Our four Twilight Zone Bond boys are mobile enough to take over my job as a groceries delivery boy. They have one mental problem: they expect top speed to be a top priority. I assure them speed isn't the case. The case is filled with groceries and it has to be delivered, best before the «best-before» date.
I give my foot soldiers some pep-talk, to prepare them for their mission: "Size and speed don't matter, as long as it moves. Life is movement. Every step forward not only brings you closer to your goal, but it's also a goal by itself: make that step forward and enjoy the trip, or stay at home and bore yourself to death. Without movement, you're not living. If you prefer the life of a ruminant cow, start eating grass. If you want a better dinner, work for it. Being an action hero has nothing to do with your physical or mental health. It's attitude. Learn something new every day. Sticking to old ideas and antique opinions is like refusing to move forward, like ignoring education, like denying evolution, like not living at all. When you show me you are willing to take the first steps, you'll give me the time I'll need to help you with the next ones."
The organization that runs the home doesn't have a budget for saving the world, and neither does the LSD. I pay, out of my own pocket, for the groceries we'll need to feed our troops, and for everything else. The money isn't the problem; I always have a lot of cash on me when I'm on a mission. Money in your pocket is THE best guarantee against any disaster; you can buy the solution or you can hire someone to solve the problem for you. With my spiPhone, I find and order several second-hand scooters and electric chairs, delivered asap, to transform our army of foot soldiers into cavalry. Recouping my investment will be of later concern and… there's always the chance Shirley is right and Death comes to get me before the end of today's chapter. I can't take it with me…
During the three-hour walk in the drizzle to Super Oberkräuter and back (it's a mile to get there and another 1.600 metres to return home, but it's a training and not an attempt to break the world record), I walk up with Frans Waltz, to chat and get to know each other.
"Those young boys. They run a mile in a minute. I tell them. Running is bad for your health. But they don't listen.", he pants, making a disapproving gesture to those three youngsters with their walking frames, running ten metres ahead of us.
We take a break, so Frans can smoke a thin cigar to catch his breath. He obviously knows what's good for him, thanks to his 83 years of life experience: "Do you know the eight stages of the life of a man? At five years old, a man is a hero when he doesn't piss himself. At ten years old, a man is a hero when he has friends. At fifteen years old, a man is a hero when he has money. At twenty years old, a man is a hero when he has sex. At fifty years old, a man is a hero when he has sex. At sixty years old, a man is a hero when he has money. At seventy years old, a man is a hero when he has friends. At eighty years old, a man is a hero when he doesn't piss himself."
After the coughing, he puts out the cigar, and we continue our mission.
"I'm surprised you are all in such outstanding health. You're living in a home permanently. I expected to find nothing but demented travellers of the Alzheimer Express and people who can't get out of bed anymore."
"We're not demented patients. We're cemented patients. When you're old like me, your joints feel like greased with cement, your muscles feel like filled with cement, and there's cement dust in your brain, making it concrete-hard to think, remember, and concentrate…"
"That's what today's training is for. Your body is like an old tap: you'll have to open and close it several times per day, to avoid it becomes rusty. Your brain is a muscle too; it works better when you use it as much as you can. People who speak more than one language have a spectacular lower chance of suffering from dementia."
Frans lifts an eyebrow: "Is that so? Tomorrow, I'll start following a course to speak Latin. On the day I'll meet Saint Peter, I'd like to speak to him in his mother's tongue."
"And when you go to the other side? Rumours say you didn't exactly live like a saint…"
Frans lifts his shoulders: "Nah… German, I already speak. But if I do go to hell, I can finally ask them about the ghosts that run around at night in our haunted home. It's called the Twilight Zone for a reason, you know."
"Are you sure? It's probably rats. Ghosts don't exist, Frans. I don't believe in howling spirits."
"Of course you do. After one night in the Twilight Zone, you'll talk differently. We house the tormented ghost of Ferruckter Fritz, Mad Fritz. He's looking for revenge. When he was 80, his wife left him for a younger man, Dieter of 76. They took the entire stock of Fritz's Schnapps with them on their honeymoon. Fritz died of thirst one week later. He spooks around at night, looking for his Schnapps… If you have a bottle of Schnapps and you don't lock it away, it will be gone the next morning. Ferruckter Fritz took it…"
I take the hint and buy a bottle of Stroh rum in one of the shops, to leave on the table near the front door, for thirsty Fritz, and perhaps also for the thirsty residents who are still alive.
The pacemaker patrol for packages and pallets fulfils its first important mission with success: the flour, milk, eggs and sugar for tonight's pancake party reach the Twilight Zone without casualties.
Frans feels reborn after our afternoon walk. He stretches his legs, blows up his biceps in front of the big mirror in the hall and winks to Traudi: "I'm T.N.T. I'm one big chunk of dynamite, ready to explode."
Traudi snaps back: "Well, well. A big chunk of dynamite with a tiny fuse…"
"You better watch out, girl. I'm in great shape today. If you give me that naughty look again, I will come after you. I let you go only when you pay the ransom: a little kiss."
Traudi lifts an eyebrow: "Don't you dare to touch me, ugly man, or I call the cops."
Frans looks at how she walks away, swinging her hips like she's 60 years younger. He takes a deep breath and says: "I've tried all my life, but I'll never understand women: when I was born, I was bald and wrinkled, saliva ran out of my mouth, and I had no teeth, but all the women said I was beautiful. One of them even offered me a spectacular tit to play with… Now I'm 83, bald and wrinkled again, no teeth, and saliva runs out of my mouth, but every woman says: «Don't you dare to touch me, ugly man.» Where did it go wrong?"
The drizzle has stopped; now it's bucketing down outside. The planned Tai Chi training in the garden has to wait until tomorrow. Instead, I teach self-defence in the dining room: "This red button on your phone activates the thriller function, to defend yourself. You press the button and put the phone against the bare skin of your attacker. It will send a 10.000-volts shiver through his body. A wise woman wishes to be nobody's enemy, but she refuses to be anyone's victim either. This is how you do it: you grab him at the lurves, press the button and—"
"Grab him at the lurves?", Sanni asks.
"Yes. Women have curves, men have lurves. Attackers are usually men. Don't forget to reload the battery before you face your next victim. Anyone of you ladies wants to try it on me?"
Traudi is first: "10.000 volts? You'll be thrilled 'n' grilled. But… what if I take out a man, and then see he's cute and deserves a second chance? How do I bring him back to life? A good man is hard to find, you know…"
"The thriller-function isn't a David Baldaccion thriller that keeps the reader immobile for an entire weekend; it's a Ronaldo Siète thriller that only scares the reader off from buying the book. That's long enough for you to call the cops. And—"
When I come to (after what seems hardly any time), I stare at a worried police officer: "Are you alright, Sir? Miss Traudi here called us because you fainted. You've probably had too much Schnapps; we found an empty bottle of Stroh rum on the table next to the front door. The inhabitants of this home swear that some ghost drank it, but ghosts don't exist so…"
"Thanks for taking care of me, Sir. I'm feeling much better now.", I say, while I try to control some involuntary contractions. The young policeman doesn't listen; he tries to shake Traudi off of him.
"I beg your pardon, ma'am, but will you be so kind not to open the buttons of my uniform?"
Traudi, who reads without glasses, explains to the policeman: "I'm short-sighted, so I have to identify the killer by tact. This is him: a strong face, freshly shaved, beautiful features…"
"Ma'am! That's my chest you're looking at. HEY! That's NOT my nose!"
"Arrest me, officer. I confess: I'm a gangster of love. Search me. I'm armed and dangerous."
The policeman can't escape Traudi: "Ma'am… please… you have to let me go or I'll be forced to use violence against you."
"Oh, temptation, temptation. But you'll have to wait until after dinner, naughty young man, because we're having pancakes and I don't want to miss that. You'd better come back tonight. Did you hear the rumours about the trade of illegal merchandise in Villach? A stream of couriers brings all kinds of suspicious packages to this home, every night."
The policeman interrupts his attempts to bring his uniform in order and wonders: "Illegal merchandise? Do you mean… drugs?"
Traudi looks around, lowers her voice and answers: "No, it's worse: they deliver fried potatoes with mayonnaise, Wiener sausages, and baked blutwurst from Diekirch. It's strictly forbidden by Nurse Betty because it's deadly for everyone's cholesterol, but it's soooo yummy…"
Everybody laughs out loud. I save the poor police officer from the claws of our well-trained army and escort him to the door: "Thanks for your assistance, Sir. As you see, these people don't get many visitors. You really did them a favour. Perhaps you should come here more often."
He leaves without a word.
* * *
After the long training day, the troops deserve their reward: pancakes with fruits and whipped cream (low fat), and the fun of baking them together. It's hard to believe the difference in attitude that Shirley and I provoked here in less than a day. The food isn't the only thing. It's the attention, the belief in each other, and the importance of doing something together. Nobody has to motivate these people to have a good time; all they have to do is stop forbidding them everything 'for their own safety'.
Just when we're sitting down at the dinner table, the phone rings. It's Nurse Betty, calling to say she's not coming to work tomorrow, as she's not feeling well. She hasn't been well the whole weekend, so she also takes next Tuesday and Wednesday off for compensation. She says she already prepared dinner for everybody; it's in the fridge, it's healthy, and it tastes good. The fact that Nurse Betty isn't feeling well since tasting it last Friday is just a mere coincidence.
I check the fridge: there's nothing there. But I'm a spy. I investigate. Finding information is my second nature. I ask the troops: "What happened with the spinach nuggets in clotted cream that Nurse Betty prepared last Friday? She packed them in blue plastic bags and stored them in the refrigerator."
Frans answers: "Was that spinach? I thought it were frogs. As they were still moving, I took them to the garden and set them free."
Freedom is a wonderful thing.
After dinner, we play music. The four men do overtime on the dance floor with three times as many women around who all want to dance. They ask me more than once, but I have my principles: I'll do everything I can to save the world, but I don't sing and I don't dance. No chance. Nobody understands. I like to keep it that way. There's no use to step on anyone's delicate toes to show that I can't dance, and I don't want to take the risk of paying for broken windows and crying babies when I try to sing. I know my minor qualities and enjoy myself, looking at how others are having a good time.
At 21:00, it's time to go. Tomorrow is a big day: our ancient army will invade Villach at daybreak, or perhaps a little later because breakfast on a Sunday morning is something to enjoy.
* * *
The next morning, I wake up long before the alarm clock. A terrible nightmare refuses to go away after I open my eyes, not after staring at the ceiling for half an hour, not after a hot shower. I try to distract myself from the horror by making breakfast for Shirley and me, but it doesn't work: the demons keep worrying me.
"Good morning, my dear Watson. Do I smell fresh coffee and croissants? Lovely. What a great way to start a great day… What's wrong with you?"
"It's nothing. Just a nightmare."
I serve Shirley a cup of coffee and take a third one myself.
"Dreams are messages from your sub-conscience, my dear Watson. A dream is a tool of our mind to deal with emotions and experiences, helping us to work them out. You should not think too light about dreams. What was the nightmare about?"
"I searched a building. I was looking for something but I couldn't find it. Then I entered a room where I surprised a masked killer, who was standing next to a corpse. He turned and lifted his gun, but I was faster and shot him in the eye. When I checked the dead victim, I saw it was me. Then I took the ski mask off the dead killer's head. It was me too. And finally, I looked into a mirror, seeing a face that looked like mine, but it wasn't me. What does it mean?"
"That you shouldn't drink Frans Waltz's cheap Yugoslavian Slivovitz anymore. Stick with beer next time. There was never any scientific proof about the foreshadowing of dreams. The horoscope in Die Kleine Zeitung gives much better information about our future. Listen: «Cancer (June 21 — July 22). You will face a difficult day with varied problems. Meet friends and make visits. It may help you to be better organized.»"
I don't feel better: "I've never killed a man, Shirley. In my dictionary, «killing» is what the bad guys do. I'm one of the good guys. I have different standards. But what if I run into a situation of shooting first or being shot?"
"I can't tell you what to choose. But it's better to do your thinking now, so you can prepare for when that moment comes."
"What would you do? When you kill a killer, you become a killer yourself…"
"Having the choice between saving myself and saving a vicious murderer is like feeding myself to a shark just because the shark is hungry. As long as the shark doesn't attack me, I don't attack the shark."
"But a shark is an animal. It lives according to the Law of the Jungle. A shark doesn't care about its victims. Animals act on instinct; Mother Nature tells them how to survive. I'm human. I use my intelligence to dominate my instincts. We can survive better if we learn to work together instead of killing each other. Humanity differs from animals because we have a higher standard.", I object.
"Do we? The one who attacks you, intending to kill you, is not following your higher standards."
Shirley is right. When Jaws puts me on the menu and I can't escape, my higher standard provided me with advanced technology, helping me to attack a stronger opponent and save myself. That's Survival of the Fittest 2.0. That's how intelligence and cooperation made humanity the leading species on the planet. But man vs animal isn't the same story as man vs man. I've just had a nightmare about killing somebody else. It felt like killing myself. It doesn't feel right.
"And what if I make a mistake? What if I think someone attacks me, but he doesn't, and I find out after I killed him?"
"It's good to think about it right now, so you can avoid mistakes in the future.", Shirley says.
"I kill an attacking shark because it's not possible to teach him how to live together in peace. People can learn. If I don't kill my attacker, my peaceful example might persuade him to act like me. Our higher human level is exactly that: education. Our intelligence gives us better solutions than our animal instincts do."
Shirley doesn't like such a dark discussion on such a bright Sunday morning: "Don't tell me. Tell the man who points a gun at you, and you better make sure you don't need so many words because bullets go faster than sound."
What also goes faster than sound is Sanni's four-wheel scooter, trying to sweep us from the pavement in front of the Twilight Zone. In his days of glory, Frans was a mechanic at the Niki Lauda Formula 1 racing team. He worked all night on the prototype that Sanni now uses to show pedestrians the quickest way to the hospital. It's good that the nitro-ignition makes so much noise, or she would have run over us in her latest attempt to break the lap record, or a leg, or a hip, or her neck.
A little later, we're ready to go, fourteen friendly elderly people (Frans stays at home, to work on some ideas he has for a skateboard version of a walking frame). Each looks at least twenty years younger, thanks to my professional spy make-up kit. They're dressed to kill, thanks to the walk-in closets in the Ambassador's house, and armed with a basket full of apples plus detailed instructions to call for assistance when they hear a remarkable voice.
Our fourteen agents do their best. They hand out apples and deliver their message, they chat with everyone, and they call Shirley when they hear something remarkable. Nothing is remarkable enough for Shirley to press the emergency button on her ring. She has a relaxed job. I don't. Exactly like my horoscope predicted, I face a difficult day with varied problems. Organising, apologising, making friends and changing plans, everything to get our soldiers out of trouble. I feel like a schoolteacher during an excursion, every child running in another direction and the teacher doesn't know where to start. Finally, the class gets back home again for dinner.
"Before we have dinner, I want a full report: what did we find out?", I say.
Resi stands up first: "There's a rumour about a serial killer, probably male, Caucasian, between 25 and 40 years old, who's after blond teenage girls."
Sanni is next: "I heard whispers about a gang with plans to take over the national power. All they need is a millionaire to finance their next election campaign."
Traudi is the last one who heard something: "I heard some serious rumours, confirmed by three different sources. The people from «Home, Bittersweet Home», the residence for elderly people on the other side of town, plan a kidnapping. It seems they're preparing a hostile attack on bus 34 next Friday at 07:45, to kidnap Nurse Betty when she's on her way to her work at the Twilight Zone. They won't ask for a ransom; all they want is breakfast, coffee, and clean sheets on their beds."
A storm of protests is the answer from the others. "Kidnapping?" - "You mean Nurse napping. Nurse Betty isn't a kid anymore." - "Napping with Nurse Betty?" - "They don't want to sleep with her, just take her to bed, for clean sheets."
Frans shouts: "If they do something to our nurse, we go to their place in the middle of the night and we steal all the carrots from their vegetable garden…"
The triplets protest: "No. Not at midnight…" - "We'll miss the daily episode of the Karcrashians on TV…" - "We strike at midday when they're having their nap."
I know about soap series. They are used as a cheap medicine for old people: nobody wants to die before they know how it ends. But we have a mission. We have to focus on a higher goal. I lift my arms and lower them slowly to get the discipline back into the group: "Ladies, gentlemen. The inhabitants of that other home are not the enemy. We're looking for a man with a remarkable voice who wants to destroy the world. I will, personally, escort Nurse Betty next Friday morning on the bus and make sure she gets here safely."
Suddenly, there's something in the air that tells me to beware, a magic spell, a magic smell, I don't know, but a completely new sensation attracts the attention of everyone. What's going on here? The door opens and Shirley comes in, surrounded by a sweet Austrian aroma of all sorts of different scents, a smile on her bright, shining face, and she solves the enigma: "Pizza! Not that deep-frozen poor chosen painted carton, but hand-beaten dough for energy, fresh tomatoes, broccoli, paprika and oregano for vitamins, and buffalo mozzarella for protein. Do you want to know my secret? Put the slices of cheese on top of the vegetables instead of under them; that way the veggies keep their juicy taste. For the sisters and brothers who can't fight with a bite, we also have butter-soft fresh macaroni with a sauce, made with the same ingredients as the topping of the pizza. And I want applause for the ladies who assisted me in the kitchen."
The applause is justified: I've never tasted better pizza in my life (and I've tasted a few).
* * *
After we washed the dishes, we drink coffee (or tea) and a little Schnapps für die Verdauerung together, to celebrate the end of a great weekend and the looking forward to an even greater adventure tomorrow. I have no idea where to start, but we have a motivated think-tank of experienced helpers now. All I have to do is ask: "Where do we start?"
Sanni has an idea: "Give me your hand. I know something about reading the lines of the hand. It might give us a clue."
She studies my hand and says: "Your lifeline… No, I better don't tell you that. The good news is that you're going to be lucky with money. Do you want to know what I see about your love life?"
I don't want to know anything about myself: "I prefer to find out where we have to start looking to avoid the destruction of the world. My lifeline won't go on beyond that date."
Sanni shakes her head: "That requires drawing your horoscope or laying the Tarot, and I'm no expert in those."
"I am."
We all look up. Shirley takes a pack of cards from her purse. This deck is different. It's a Tarot deck. I don't recognise its pictures.
"It's funny that I didn't think of it earlier. Doctor Watson even found a Maltese cross.", she says.
My hand goes to my pocket. I put my hanger on the table: "The Maltese cross…"
"Coincidence doesn't exist, my dear Watson. Hang it around your neck. That cross won't take a bullet for you if you don't use it."
Shirley shuffles the deck and puts nine cards on the table, in the form of the Maltese cross: "If the Higher Powers offer to help us, we should give them a chance to communicate with us. That's how the Tarot works. If I want to see someone's past, present and future, I lay three lines of seven cards each. If I want an answer to a certain question, I lay ten cards in a pyramid. And if I'm looking for a certain person, I lay nine cards in the form of a Maltese cross. The centre key-card shows what we're looking for, four 'arms' in directions north, east, south and west for our course, and the four 'hands' give clues what to look for."
"So, you suggest we look at some drawings on little pieces of carton and then we'll find a gang of terrorists before they destroy the world?"
"Doesn't it sound like a plan?"
I'm truly excited: "Shirley, it sounds like the best plan I've heard in my life. Nothing is impossible and nothing can go wrong."
Shirley explains each card aloud so the entire group can follow the clues: "Our key-card is the Ace of Swords. Swords stand for conflict, ideas, and quick changes. The northern arm shows the Wheel of Fortune, which stands also for unexpected changes and a twist of faith. East shows the knight of batons. It stands for winning at all costs. South shows the 4 of coins, which means greed. West shows the 5 of coins, which means poverty. And the four remaining cards are cups and coins too."
I get a strange feeling in my stomach. It must be the coffee. Perhaps it was the Schnapps. Certainly, it has nothing to do with that card in the centre… Nevertheless, I ask: "The Ace of Swords… Is it connected with the Ace of Spades from the poker deck? Is it the card of Death?"
Shirley explains: "In Tarot, the card of Death is number 13 of the Trumps. Don't worry, my dear Watson. The Ace of Swords looks like the Ace of Spades, but there is a difference."
Frans Waltz doesn't understand what Shirley and I are worrying about: "Why do you worry about the Ace of Spades?"
I'm not having the stomach to explain. It must have been the Schnapps. Shirley doesn't have a problem: "Two days ago, Doctor Watson turned the Ace of Spades five times in a row. Now he's afraid he'll lose his life."
Frans isn't afraid of anything: "If he's afraid of losing, he shouldn't go. For me, it's clear what those cards mean: the wheel of fortune, greed, poverty and winning at all costs at a place filled with cups and coins… One place suits the description, but you have to go now. Tomorrow is Monday and they'll be closed."
A deadly silence falls. Everybody looks at Frans. Frans looks back at everybody: "What? Am I the only one who knows what the Ace of Spades is? It's a casino. You can find it in Velden, on the border of the Wörtersee. But if you don't want to take a risk…"