourist in the 'Crusoe Club' in one of the poorest countries in the world led an even carefree and pleasant life. In contrast to the majority of the native population, which was already allowed to enjoy on earth the infinite privilege of being allowed to enjoy a foretaste of the Christian hell and eternal damnation, really paradisiacal conditions prevailed in the resort of upscale, Western travel culture.

The specialist - let's call him Ratzen, because names are smoke and mirrors - sipped his non-alcoholic drink and watched with an amused glint in his eye the clueless mostly Teutonic luxury vacationers; sheep they all were after all. It would be easy for the observer to transport each one of them to a better world within a very short time. For a brief moment, Ratzen thought about having a little fun and freeing one of the observed from his pathetically stuffy little existence by means of a funny accident, but in the end professionalism won out over liberation-theological inclinations.

At the same time, our man's appearance did not differ significantly from that of any other well-off citizen. Rather, he belonged to those average types who were readily overlooked because of their supposedly harmless inconspicuousness; an invaluable advantage in his line of work.

You will probably have a vague idea what that consisted of? Ratzen corrected, so to speak, the events of the time, in that the mid-fifties man, thanks to his special talent for craftsmanship, made sure that disruptive contemporaries came to an end prematurely, before they could touch the circles of true power. Tragic accidents, failed operations and fatal illnesses were welcomed. However, if all else failed, someone had to be JFK-ed or assassinated with less minimal political cover, as a last resort. 'JFK-ed'? Don't take me seriously, it's all just absolutely unrealistic fiction and full of conspiracy theory anyway. Should anyone be interested in where the term comes from, I recommend Google or another search engine, if that should really be necessary.

In this context, Ratzen came to his lucrative job by quite unusual situation. A semi-initiated politician - Prime Minister of a federal state of Fantasia - went completely berserk in an embarrassing political affair and threatened to reveal his dangerous half-knowledge to the public in his delusion. Normally, such cases were handled with subtle methods, such as quick disposal in secretive, mental institutions. But stupidly, the troublemaker was completely unpredictable, and haste was definitely the order of the day. So the potential whistleblower, with the help of a less talented amateur, committed suicide in such a way that even scribblers who conformed to the system began to wonder; and they did not even become suspicious when, a few years earlier, extremely troublesome terrorists in a high-security prison also committed suicide by shooting themselves in the neck. Dude, so to speak the Stalinist divorce method, because the wife of the great dictator killed herself with this method probably with the help of the loving husband.

After this affair, our man - at that time still a freelance artist - came into play to handle such inconvenient incidents with fatal consequences as discreetly as possible. In the process, Ratzen - code name 'Corrector' - succeeded in a true masterpiece with the 'new edition' of the 'Red Brigade Union'. Actually, the RBU essentially went into the eternal hunting grounds with the 'suicide' of already mentioned terrorists - well, smaller remnants still operated under this name, but dissolved after the downfall of the supporting power bloc (UdFZS=Union of Feudalistic Coercive Systems).

After the reunification of Fantasia, there was then a miscellaneous problem with the administrator of the UdFZS estate, who, by possessing various files of the faded state security service, dared to blackmail important 'people' for their unclean deals with the 'Democratic Republic of Fantasia' in order to line his own pockets. As a one-man army, so to speak, the corrector staged the resurrection of the Red Brigades and eliminated the little impudent man who did not expect such an action by feigned accommodation of his 'victims'. After the successful assassination attempt, the RBU still confessed to a few, harmless actions, in which Ratzen only produced property damage, and then disappeared again into oblivion. The position of the tragically deceased trustee was subsequently filled by an unofficial coerced employee of the former state security service, who, out of pure Christian mercy, spread the mantle of file-destroying silence over all too compromising documents and whom the heavenly hosts subsequently rewarded with a hellish career; hallelujah! But back to our story.

Ratzen turned away from observing unaware tourists with a regretful sigh and concentrated on his assignment. This time, too, it was a matter to be settled quickly, although there was no murderous criticality of time here. As always, an innocuous personal ad in an illustrated newspaper referred to a reference in another medium:

'Open-minded older lady in executive position seeks nice young man for joint ventures. Blablabla. Likes to read, among other things also technical literature like the 'Cosmopolitian Post for Poor'...etc... Letters to Chiffre XXXXXX' until (an appointment 2 weeks in the future).’

I.e.: The victim is female, older and an entrepreneur. The job is to be done within two weeks. More details about the person can be found in the current issue of the mentioned magazine. The authentication, so to speak, was done by the address given in the advertisement, so that our man did not accidentally forward someone without an order. Thus, the corrector never got to know his breadwinners and that was a good thing.

As expected, the magazine contained a detailed article about Catherine Medici - a big industrialist with an advanced expiry date - and her planned stay in the Franciscan Republic. Of course in the foreground of the typically Teutonic machination of uncritical court reporting - even the Christian friend and confessing narcissist Nero would have probably let the author throw to the lions because of his in bad style slimed eulogies - the charitable efforts of the chipper multimillionaire in the 'Franz Rep' and less the working conditions in the Medici-owned textile factories on the spot reminding of cage keeping.

Of course, this could hardly be compared with the miserable condition of the exploited European working masses in the 19th century, whose work-life balance was clearly better; presumably even brutally oppressed field slaves in the Southern states before the War of Secession had drawn a far more favorable lot.

So the problem-solving 'civil servant' hurriedly followed the tracks of that profit-maximizing benefactress who resided quite modestly in the 'Majestic Colonianistical'; a real luxury hotel of the middle 'high society' and by no means for those who only thought of themselves as such, such as certain presidential, lay preacher-like civil servant souls. The selection criteria and security measures were designed accordingly, so that our 'torpedo' was faced with a certain challenge, which, however, also stimulated his sporting spirit.

Ratzen spent the past few days discreetly investigating the location and the hunting game. The advantage was that one could leave the Crusoe Club at any time and relatively uncomplicated.

The corrector finished his exquisite drink with a draught and ended his mental reflections, for the work called, which he would joyfully terminate today.

(…)


„An urgent message for her highness Katharina Medici!”

"You don't say! You can talk to me in Teutonic, but spare me your horrible accent!"

The hunky NEGRO - this is especially for you, my ignorant politically correct friends, so that you can vent your narrow-minded frustration in petty bourgeois furor - contemptuously regarded Ratzen in his ordinary Armani garb.

"Very well, sir! I come from the Asgard Express, if I may legitimize myself?"

The handsome warrior lord in his tailored designer uniform regarded the messenger critically. As outside porter and wagon master, he and his two subordinates were responsible for ensuring that no unsuitable people entered the 'Majestic Colonianistical'.

"Asgard Express Global Information Service? Let's see your badge then, Pal. But very slowly!"

Watched vigilantly by the outside doorman and his two fellow bouncers, who had meanwhile positioned themselves strategically so that they could speak with their well-hidden, large-caliber handguns in case of emergency, the supposed courier took out the desired document and handed it to the black giant with a slimy grin. The latter, in turn, took out his smartphone with deft grace and authenticated the ID via the corresponding application.

We should perhaps insert a few explanatory words here. The AEGIS was, as the inclined reader had probably already recognized, a courier company. What was special about this organization was that messages were passed on exclusively verbally, since it could well prove fatal if highly sensitive data in written or electronic form fell into the wrong hands. The field staff of this company received a princely remuneration, but they took a certain risk under certain circumstances, since in some cases it was quite advisable to let the messenger disappear after execution, or there were very unpleasant methods used by unauthorized persons to make stubborn couriers talk.

"Hmm, Frank Jacson, level 3c. Say Pal, are you delivering any begging requests from your autistic government leader or any congratulations? Well I hope the Medici has time for such nonsense!"

While the 'quick-witted' gatekeepers were relaxing with a certain carefree attitude, their boss called someone in charge in the bowels of the luxury hotel.

"Django, you old - now for all the bigoted Pharisees raging pleasure - GYPSY KING, Shaka here. We have a third-rate AEGIS courier here for the Medici. Roger, I'm waiting."

While the black prince waited for the replica at the other end, he regarded Ratzen disdainfully; then, after a few minutes, there was a reply.

"Wants to see him, really now? Affirmative, he is really just a little ass. Best send Schlachtinger, the Teutonic squarehead, the dumbass will do! Out."

Shaka gave the messenger of the third set an amused grin.

"You are lucky, Pal. Obviously the Medici is bored and wants to listen to your little talk. You're about to be picked up by security and escorted through the service entrance, after all we don't want to spoil our guests' appetites with your puny appearance. Understood?"

"Yessir, Mr. Shaka!"

‚Yessir-Shaka’ made an unmistakably contemptuous sound and ignored the little courier.

Ratzen quivered with inward pleasure, as he always did when he managed a deception. The boys were professionals, but had their weak points. Shaka's, for example, consisted of arrogance and overconfidence resulting from the ex-mercenary's successful career in all sorts of theaters of war. According to the research of the corrector, of the total of four Frontex security chiefs, the black warrior prince offered the best chance to penetrate the luxury hotel. Since the division of the gatekeepers followed a rigid shift schedule, it was an easy task to determine Shaka's duty hours.

Furthermore, his AEGIS identification card -purchased from the Gelsum 'clan chief' Walidu Al'akadhib at a discount price- was good for a few hours until the hoax would be exposed, which was not least due to the low 'rank' of the holder. Another advantage was the fact that although it was very difficult to enter the Majestic Colonianistical, there was not even any video surveillance inside the complex, since the exclusive clientele valued their privacy and the hotel owners considered the security measures to be so effective with regard to the rigid access restrictions that they did not even check the staff areas.

"Ah, there's Schlachtinger, the old white stinker!"

Oh, that's politically correct. Sorry, my puritan friends, that's probably not for your holy anger.

A hulking figure, resembling a troll from bad fantasy movies, approached the group with a mindless grin and greeted the Frontex security chief with a raised hand.

Hail Shaka. Detlef Schlachtinger, ready for job service as working man, surely!”

Shaka grinned broadly. How he loved it when this white idiot tried to speak in English.

I suppose, you are not qualified as a working man, but you can give me head, if you want. For a blow job, maybe, you are good enough.”

What is? Not understatement?“

Schlachtinger's shapelessly stupid facial expressions caused some amusement among his colleagues.

Ratzen decided to nip the budding comedy in the bud.

"I thought, Mr. Shaka, one could speak Teutonic to you?"

The king of the Zulus flashed a slightly displeased glare at the spoilsport.

“ Who asked you sauerkraut shiting potato (crap, according to the catechism for the good subject also political correct)? Schlachtinger, my old - Bingo! - Niggerle, you now bring this shriveled GRUMBEERE (a little quiz for our little Bourgeoise, correct or not?) to the staff entrance.”

Yes Sir chief! Hail!“

Nudging the courier rudely in the desired direction, the linguistic genius prepared to carry out his master's instructions.

"Jacson, one more word!"

Ratzen together with the ugly-chunky Detlef turned to the mischievously smiling Shaka Zulu.

"If you don't behave, I'm afraid we'll have to liquidate you; but maybe we'll just cut off your puny genitals."

The horrified expression of the supposed courier - Ratzen's acting talent in all honor - caused considerable and loud amusement of the Frontex troops, who were on the verge of urinating in their pants with pleasure; even the dull Schlachtinger, could not suppress a silly grin.

In a hurry and accompanied by more gales of laughter, the mismatched pair made their way to the staff entrance.

(…)

"Ah, the messenger boy!"

Katharina Medici looked at Ratzen, who had just entered her suite flanked by the faithfully doofy Detlef, with mockingly shining eyes.

The path to the longed-for destination was not entirely smooth for the corrector. At the barbed-wire personnel entrance, the strange couple was met by heavily armed blackshirts of the 'International Mercenary and Samurai Service' - Teutonic hotel guests also abbreviated this special service gladly with the first letters of the last two terms. Ratzen and, for fun, the stupid Schlachtinger were then subjected to a routine strip search, during which even the anus was searched for hidden weapons. Finally, Ratzen and his shadow passed through a bullet-proof airlock, only to be met by three top-class 'security specialists' in tailor-made suits. They subjected the unfortunate messenger to a small but intense interrogation, which, however, proceeded without the usual physical reprisals (=light torture) to which servants and couriers were otherwise subjected, since, as expected, they relied on the judgment of the highly respected Shaka Zulu. The small, ugly details may be spared the inclined reader, especially since the author is also simply too lazy to describe them in detail. In any case, the proofreader was considered to be so harmless that he was given the less mentally gifted Schlachtinger as an escort. As mentioned, no further security-related inconveniences awaited our man, and the rest of the journey went off without a hitch.

"They really sent me a narrow gelding there!"

Sexism and arrogance were undoubtedly two flaws of the big industrial character. The third man - a well-proportioned youth, whose appearance reminded of Michelangelo's 'David' - in the living area of the equally splendid and spacious suite took the words of his mistress as an opportunity to let out a melodious sardonic giggle. This, however, did not arouse the pleasure of his mistress, who gave the stupid Detlef a meaningful nod, which he, of course, did not understand and returned in his idiot way. Medici let out a slightly annoyed sigh and gave the Adonis-like youth a resounding slap after she had approached him with measured steps.

"Didn't I tell you to keep yourself closed until I allow you to talk. Under it also stupid laughter falls! You go now already once in the bedroom, undress and wait for me. Hop, hop Sylvester!"

The chastised fertility god, like a whipped dog, did as he was told.

Catherine the Strict gave Detlef the Intelligent Beast a short look, which was just below the kindness with which she normally gave annoying vermin or workers in her textile and pharmaceutical factories.

"Cretin!"

"Nah, madam, my name is Detlef Schlachtinger!"

Without paying any further attention to the mentally so gifted security guard, the distinguished lady finally turned to the waiting courier.

Ratzen had analyzed the situation in the meantime and discovered with joy the ice pick, which lay lonely beside an opened champagne cover and an ice cube container. To finish off the misshapen Schlachtinger with bare hands could be too time-consuming. I tell you dude, luck is just part of the business! Otherwise, the operation went according to plan, because another Medici bad habit was their incredible pedantry, which manifested itself in the corrector's favor in a rigid daily routine and a pronounced sense of trivialities, such as the personal receipt of a potentially unimportant message.

"Those toy boys, what's his name again? I've actually forgotten the name of my Italian Stallion, but that's completely unimportant. But now to you, little messenger boy. What's up?"

"Minister Karl humbly sends his regards..."

"Nazi Charlie again, weren't my instructions clear? Everything must be told to him, so he should finally sell the millions of doses of this gene broth..."

With a skillful movement Ratzen seized the ice pick and rammed it unerringly into the heart of the Troll-like Schlachtinger, who died letting winds from his mouth and more southern regions. Before the teutonic aurochs same security went to the ground, the contract killer already tore the ice pick from the chest of his victim and had placed himself quickly behind the completely dismayed businesswoman, holding the murder weapon to her neck.

"Not a peep, madam! We're going to walk very slowly to the phone now. You will now call Wyatt Earp at the reception and tell him that I can pass alone in five minutes. You still need Schlachtinger for private services! No emergency password, they are well known to me, otherwise you are dead! I just want one piece of information from you, if you give it to me, I promise I'll just stun you and let you live!"

Without a doubt, the worst Medici mistake researched by Ratzen was that the otherwise intelligent woman forgot her mind in stressful situations.

"Okay, you bastard!"

Slowly, the unwilling pair approached the phone.

"Earp, listen, the courier may pass, he will leave the hotel unescorted through the staff entrance in five minutes! I still need Schlachtinger for private services".

After the docile (taming oft he screw?) Catherine ended the call, Ratzen killed her with a well-aimed stab with the ice pick, so that the big industrialist silently passed away. The corrector professionally removed his fingerprints and knowingly spared the tormented gallant in the bedchamber. He had obviously not noticed the almost silent activities and was waiting full of financial anticipation for the 'great love'; an ideal scapegoat for a jealousy drama, by the way. Satisfied, the corrector left the completed work.

(…)

"Do you have any other requests?"

Ratzen looked at the stewardess appraisingly. Whether a round on the airplane toilet belonged to the service in the first class? If he were only 20 years younger, he would have tried his luck with the young lady for probably. Now, however, he was content to sip his fine whiskey and think about the successful job.

"No thanks, very kind of you!"

With a business-like sweet smile, the late object of desire stepped away. What a pity!

Why did the Medici have to die? She probably stood in the way of a billion-dollar deal in some way, or her nose just didn't fit one of the really powerful people, but it didn't really matter.

As expected, the official version of the 'tragedy' was about a jealous lover who cruelly struck down the unfaithful Katharina together with her secret love, the bodyguard - unbelievable but true - Schlachtinger. The unofficial version together with the mysterious courier did not really interest anyone.

If anyone was indispensable, Ratzen was overcome with a touch of megalomania, it was him, the unique and ever-successful corrector. His smartphone rudely interrupted his pleasant train of thought with a message. Puzzled, Ratzen read the last transmission.

"Thank you for services rendered and adieu!"

Before the plane blew up - those evil Islamists scapegoats- Ratzen realized that for the great ones of this world, anyone really was replaceable.

© 2020 Q.A. Juyub & H.K.H. Jeub

 

Todos los derechos pertenecen a su autor. Ha sido publicado en e-Stories.org a solicitud de Qayid Aljaysh Juyub.
Publicado en e-Stories.org el 07.07.2022.

 

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