Let me ask you one question:
WT actual F is a working week?
I find it difficult enough that a week in this world only lasts seven days but working for five and then resting for two is a bit of an eye-opener tbh. No wonder that orcs are superiour. And it also caused an enormous amount of trouble this morning, as I got caught sneeking into the flat of the she-human I had selected to be my flat-share (unbeknownst to her, or so I thought).
But she-human had not gone to work. And why?
Because it’s f*** saturday!
And most kraut-humans obviously do not go to work but stay in bed on saturday mornings. So imagine the shrill outcry when we came face to face (or rather face to impressive broad chest) in the room called Bed (Very uncreative these humans. It was the same name that she-human in London called her room for sleeping). She did yell, too. But the strangest thing happened next: She called me by my name.
It went like this:
Me: Um, yes?
She: This cannot be true. I thought you were…
She: Not real. A twitter character. Someone made up. I mean, I’ve been following you for months. But now you look like an orc and you smell like one even more.
She: You okay?
Me: I think I need a bit of a sit-down, actually.
Only then did it occur to her that it might not have been the first time that I had sneeked into her flat.
She: So you actually are a mean and nasty and ugly and horrible, violent creature?
I was moved by her passionate words and could only nod, not trusting my voice at all. Couldn’t afford to sob after such a characterization, could I.
There was clearly a battle af fear and curiosity going on inside her, mixed with a healthy portion of insanity and incredulity.
She: Why are you here?
Me: You read about it. Some deity dropped…
She: No, I mean here in my flat?
Me: I need a place to stay and it’s fucking cold outside.
She: But why my flat?
Me: I’ve been following you…
She: Well now, that makes it all okay then. ARE YOU MAD?
So, fear obviously had lost the battle. Shame. Looking forward to the insanity bits though. Also on the plus side: I moved in.
It is pretty cold here in kraut-land which might explain why the kraut-humans all look so very grim most of the time. It also explains why they imbibe copious quantities of alcohol at a place they call the “Weihnachtsmarkt”, something that has to do with christmas but the guy with the cross and the nails is nowhere around, I think.
The cold weather also has a terrible effect on my jewels. I’ll spare you the details (how far has it come already that I even consider sparing you any gory stuff), but my family heirloom resembles some shriveling plums more than anything else. Bloody cold is to blame.
Also it makes finding permanent accomodations a lot more urgent. The she-human I picked has no idea yet that I am her current flatmate. Fortunately she leaves the house rather early in the morning so I can sneak in and sleep most of the morning. I decided that keeping quiet about it for a while is probably more wise considering what happened in London. Humans are rather unforgiving when their natural habits get disturbed. Not that I would care about that under normal circumstances but that is exactly the problem: the circumstances are far from being normal and it is not even remotely forseeable when it will ever get better. For me, that is. For she-human of my choise it will get worse from now on. Hehe. Awww, no, come on. I can be nice. No, really! I can. Okay, I hardly ever am, but then I’m an orc, it is my natural behaviour to cause chaos and mayhem. If I were to sit quitely in a corner, knitting socks and discussing the weather, I suppose a visit to a psychiatrist would be in order. Oh, hang on, I did mention the weather. A crisis is imminent. Will raid one of those “Gluehweinbuden” to feel better. Just in case you don’t know, they’re selling hot wine with tasty spices. Definitely something that should exist in every orcish society.
Prost, as the kraut-humans say. (I think they’re called germans, but who cares, actually?)
This must be kept from my fellow orcs.
But ever since I ate that book I tried to read, I burp up some poetic lines now and then. So in honour of that Shakespeare guy whom I unfortunately did not meet at the theater where he was supposed to find his love (and didn’t because I kind of destroyed the stage)… well, where was I? Oh, yes, poetry burps.
Here we go:
How can I then rejoice in gory fight,
when I’m debarr’d the benefit of loot?
An overlord’s oppression is not eas’d by right,
But fight and right and right and fight are moot.
(Don’t ask me what it means. Poetry is supposed to be vague and interpretable)
What a piece of work is orc!
How useless in reason.
So very finite in faculty.
In colour, in fighting, how express and fearsome!
In action how like a barbarian.
In apprehension how like an amoeba.
The terror of the worlds.
The paragon of ignorance.
(I’m quite pleased with that one, actually. But still, my fellow orcs must never know)
I’ve been through what Stojan had called an odyssee. Whatever that is. But I do know for certain that never before in my life did I have so much trouble finding a specific place.
It all began with the unfortunate habit of Stojan permanently sucking on smelly sticks of weed. One of those sticks burned a hole in Europe’s map. (I just hope that guy never wants his map returned) The hole was right in the area where the blasted city of Bielefeld was supposed to be. Burned out, as if it never existed. Odd.
So we drove in the general direction of the hole in the map. When the first street sign said “Bielefeld”, Stojan dropped me at a place called “Autobahnraststaette”. The most godsforsaken place I’ve ever been to. And – having been in the abyss – I think that says something.
It took me a while to get closer to the city. No other driver of tin transports would take me along. Then the streets signs became more irritating. Giving directions that led to nowhere. It took me days to finally make it.
But of course I got there in the end. I just did what I usually do when lost: I follow a female. It either ends in marriage or in sharing a flat somewhere in a human city. Let’s see what it will be this time. Hehe.
The local human population refused to speak with me, except a young lad who explained at least Europe’s map to me. Odd that he knew this guy who owns the map. Strangely enough he stopped being helpful when I asked him about the frogs. Maybe amphibians are fearsome creatures in this part of the world.
After walking on my own for a while I was being picked up by a human in a huge driving tin which he had all to himself (and hundreds of dead animals in the back). He said he was from a place called Bulgaria, bringing meat to France, and then taking other meat from France to Bulgaria. We both agreed that questioning the logic behind that was a sure route to insanity. Been there.
His name was Stojan and he had pictures painted on his skin: a lizard, a naked she-human and the heart of his mother. Holy Trolls of Trellagore! I envisioned myself coming home with that last one. Hehe. I would be the laughing stock of the tribe. And then my family would get very creative to find an exceptionally painful and humiliating way to slaughter me. And rightly so. I decided to keep my opinion to myself for once as Stojan was so friendly and useful. And the france-meat was rather delicious, too. But: not one frog to talk to. No france-humans either. We’re on our way to kraut-land now.