‘A Gnome With See Through Pants’
published at Anak Sastra on 01/08/2020
reading time: two minutes
I woke up, sweating, with grains of yellow sand stuck between my two front teeth and a foul layer of What The Fek lingering on my tongue.
Slightly dazed I rinsed my mouth with some sour old wine I found on the bedside stand while throwing the over-starched linen from the Triple Island Totel™ -a Total Hotel- off of me.
Jumping out of the bed I was nearly taken down by the sharp shards of a broken whisky snifter trying to ambush my foot, luckily my army training kicked in just in time.
I yelled while trowing the rest of the broken glass out of the open window.
Sipping more wine I looked into the mirror mirror on the wall where crusts of old blood un-beautified my one of a kind face.
What the fuck have I been up to?
My fists didn’t hurt. My wallet was still empty. Just these weird grains of yellow sand stuck between my two front teeth.
Bloodied up and smelly a shower seemed unavoidable, so I snuck into some T.I.T. slippers and made my way to the bat, to the bathroom where I opened the faucet, cracked my neck and readied myself.
And then it hit me…
Soap! No soap?!
Of course no soap!!
Two days ago, in need of a magical helper, I had used the block of easily moldable material to craft my very own Golem.
Boy did he smell good.
However, before I was able to instruct him on the nefarious mission laying in front of us, the slippery little bastard got away.
I took the phone and tried room service, but alas, the number I was trying to reach was not being recognized.
Out of options but in dire need of some soap I threw on a bathrobe and made my way to reception.
The elevator announced my arrival.
‘Aah, good morning mistereuh..’
‘Hi there, I need some soap please.’
‘Soap? Mistereuh needs some soap?’
‘Soap. Mistereuh needs some soap?’
‘Mistereuh needs some soap?’
While rummaging through some papers on his desk, the receptionist kept repeating the same line over and over again, making it quite evident he had no idea what I was talking about.
‘Maybe this?’ He tried once more as he showed me a small complimentary face mirror engraved with the T.I.T. initials.
What the Fek?
I plucked the quaint looking mirror straight out of his hands and just when I wanted to ooops him upside his head, a reflection caught me in the iris of my eye.
There, mirrored from across the street was a shop with a banner which stated:
qoʜƧ qɒoƧ ƨ’ɈnɒwooʜƨɈiƧ ʞɔiƧ
Well will you have a look at this. Finally those five hundred dollars I spent eleven years ago on a reverse mirror reading and writing course, while on a camel race through Mongolia, paid off. I turned around and hastily crossed the road, opened the door and entered Sick Sitshoowant’s Soap Shop.
‘Hi and welcome to Sick Sitshoowant’s Soap Shop.’ someone, presumably Sick Sitshoowant himself, greeted me.
‘How can I help you?’
‘Hi there,’ I replied to the fellow with the weary beard, one droopy eye and very yellow hands. ‘I would like to obtain some soap.’
‘Well, well lucky you!’ And before I could muster another word the bearded chap from behind the counter started to gabble about his collection of soaps. Where he found the inspirations of his creations. How he collects the base smells. How he handcrafts each and every one of them, and so on and on and on. All this while making me sniff-taste a thousand different soaps.
Well… I don’t quite remember how exactly I insulted him, but man.
In a flash, his droopy eye turned evil and he insisted I had to smell his special bar of soap.
I really didn’t want to, but he really really insisted and the moment I came closer to that special bar I knew I was gonna get fucked, and man…
… I got fucked.
END of PART 1
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