His name is Greg. He is known by our clan as The Traveler. I am the Tengu. My name has existed some four of my then twenty-five years. I understand The Traveler earned his name long before me mine.
This man could kill me with a look.
Across the oaken table he cradles a mug of sickeningly-bitter yerba mat in one bear-sized paw. The Traveler begins to weave a story. His tales often trump mine. This time is no different.
It is sometime before that oh-so-joyous Iran-Contra affair. We will always love killing one another over petty shit. As The Traveler does not yet have the empire he will during the early years of the twenty-first century, he is forced to undertake a heavy amount of his business travels by himself. It is the morning. The Traveler is preparing to leave France.
"They were stupid, I tell you," he tells me. "Police, they walk around with BIG machine gun in perfect step. Their patrol timed to clock. Every fifteen minute they walk. It is easy for child to know." He speaks to me of the armed FNP who patrol Orly Airport. Their patrols timed perfectly, these uniformed men walk the length and breadth or the terminal in lock step formation. Their schedule does not waver.
"These men think they are doing fine job."
The Traveler does not bother adding articles to his vocabulary. I love this.
At a time when most of the world is asleep, The Traveler stands in the nearly-empty Orly airport, preparing to check his baggage.
The man carrying the tattered brown satchel walks into the terminal. His presence remains unknown to the patrolling guard. This man has timed his arrival. He is able to walk the length of the terminal, place his bag a few feet away from The Traveler's turned back, and with an unseen grace, depart.
Security tapes will later show that the man does all this in the span of less-than-a-minute.
The man's entrance-to, and departure-from the terminal have been met with no amount of resistance. Like clockwork, the FNP are making their patrol: they are on the opposite side of the terminal.
When the bomb explodes, The Traveler is flung 30 feet through the air. He hits the terminal's back wall and slumps into unconsciousness. He is still breathing.
When he awakens, it is by the force of two of the FNP, dragging him by the armpits. The Traveler is being taken to one of the airport's security rooms. He is one of over fifty-some-odd people injured in the blast. Half-a-dozen souls were not so lucky. Despite his close proximity to the bomb, Greg survives.
His time spent in the emergency room proves that he has temporarily lost his ability to hear. French doctors try to explain to The Traveler that, yes, this loss is only just temporary: his hearing will return.
As a "we're sorry you totally got the fuck all blow'd out of you" gesture, the airport procures a room for our human piata at a nearby four-star hotel. He is granted free reign over room service.
Upon arrival, the concierge promptly informs The Traveler that room service has stopped for the evening. When it rains... well, we all fuckin' go swimming, that's for damn certain.
A wry smile appearing in the corners of his weathered face, my friend tells me that his conversation with the hotel staff was mostly rude gesticulations and notes poorly-scribbled in English on gold-stenciled hotel stationary.
Frustrated, he shambles down the block, buys a two-dollar sandwich from a nearby baguette, and retires to his hotel room for the evening. His flight was scheduled for sometime in the morning. It is now well-past midnight the following day. The Traveler has failed to make it out of France.
Stepping out of the shower, he is met by a brisk rap on his hotel door. A well-intentioned reparation for his misery, the hotel has sent a bellhop, who in turn presents a bottle of the cellar's finest bubbly. Placing a stemmed ice bucket and opening the bottle, the bellhop excuses himself from the room.
While he is physically exhausted from his ordeal this day, The Traveler is not sleepy. He places a chair in the middle of the room. He turns on the television, flips to a news channel. The Traveler unwraps his sandwich, pours himself a glass of wine. He sits down.
The Traveler turns the volume up on the television set, as he is having difficulty hearing the news caster dictate the happenings of the previous day. The footage on screen appears to consider a terrorist bombing occurring at the nearby Orly airport; killing several, wounding many.
Again The Traveler increases the volume. He still cannot hear the news caster.
Here sits a Scotsman. He is clad only in wet hair and boxers. He is eating a store-bought sandwich whilst drinking a $1,000 bottle of French wine. He is trying in earnest to hear a report being broadcast in a language he does not understand. Ultimately, a moot point... for the moment he is deaf.
The Traveler begins to laugh.
This man could kill me with a look.
Across the oaken table he cradles a mug of sickeningly-bitter yerba mat in one bear-sized paw. The Traveler begins to weave a story. His tales often trump mine. This time is no different.
It is sometime before that oh-so-joyous Iran-Contra affair. We will always love killing one another over petty shit. As The Traveler does not yet have the empire he will during the early years of the twenty-first century, he is forced to undertake a heavy amount of his business travels by himself. It is the morning. The Traveler is preparing to leave France.
"They were stupid, I tell you," he tells me. "Police, they walk around with BIG machine gun in perfect step. Their patrol timed to clock. Every fifteen minute they walk. It is easy for child to know." He speaks to me of the armed FNP who patrol Orly Airport. Their patrols timed perfectly, these uniformed men walk the length and breadth or the terminal in lock step formation. Their schedule does not waver.
"These men think they are doing fine job."
The Traveler does not bother adding articles to his vocabulary. I love this.
At a time when most of the world is asleep, The Traveler stands in the nearly-empty Orly airport, preparing to check his baggage.
The man carrying the tattered brown satchel walks into the terminal. His presence remains unknown to the patrolling guard. This man has timed his arrival. He is able to walk the length of the terminal, place his bag a few feet away from The Traveler's turned back, and with an unseen grace, depart.
Security tapes will later show that the man does all this in the span of less-than-a-minute.
The man's entrance-to, and departure-from the terminal have been met with no amount of resistance. Like clockwork, the FNP are making their patrol: they are on the opposite side of the terminal.
When the bomb explodes, The Traveler is flung 30 feet through the air. He hits the terminal's back wall and slumps into unconsciousness. He is still breathing.
When he awakens, it is by the force of two of the FNP, dragging him by the armpits. The Traveler is being taken to one of the airport's security rooms. He is one of over fifty-some-odd people injured in the blast. Half-a-dozen souls were not so lucky. Despite his close proximity to the bomb, Greg survives.
His time spent in the emergency room proves that he has temporarily lost his ability to hear. French doctors try to explain to The Traveler that, yes, this loss is only just temporary: his hearing will return.
As a "we're sorry you totally got the fuck all blow'd out of you" gesture, the airport procures a room for our human piata at a nearby four-star hotel. He is granted free reign over room service.
Upon arrival, the concierge promptly informs The Traveler that room service has stopped for the evening. When it rains... well, we all fuckin' go swimming, that's for damn certain.
A wry smile appearing in the corners of his weathered face, my friend tells me that his conversation with the hotel staff was mostly rude gesticulations and notes poorly-scribbled in English on gold-stenciled hotel stationary.
Frustrated, he shambles down the block, buys a two-dollar sandwich from a nearby baguette, and retires to his hotel room for the evening. His flight was scheduled for sometime in the morning. It is now well-past midnight the following day. The Traveler has failed to make it out of France.
Stepping out of the shower, he is met by a brisk rap on his hotel door. A well-intentioned reparation for his misery, the hotel has sent a bellhop, who in turn presents a bottle of the cellar's finest bubbly. Placing a stemmed ice bucket and opening the bottle, the bellhop excuses himself from the room.
While he is physically exhausted from his ordeal this day, The Traveler is not sleepy. He places a chair in the middle of the room. He turns on the television, flips to a news channel. The Traveler unwraps his sandwich, pours himself a glass of wine. He sits down.
The Traveler turns the volume up on the television set, as he is having difficulty hearing the news caster dictate the happenings of the previous day. The footage on screen appears to consider a terrorist bombing occurring at the nearby Orly airport; killing several, wounding many.
Again The Traveler increases the volume. He still cannot hear the news caster.
Here sits a Scotsman. He is clad only in wet hair and boxers. He is eating a store-bought sandwich whilst drinking a $1,000 bottle of French wine. He is trying in earnest to hear a report being broadcast in a language he does not understand. Ultimately, a moot point... for the moment he is deaf.
The Traveler begins to laugh.