Across the Universe - The Trilogy E-Book

Ulf Skei

• Herausgeber: Books on Demand
• Kategorie: Fantasy und Science-Fiction
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 704

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2020

Beschreibung

The complete trilogy in one book. The fabulous adventures of Elvis and Chloe starting out from their meeting in Stockholm. We get to follow them on their magnificent journeys through space and being. They set out to save existence with the aid of a french existentialist and a couple keeping the bar and cafe business running in the Digital World. Jazz and madness. Poetry and existentialist anguish.

Leseprobe

Across the Universe - The Trilogy

Book 1; Across the Universe Chapter 11 Chapter 21 Chapter 31 Chapter 41 Chapter 71 Chapter 51 Chapter 61 Chapter 81 Chapter 91 Chapter 101 Chapter 111 Chapter 121 Chapter 131 Chapter 141 Chapter 151 Chapter 161 Chapter 171 Chapter 211 Chapter 191 Chapter 181 Chapter 201 Chapter 221 Chapter 231 Chapter 241 Chapter 251 Chapter 261 Chapter 271 Chapter 281 Chapter 291 Chapter 301 Chapter 31Book 2; Elvis & Chlôe Chapter 12 Chapter 22 Chapter 32 Chapter 42 Chapter 52 Chapter 62 Chapter 72 Chapter 82 Chapter 92 Chapter 102 Chapter 112 Chapter 122 Chapter 132 Chapter 142 Chapter 152 Chapter 16Book 3; Business as Usual Chapter 13 Chapter 23 Chapter 33 Chapter 43 Chapter 53 Chapter 63 Chapter 73 Chapter 83 Chapter 93 Chapter 103 Chapter 113 Chapter 12Copyright

Book 1; Across the Universe Chapter 1

Morning. Very early morning. August morning at about five, to be more precise. Everything was quite silent and, well, ’solitary’ one might say. Elvis Karlfeldt lay in his convertible bed sofa in the single room in his Stockholm one room apartment of 23 square meters at Bergsgatan 21, 3rd floor. Laundry and WC out in the stairway. This was an old bachelor apartment from previous turn of the century, which was very adequate as Elvis was a bachelor with few or no demands as regards comfort and luxury. We are going to be following Elvis Karlfeldt during a few weeks of his life. This is an attempt to justify some of the choices he made during this fatal August of the year 2007. We will include a few other individuals in our recapitulation of this veritable month. Chlôe, the beautiful brown eyed cashier in a little tobacconists around the corner from Bergsgatan, about 75 meters from the City Hall Subway station on Kungsholmen island in Stockholm. The two knew each other like a customer and a cashier may know each other. Out of necessity, one may say. Elvis had a slight crush on Chlôe. He had written a number of poems to honour her beauty. He had also painted quite a few portraits in watercolour of the flower of his heart, as it might have been expressed long ago. Elvis, who must be said to be the ’hero’ of these scribblings, was the proprietor of a little book store around the corner from the Kungsholmen Church. He used to say he ’managed a Book Box’. He thought it sounded a bit 40’s, ’Book Box’. Elvis also considered the 40’s to be the best of all decades. Elvis was born in 1964, so he wasn’t even a lust filled glimpse in the corner of his father’s eye during the 40’s. This didn’t bother Elvis, though. He claimed everything from the 40’s was the best. cars, bicycles, typewriters, hats, ink pens. Everything. Well, maybe not the war, but other than that. The sun showed no mercy. It hammered like a mad narcoleptic on a steel drum below Elvis’ bed. Elvis couldn’t care less. He hid his head below the blanket and pillow. It was getting hot and moist under the blanket. You know the feeling. Oxygen level was rapidly falling.

"Oh dear…"

Elvis voice was one of disgust and dislike. It was also one gasping for air after recently having been well nigh silenced by suffocation due to having been situated below a blanket of the honourable but silenced by time brand 'Excelsior Primo', and thereby luckily unknowing but yet cut off from the for life so vital addition of oxygen. Elvis was rather dizzy. It was not only the lack of oxygen and the time of day that made him a bit dizzy, he had been under the influence of the spiritual fluid ’Isle of Spove’ together with his old uni fraternity. In limited amounts and far between it was ok, but with his old uni brothers and at his old alma mater and the favorite pub, the ’Happy Drone’ it was never limited and far between.

Elvis Karlfeldt really did not appreciate mornings.

1 Chapter 2

It was a beautiful morning in Kungsholmen. Rather warm and pleasant this end of summer’s day, this August morning. Some of the insects sharing this isle with Elvis and a few other mammals and birds started waking up. The sound of the gravel under the tires of a limousine rolling across a tarmac plate known as the Svea car Park was a little bit annoying. The car, a black marvel of German engineering, sniffed methodically and almost evil, across the car Park. It was so perfect it gave the impression of being an elegant predator hunting for prey. The simile was not too far from reality. The driver, a certain Herzog, felt how yesterday’s dinner, a very spicy ragu of Dutch Beef, made him feel quite ’off’. The man sitting in a dark mist in the backseat, Wilmuth Schwarzkopf, didn’t talk much. He knocked his cane on the front seat as they approached one of the keys, and Herzog let the discrete German machine, this morning hunter, stop by the edge of the key. He applied the hizzing hand brake and opened the driver’s door. It clicked methodically and discretely as he pulled the door handle. The door slid open. Cruelly. An observer would have instantly realised that something fatal was going to happen. Now, there were no observers present, which was probably for the best. A seagull looked with its bird look at the limousine, at Herzog trying to get out of the car, and finally at a butterfly taking off from a dandelion about two meters away at the exact instant when Herzog noticed the gull. Herzog felt bad. He couldn’t stand spicy food. He saw the gull, and unlike any ordinary person he didn’t like gulls. He didn’t like animals, no, Herzog didn’t like the world.

"Go away, gull bastard." Said Herzog and stomped his driver’s shoe angrily to the tarmac. At the same time he made a stride towards the gull. The law of mass and movement combined with Herzog’s hangover and overweight made the irritated man lose balance and almost topple over in a flegmatic screaming heap. But only almost. Herzog reached backwards and supported his unbalanced mass towards the car. He looked angrily at the gull. The gull set off like scared gulls do, towards the water.

"And stay away…" The annoyed driver shook his pale, lily white fist towards the gull. The gull was already far away over the water and did not care. The in fatal mist sitting passenger, Wilmuth Schwarzkopf, who was Herzog’s employer, irritatedly knocked the Austrian handmade silver top of his cane against the window of the car door.

"Yeah yeah…" Herzog gathered his thoughts, turned to the rear of the car and walked the walk of many a year behind the steering wheel to the trunk of the German monstrosity. The engine, a precision instrument of 486 horsepowers and a very accurately adjusted fuel injection, silently hummed. The limousine factory had over the years managed to balance the engine so perfectly one would be able to place a coin standing on end directly on the engine and start it, and the coin would remain standing. One might also have placed a fly, any fly, on the hood or in certain cases directly on top of the engine, and it would not fly away when starting the engine. In other words, it was a very discrete machine. Discrete with an air of evil. This it had in common with its owner, Herr Schwarzkopf. Wilmuth among close friends. Herr Schwarzkopf's close friends were almost none. One. If his brother is counted as a close friend. I think we can do that. Well, it was a very silent machine. The German engine. Herzog didn't think much about that as he walked to the trunk. He eloquently allowed his right ring to finger push a finely measured button which, by way of an intricate system of levers and ball bearings made a well lubricated hook let go of its perfect grip of an angular section cast according to a drawing perfected by an anonymous employee at the manufacturers GMBH Drawing section in Hamburg. It was inaudible, but Herzog vaguely felt the plop which made the trunk slowly open and disclose its contents. The contents were, other than a warning sign and a limited set of tools necessary to for example put on the spare tire, a vague mass covered in a black greyish plastic cover of the sturdier kind. Herzog groaned, spat silently on the ground behind the car and grabbed the mass which he subsequently placed on his right shoulder and walked to the waterfront.

"Heavy dude…" He huffed and puffed for a while then shoved the mass into the water. The mass of plastic and whatever float about by the surface of the oily water for a while, then it ’exhaled’ loudly and disappeared below the surface and into the cold and dark below. Suddenly Herzog heard a car getting closer and hurriedly closed the trunk and got back in the car. The man in the back seat said

"To the office, Herzog." Herzog noddingly applied a series of well rehearsed movements and the massive machine left the key in silence. Like a beast going to its lair. Later Herzog would be sorry he had not remained to make sure the package disappeared, remaining on the bottom of the harbour basin. While Herr Schwarzkopf was driven away from the harbour in a evil black limousine controlled by a certain Herzog, a man who could not handle spicy food, and who didn’t like seagulls, an old and quite rusty machine stopped by the same key edge where the wrapped in plastic mass just disappeared three minutes ago. The car was, as a vehicle, as technical construction, in a lot worse condition than the black limousine which had just now left the scene. No discrete clicks and hizzes here. More squeaks and cutting burp like sounds and cries. Eliza Montezzori, the young mother of Roger Montezzori, a five year old who gladly inspected anything within reach, opened the door to her little car and said

"Come now, Roger, let’s go to the key and have a look." Roger took the bait and jumped onto the concrete quay.

"I go watch." Said a very interested Roger. His mother, who was a kind and understanding kindergarten teacher from Kallhaell, replied;

"You do that, but be careful."

Roger was occupied poking about with a stick in the water so he didn’t listen too carefully.

"What's that?" He asked, as he saw a bulgy mass bobbing about just below water surface.

"careful, mind you." Said his patient mother trying to see whether the child was at jeopardy of falling into the water.

"What that?" Roger called, even more excited as he saw a foot appearing out of the plastic.

"Probably just litter." Said Eliza. When she got closer she saw parts of a human being coming out of the wrapping. She got all cold and remembered a lecture from last week about emotional trauma at a young age leaving imprints on the sensitive psyche of children. She was convinced she had destroyed Roger's future. She knew this would be decisive in shaping her little son's future. A future which, between you and I, suddenly appeared a lot more gloomy and saggy. Roger was to develop a number of unpleasant streaks as a result of this. For instance, he was to instinctively dislike feet, shoes and shoe salesmen. Even socks. Later on in life he would become a compulsive thief. A kleptomaniac, feeling a strong urge to steal socks even when on feet. This, in turn, would lead to conflicts with the schooling system. So for instance Rogers participating in school athletics would become a trial to his poor teacher, a man by the name Lennart P. Gregorian. Lennart P had to be on the watch constantly as Roger jumped at any chance to slip away during sports and enter the locker room where he would steal all socks he could get hold of. These socks he would hide under a rock in a nearby forest. Lennart noted how Roger disappeared during a football game, and decided to follow him. So he did, and saw what took place. when Roger left his prey under the sock rock and walked away, Lennart went to have a look. He found a macabre collection of several hundred socks, many with pins stuck into them, others filled with dead rotten pieces of fish and bird parts. The smell was unbearable. Lennart felt compelled to discuss the issue at the next meeting with his colleagues. This was highly irregular. Indeed, it had only occurred once before, then due to little Morgan Aspling, a boy who developed the unfortunate habit of spreading rumours regarding his school friends’ parents’ political preferences. Something the child could not have any idea of, or so the colleagues argued. So, even though the sock incidents were not in any way financially burdening, as physics teacher Karl Eberhardt said;

"Well, the worst bit of it is of course what this implies as regards the poor boy’s home situation." Based on this it was decided that social authorities had to make an intervention and the child be placed in society care.

That’s what happened when a serene visit by the docks and keys were to destroy the future of quite a few people. What we learn from this is, of course, that life, existence, yes, ’being’ itself, has nothing at all to do with intents and purposes, personal qualities or ’meaning’. On the contrary, chance is what rules life. Chance paired with a, in most cases, veritable bad luck. But for the time being let us sit in a comfortable chair while resting our feet on a little pillow or stool.

1 Chapter 3

"What a lovely morning…" Elvis Karlfeldt gazed at the morning sun as he stepped into the street. He shrugged, like a dog just aroused, smiled a bit silly and laughed.

"Life, I dig you…" At the same moment a big, black limousine passed by out on Bergsgatan. Elvis saw it in the corner of his eye and was surprised by it being so silent he hadn't even heard it. He thought there was something unpleasant, almost evil about the dark, shadowy car. He tried to see into the car but that was impossible due to the darkly toned windows. He did, however, see the trace of a dark mass moving about in the back seat regions. But he wasn’t sure as a garbage truck stopped with its smelly load outside number 21, Elvis' address, at the exact same time. Elvis lost concentration as he had hated garbage trucks ever since childhood. He thought they were mean, somehow. Each time he saw a garbage truck he recalled a dream he dreamed a lot as a child. In the dream he was alone walking about at night at a harbour in Stockholm. He strolled about and saw the people working at an open gas station, and people loading trucks and ships. He saw the neon lights at the gas station, the staff in their uniforms. A garbage truck always passed by. The smell of rotten fish was terrible. Also rotten vegetables. Elvis shrugged.

"Forget it, mate…" He said. He walked on in the sun. A huge swarm of flies could be noted by the back of the garbage truck. They had found today’s lunch restaurant. The flies appeared happy. Elvis kicked an old cigarette butt that lay on the sidewalk outside Elmquist & Co Tobacco, the store where, between the two of us, Chlôe Lavigne worked. Chlôe, the aim and target of Elvis’ hot love, stood outside the tobacco store and enjoyed the sun for a moment. Elvis got warm inside when he saw her. He started thinking about compliments, and how he’d fall onto his knees and recite a poem in her honour. He imagined how she should de facto appreciate this age old gesture of affection. But thinking about it he realised it would actually hurt his knees, falling onto them on the rough tarmac and all, and moreover, Chlôe would probably be either afraid, worried or angry at such behaviour. He decided to say ’Hi’ instead. She looked up, somewhat surprised, and smiled. He loved how her eyes always smiled together with her mouth.

"Hey." She said. Elvis smiled back at her and stumbled over his thoughts and the fact that his feet had somehow got twice as big.

"Must get down to the box, maybe later…"

"A dopo." She replied in her mother tongue. Elvis mumbled something about that being a good idea and stumbled on down the road. A bit further down the road towards the city hall he saw his little hole in the wall and automatically felt the smell of old, very dry paper. ’Book Corner’ was the name he had given the shop, his little box. About 13 square meters, but as all walls were covered by shelves and the room crossed by one more there were actually quite a lot of books for the potential customer. His hand shivered slightly from the lust filled shimmer strewn about his mind after the chance meeting with Chlôe. He saw it, he felt it, hit his hand lightly with the newspaper he held in the other hand. Reached for the key chain in his inner jacket pocket and elegantly unlocked the ’box’. ’There’, he thought, ’yet another day in service of mankind.’ All according too the agreed upon practice. Elvis appreciated agreed upon practice and procedure.

1 Chapter 4

A cloud was seen passing above the strait towards Langholmen island. A green car turned out onto Scheelegatan and stopped abruptly at the pharmacy by the roadcrossing to Hantverkargatan. Three darkly dressed characters wearing ’hoodies’ got out of the car and ran into the pharmacy. The first of them yelled at the customers to lay down on the floor. All did so, except for an elderly lady who neither saw, nor heard what happened as she had her back to the fishy characters, being turned towards the shelf containing laxatives and also as good as deaf. In exactly the moment the elderly lady, let us call her ’Vera’, had chosen the laxative she planned on investing in, one of the hoodie dressed and loudly screaming robbers from the car walked up behind her back and hit her over the head with his hand gun. An automatic. Quite forcefully. This leading to Vera shouting for the briefest of moments while gargling, spittingly discharging a set of false teeth in midst of said scream, to subsequently fall into the reassuring embrace of unconsciousness, in a puddle of blood on the floor. And it wasn’t even eleven a.m yet. The leader of the hoodie dressed walked up to one of the cashiers, handed the clerk a note with something written on it and said;

" Quickly, ok…" The pharmacist in station three, Solveig Persdotter Mago, glanzed at the note and went to a tray and got a little package, returned to the cash register and started saying the obligatory ’do you have ID card?’ question for the high cost protection, but decided not to as the ’customer’ grabbed the package as well as a box of painkillers while starting to run towards the entrance wildly screaming. Suddenly the hoodie dressed persons were gone, a car could be heard taking off quite violently out in the street. The customers in the pharmacy mumbled discretely. Somebody cried silently in a corner. The lady we called Vera lay perfectly still in a dark brownish puddle of blood on the floor. In her wrinkled hand she still held a package of laxatives, to be consumed within an hour after the main meal of the day. Not to be used for losing weight without consulting medical personnel, and not to be combined with medication against diarrhoea.

Oh dear.

1 Chapter 7

The rain was like a claustrophobic seagull over South Stockholm. A man in his 50's, properly but boringly dressed tightened his coat and held his umbrella firmly in his left hand. A car from years ago passed by making good speed through a puddle of water on Ring Road. The man’s beige trousers got wet and soiled.

"Oh dear." Said the man, who would have really preferred a stronger expression, but was hindered from this by an immaculate upbringing. This added to the raised acid levels in his stomach, something which made him burp a lot, and which would indeed end up as a full blown bleeding ulcer and a premature death. The man, let us call him Eivert, which is very fine as his name was Eivert, was a bureaucrat enrolled at a social insurance office. If you ever called a social insurance office and heard a calm and pleasant male voice saying ’you have place …in the que’ followed by a statement of expected number of minutes waiting time, well, you have possibly heard Eivert’s voice. Eivert’s other activities at the office included various activities such as house calls, reception work and such.

Eivert Nilsdotter Haberdasch walked under his umbrella towards the office. He was a bit under the weather and longed to get inside the office doors. Eivert Nilsdotter Haberdasch would have preferred to live within limits of his workplace. This, however, was impossible mainly due to the fact that his employer was not a registered landlord. The finest 24 hours Eivert experienced until today, was a Thursday in february 1997. That special Thursday Eivert had actually gotten permission to work late, and sleep over in his cubicle. He was recording minutes and hours for the new automatic telephone system. The office was a bit short of time, and one thing led to another. Eivert got to sleep with his jacket rolled together as a pillow. He even got to share fried eggs with the night watch man’s Boxer, Mortex.

There.

Eivert entered the insurance office, and met complete chaos. Several of the desks lay like beached whales on the floor. The complete madness of thrown about A4 arches of printed confidential information was the closest Eivert had ever been to Dante’s Inferno, the earth version. They, well, some person appointed by the employer, had made coffee and poured in a number of the office’s own thermos flasks the pump version, black 3 litre, and placed on some of the very few unsmashed tables.

"Eivert, come here." Herman Larson, Eivert’s manager, guided Eivert by a firm, and as he hoped, reassuring grip around his elbow.

"Ok." Eivert was too confused to protest and simply followed the leader. What he was to see almost hurt. He felt a buzzing pain around the top of his stomach. His desk was completely smashed, his chair thrown through his pc screen. Eivert’s waste paper basket was totally destroyed and beyond any and all rescue. The hole punsch, which he called ’ Roderick’ was gone without a trace. Eivert’s existence as a totality was now represented by his utterly smashed cubicle and workplace. The screens which had been placed around his tiny area representing his habitat were kicked to pieces. Oily traces of rough boots were found on the remains, and a stench of sewer hung over the whole office. Elsevie Raadström, representative from cleaning and maintenance, came running from the staff kitchen.

"Yes, the bastards have stuffed coffee filters and feta cheese in the sewers, so now you know what the smell is all about…" Elsevie was so angry she was shaking. At a meeting later during the day, after the worst had been cleaned up by the employers representatives in maintenance, the office manager Goran Perseford Klaringer made clear it had indeed been a very exhausting trial, and the office was grateful to the employees who had managed to rectify the situation.

"We will follow this up and cooperate with the police to solve this dreadful attack on the system if possible." In the meantime Eivert sat all by himself in the coffee room crying. Roderick, who had followed him ever since his first year at unemployment agency Medborgarplatsen. It is sad.

Later police would find out that the mayhem was only a confusing measure aimed at hiding the hacking of several servers at a company in the same building linked to the treasury. Thusly Roderick’s disappearing was a completely pointless event regardless of from where it was regarded.

Pure evil.

1 Chapter 5

At the same time on the other side of the universe two very old men sat pondering the meaning of life, existence, yes, being as such. The two men had been sitting there on a rock each for 273802 of our years, one and a half of their weeks. They were dressed in brownish grey long shirts, down to their knees. They had long ago stopped wondering why they only got long shirts to bring and sent off for work back then. One and a half week ago. Between the two of us, they would probably be a bit disappointed if they knew the reason.

Hear this: the reason that two old men had been sent to a small insignificant planet known as Alvar 72 situated on the edge of the star cluster X3 was that their local precinct commander Leroy Twicket had one of his famous attacks. Leroy Twicket, being a very odd inhabitant of the planet Larsen 7pod, had been elected commander as he was the only one applying for the job.He had a tendency to get attacks of almost epileptic nature as he spent days on end seeing seriously wild TV shows of light and music events involving the 'edna', a local instrument which was a all but perfect copy of the ’bagpipe’, a scotish instrument which, after having been somewhat popular on the planet Tellus, Earth, had disappeared almost completely except for as a torture instrument among certain North African organisations. Edna had a somewhat more howling tone, and was very popular on Larsen 7pod. The sound of Edna was a very faithful imitation of the mating howl of a local toad. Conserts tended to wreak havoc and create traffic problems in the area of the arena as huge amounts of male toads went for the roads to get to the howling female as soon as possible. Little did the poor male toads know they were soon to be used for biological land fill along highways and instigate severe accidents due to the slippery sensation their crushed little toad bodies would cause. Well, during one of those attacks Leroy Twicket had a vision. A vision telling him he should send two old men to a little boring planet on the edge of the star cluster X3, with the aim to spending days and nights there. Pondering whence it all originated. He had, moreover, had a number of ’part’ visions. According to one of those ’Part’ visions the men were only to have with them a comb each, and a number of longish shirts made from seal whiskers felted together. They were also to have a little round thing for recreation. It reminded to quite some extent of our footballs, but were called 'Llllvhooorpt...Pfffui.' That, my friends, is why two old men were sent off to a boring little grey planet to spend what would according to our standards be considered a totally awesome amount of time, but which to the old men appeared to be about six months or so..

There.

1 Chapter 6

When the two old men sat there on rocks pondering etc, and as our friend Elvis assisted a customer who had driven all the way from Aasele in the north of Sweden just because he had heard rumours of a first edition of Parte’s ’Burden and concern' having surfaced on one of the shelves in the shop, it happened that a overweight driver in a big, black limousine nodded discretely to one of the ceremonially dressed guards at a finer palace in Stockholm. The two knew each other since childhood. Although setting out from very much similar conditions, personal choises and unpleasant circumstances had eventually placed the two on quite opposite sides of what is generally known as boundaries of the law. One of them had proved worthy of the extremely expensive education at Lundaberg, the honourable old college. He had been part of the top strata of his year, had represented his school at several international contests for gifted students. Jarl Efraimson had made his parents proud on several occassions.

"It’s how we do it where I come from." He used to say at displays of term projects, when his theories of how a tight fiscal policy combined with the inherent errors of the Breton Woode system had laid the foundation for several of recent financial upheavals in international markets of lately, were noticed in local news papers. The driver of the black limousine, our old friend Herzog, had had a severely different upbringing. This although they both had their roots in the blocks around Karlaplan Square. Their families having been neighbours on Lützengatan, they had nannies from the same company. They had even been in the same scout division. Similarities ended there. Entrance requirements at Lundaberg stopped little Lütz from ever attending classes there. Lütz got enrolled at Bergwall's instead. By all means not bad, but it all comes down to what one does with the possibilities at hand. On the one hand we have the extremely smart and clever Jarl Efraimson, who managed to perform brilliantly any and all tasks presented. On the other hand we are presented with little Lütz Herzog, not entirely in the same mental league, so to say. Lütz saw quite early on in his education that his only way through this would be cheating. This would stand out clearly at a comparison of the two kids’ study results. Jarl proceeded to enter university with top ratings from the social science programme, a rising star, the house master at Lundaberg called him. Little Lütz had not done well. He did not manage to get through to university level studies. ”Who cares.” he said at a meeting with the school curator, where his mother, who was a very kind but perhaps not too bright woman started crying violently when the curator said that;

”well, little Lütz has not proved to be what we call ’material’…”

Later on it has been established that this meeting effectively hammered the last nail into the coffin containing Lütz Herzog’s future. Lütz himself has been heard laughing at the idea, but in passing been overheard stating that;

"Yes, I believe that was when I felt I just didn’t fit in…"

Poor child.

The summer vacation of year three in high school included a summer position at a museum's finance department for Jarl, and a time at a correctional facility for Lütz who had overestimated his ability to make drivers licences and make withdrawals from other people’s bank accounts. So, while Jarl Efraimson prepared for university studies, that would lead to a Masters degree in Political Science at a fine university, little Lütz Herzog learnt how to steal a car, and that one should never bow down to pick up a bar of soap in a prison shower.

My my…

Well, they were old friends, the driver in the black limousine and the guard who should not let people into the area of the castle. Herzog’s employer was allowed to enter, there was never any doubt about that, even though herr Schwartzkopf, Wilmuth, came from a social strata that was never mentioned in the castle hallways. He was a resource employed from time to time, secretly. This was one of those cases. There had been problems with one of the staff. A man in transports and deliveries who had happened to see and hear the wrong things and not capable of periodical forgetfulness, a fine quality his father who used to serve one of the earlier lords had applied several times when necessary. The young man had noted, no less, that the wrong persons exited the wrong sleeping chambers one weekend. It was never, I am sure you realise that, even contemplated to involve police. Or to pay the requested sum of money. No, Wilmuth Schwarzkopf made a house call in the man’s little apartment on the block beyond Katarina Church, and the man in question ceased to be. Wrapped in a plastic bag and heavy chains he was to, like Luca Brasi, ’talk to the fish’. Reports were filed, sums of money transferred to secret accounts.

The evil car was parked on the gravel being so well raked it was almost a sin walking across it. Wilmuth Schwarzkopf did not intend to leave the car. Lütz Herzog dialled 9 on his driver’s phone. He mumbled something about ’you can come out now’ which was a signal to open a door in the castle wall. A door construed more than 150 years ago, and so perfectly fit it was well nigh invisible. A person in very discrete dark suit walked rapidly to the unpleasant limousine waiting on the yard. The driver, our friend Herzog, opened the window operated by a terribly silent electronic engine, reached out his pale hand dressed in a glove made from black German Baerendtz Sheep skin. He accepted the envelope which was passed over, and instantaneously closed the window. The engine of a black and evil limousine rolling away into what was swiftly turning from afternoon to evening was completely silent.

I say.

Darkness covered the city in some kind of search. In an apartment across the water, at Tegelbacken, an old man sat in a very old armchair listening to Rod Mahldau, 'It’s alright for me'. The old man, wearing a smoking jacket and black evening trousers perfected by his personal Saville Row tailor Eldridge Hartmannz, and a Fez imported from a Turkey contact, held a napkin with his initials embroidered and coughed lightly and very dryly. The man was a shadow. At first sight it appeared impossible that he, who looked like a gentle old man, could be a hub for a weave of evil, disgusting plans, cancelled investigations, disappeared witnesses. All the unpleasant business in the judicial system of the nation the previous four decades were somehow linked to this man. This ghost. This being who due to a long lasting life and severe smoking was now occuppied coughing up his longues bit by bit. Mahldau rested, replaced by Flek. The accountant, the evil old remnant, gazed at the window towards Riddarholmen island and got calm. All the disgusting cruelty and all the misery he had seen, and to quite some extent been responsible for, had made what little emotion he was still capable of numb in sort of a haze. Avant garde jazz and the whispers and cries of the night was the only thing capable of waking up his interior. Raising the heart rate of this accountant. A big, very black limousine parked along Jakobsgatan, and a darkly dressed driver opened a door of the vehicle and left an envelope with a messenger wearing jeans and a sleazy red jacket. The two persons spoke silently for about half a minute, after which the driver said a brief ’all well, brother’ and the messenger nodded, turned abruptly and disappeared down the street towards an intersection. The driver looked after the messenger for some time and saw a car stop in front of the messenger. Our friend Herzog looked at the scene, saw a door of the car open and a man jumping out with something in his hand. He grabbed the envelope the messenger was supposed to deliver to none less than the accountant. Screaming ’run if you enjoy life’ and got back in the car that had been escape car at a pharmacy robbery and theft of prescribed substances a few hours earlier.

"Bloody hell…" Lütz got in to the black limousine.

"Quick, get them" Said the in darkness enveloped shadow from the back seat, whereupon a gigantic, very evil limousine let its powerful engine hum discretely but deadly and the vehicle which presently was a transporter of evil and death was quickly upon the little car. Lütz let the forceful front of the vehicle push the car from behind at the red lights by Vasagatan. This pushed a little green car out in front of a Scania truck, a tanker. The collision was violent and like in an american detective story the tanker started burning at once. Our gangster friends drove up to the wreck of the car, Lütz ran to the wreckage, reached through a side window, grabbed the envelope while swearing at the dying robber lying on the front seat. The man could not talk due to all the blood in his throat, but his eyes looked sad as Lütz broke one of his fingers with the front door.

"Nothing left doing…" He said to the crowd gathering.

"Someone call the police." people started searching for phones, somebody made a call and Lütz walked to the black limousine and drove away.

Thusly an envelope containing a severe amount swedish currency was delivered to a certain accountant by a very irritated Lütz Herzog. Lütz hated the old elevators with bar doors. The elderly lady he had to share the elevator with produced a falsetto ’Ooh’ as Lütz reached past her to close the elevator gate, which was known to be a bit tricky on this particular model. 

"There now, granny, no worries" said a sweaty Lütz. The cabin was tiny so they were pushed against each other. The lady appeared worried and tried not to breathe, as our chauffeur friend was not known to shower regularly. He had ’internal Musque’ his friends used to say. Lütz fingered the envelope and prepared to open the gate, when the lady started screaming as he stepped on her foot. Lütz jerked and lost the envelope through the bars in the gate. It subsequently fell down the elevator shaft and lay resting on the bottom of the building.

"Now", Said Lütz, "that’s it." the lady hit Lütz with her umbrella and actually caused some damage to his eyebrow. Lütz held his hand over the lady's mouth to quiet her, the lady who suffered from bad longue function due to a life time of smoking, gasped for air and ended her life with the tiniest of farts.

”Disgusting.” Said Lütz and took the elevator down again. By bottom floor a certain mr Torstens stood waiting for the elevator. Lütz held the lady up and said she had had 'One too many'. Mr Torstens looked bit suspiciously at his old neighbour but after seeing Lütz bloody eyebrow he decided not to get involved. That’s what happened when an old lady ended up in an elevator shaft and a driver got a sore eyebrow, something that would mean he would always look surprised. The old lady was found two weeks later at a control of the stairs due to complaints of garbage smells in the elevator. The miserable envelope was delivered and Lütz never mentioned the incident to his employer, but claimed he had stumbled in the elevator. One of the residents mentioned to the police that he had met a person in suit who carried a drunk lady, and thought it appeared suspicious. Eva Larzén, the lady’s daughter, was very upset at hearing the news.

"Oh, mother, what have they done to you?"

1 Chapter 8

In which we will really be confused and start wondering whether our membership with the scouts was really a mistake, and if the set of rules guiding Swedish fiscal policy during later years was truly what it was said to be, and finally whether housing cost is really a good measure of freedom of trade and industry.

An open window on third floor at Bondegatan, south Stockholm. A wild alternative take on Miles Porters 'Miles to go' leaning towards a bleeding reality, tasting it and flowing away on blue mists and a howl. A lonely dove working on today’s chores. Mainly hacking away at some plants and pieces of an apple laying next to an empty can of beer by the stone foundation for a stair case. It all appeared so 'pointless and unnecessary’ thought Elvis as he stepped out to the sidewalk from Bondegatan 23. The sun was like a hammer against Elvis’ eyes as he gazed to the bus stop that appeared to be a long way away. What had appeared to be a brilliant idea yesterday afternoon was now a whole lot less impressive. A ’writer’s afternoon’ over a bottle of red and some jazz. Sounds a bit like the university years author dream. No responsibility. Just inspiration. 'Creating with the gods.' Yup. That’s fun and good if 18 and not having a book shop that has to be opened for customers in need of Fume of the Day in French.

"Hey wait!" Elvis’ cries drowned in the sound of the bus slipping away towards Goetgatan.

"It’s walk then, I suppose." Said a tired, hung over and a bit confused Antique Books Store proprietor who had written the impressive sum of 76 words during a not too writing focused writer’s evening in the company of Sanders, Dawes and Beltrane. The little café by the crossroads was open for business.

"Perfect." said a coffee needing Elvis, went in, opened the wallet and bought a cuppajoe. It is indeed strange, the world can appear so miserable and cruel, after a cup of the dark poison it seems a nicer than ever place again. Elvis saw bus 59 getting closer, waved at the driver and the bus was friendly enough to actually stop. The trip to Medborgarplatsen took a mere 5 minutes, probably due to the early hour. Elvis got off the bus and jovially entered the subway station. He just cought the train to the central and got on number 10 for Hjulsta, arrived at the city hall, shoved past a family out for sightseeing or so it would seem. Well, all’s well that ends well, and the Bookshop could open again, on time, to provide its faithful customers with the most unlikely writings from the glorious history of Existentialism. Aided by the sound of Jazz Cool.

The News Echo at 11 interrupted the jazz for a 3 minute look at the world. Chlôe reacted to the report of a disagreement between delegates at a UN summit in Cairo. ”Why can’t they just agree….” Chlôe tapped her blue Pen at a newspaper on the cashier’s desk. She looked at the paper stand by the door.

"I wonder if I should buy him a coffee, the book salesman?" The question was rhetorical. She really intended to invite Elvis for coffee.

"He seems nice." And as some kind of sign a series of events of widely disparate nature appeared at exactly the time when the 11 echo news broadcast ended and Chlôe closed a copy of Parte’s ’Distrust’. A diplomat blue sedan stopped by a record store on Klevgraend street and one of sweden’s most well known Jazz guitarists got out, entered the store to acquire an issue of Beltrane's ’Blue Steam'. The proprietor, an american migrant knowing most of the who is who of the New York music stage, had found a first print in pristine condition, and reserved it for a friend.

"Thanks Sid!"

"Don’t mention it, Bert. Don’t mention it."

It was exactly 11.03 a.m. A delivery firm got a gig for a computer company at Blomsterkransen from a supplier at Huddinge. The driver, let us call him Slobodan, got on the deck and started unloading a cargo of replacement machines at the store. The local warehouse manager, a mr Fogelberg, normally would not get easily irritated, but today he had severe problems with the nail on his right foot big toe. He came running onto the deck shouting

"No way, Slobo, we can’t take that in!" at the exact moment he uttered the word ’that’ two things happened; Slobodan came ’round the corner with a load of computers, and had no way of stopping. At the exact same moment in time a man called Johan Breitnér entered central stage smiling and calling

"Slobo, a java black?" The result was, as you have possibly guessed, disaster. Slobodan turned towards Johan Breitnér, meaning he had no way of steering his vehicle but across the manager's toe. The pain filled scream made Slobo twitch absurdly, and thusly turning off the cargo deck with his cargo and actually landing on an innocent hedgehog aimed for a leisurely afternoon on a patch of grass three meters away. So; a big toe was crushed, so were a number of computers, a truck, a delivery man’s monthly result. And a hedgehog.

It was exactly 11.03 a.m.

Indeed.

Which leads to pondering some existential issues per se. Contingency, for example. The theory discussing how some – from a holistical perspective and apparently independent occurrences might, in spite of all, be supposed to somehow depend on each other. In spite of logics pointing the other way, so to say. At this time, more specifically at 11.03, Elvis hung a sign on the door to his shop saying ’Having a cup of coffee. Soon back’ and walked towards the street corner and the pharmacy that had been robbed the other day. Elvis always felt guilty when he passed the police in the street. So much, in fact, that his knees began shaking. Somewhat discretely at first, but developing into something more or less grotesque. To hide the wobbly shakes our friend started whistling. This was mostly unsuccessful as his being nervous made his lips dry. So much so in fact that finely ground wheat flour was wet in comparison. Our disastrous whistler appeared totally deranged with his dry blowing during his disastrous walk. The police officers on guard outside the pharmacy; one male and two female, could not avoid thinking ’drugs’. Elvis noticed how the police looked at him wondering, and swiftly started singing an old evergreen discussing the unfairness of existence.

"Hello, how are you, sir?" Ewa Konselj, the police officer in charge, turned towards Elvis, pointing her stick. Elvis got scared and figured running would be his best option. He ran along the alley towards Pipersgatan yelling;

"you’ll never catch me…" All too late he remembered the alley was quite short, ending with a brick wall.

"No, I won’t surrender alive…" It took three sturdy policemen sitting on a hyper active and very confused suspect to stop our friend.

"Calm. Have you any ID?" Elvis did not reply. He would not make it worse. Which is of course exactly what he did. The three mightily confused officers transported a panicking Elvis towards a police vehicle. At exactly that moment, at 11.28 a.m, the wondrously beautiful Chlôe came walking on the opposing sidewalk. Of course she could not avoid noticing what happened across the street. Elvis did not see Chlôe. He was busy telling the representatives of the law just how terrible police brutality was. Let us end this exposé in futility by establishing that Chlôe after having witnessed this had switched from being mildly interested in Elvis to being a bit afraid of said Elvis.

There.

Transported to south Stockholm Police a desperate Elvis was put in a cell with no loose objects in it. This was to make sure the detainee could not easily hurt himself or anyone else. Hurting oneself was as illegal as hurting someone else. Elvis was in a bad way, he just lay shaking madly below the wall mounted bed in the cell. The linoleum carpet had the exact degree of softness to hurt as little as possible in case of ’diving’. Elvis kept in floor position and did not plan hitting the floor with his head first. Ewa Konselj, officer in charge, had endured a terrible childhood of beatings and abuse during her school years. Ewa recognised a desperate person when she saw one. Ewa looked at Elvis Karlfeldt on the monitor, looked him up in the register and saw there were no notes or oddities whatsoever, unless a membership in a socialist party for a few years of his early teens could be considered odd. Ewa Konselj called a psychiatric ward, and it was decided he might better be checked. This led to Elvis Karlfeldt being transported to a hospital for the mind. Being medicated and strapped to a bed for a while. Elvis was at ease, calm, after having been given three beige pills with the reassuring letter ’A’ stamped on them.

See. Sometimes it takes no more than that.

During the sessions that were to follow, it was agreed upon that what Elvis needed most was peace and quiet. Rest and pills in funny colours with morphine base was prescribed. Elvis thought that was fine and was very agreeable, which eased his release and home transport.

Elvis was sent home with a huge layer of pills, making his future meetings with the police force much nicer. He noticed, however, that the beautiful, dark eyed Chlôe from the tobbacconist’s was not as happy when they met as she used to be. He did not understand this and simply let it rest. It was sure to be settled in the future. Somehow. Chlôe had no idea of what was going on. The nice book store owner, a criminal? She had no idea, but would not risk anything, so she too just let it rest.

There we see. Two souls searching but afraid to talk to each other about things that was really just nothing.

What a waste.

1 Chapter 9

Chet Bakins flowing over south Stockholm Katarina Bangata. 'This old feeling'. The feel was muted, yet warm. A feeling that there might be some kind of hope after all. Not all black as night, all that lay ahead. Future. Carsten Felder, owner of ’Carsten Wine Cellar’ just around the corner of Ring road brushed his black working shoes and fixed a fold on the blue white striped apron. Carsten was one of all the little dots who eagerly dragged themselves to this or that restaurant or bar, this or that office. One of innumerable unknown heroes that made the clockwork of society tick and tock. He packed his equipment in a beige gray textile bag and left his second floor apartment facing the courtyard, for yet another day in service of society. Chet sung ’My Pal'. A blue piano fondled the sky on its way from somewhere far ago to today at Ring road, south Stockholm. Carsten unlocked his little wine restaurant with a ”Good morning, Cellar.” he had a way of connecting on a personal basis to the more material everyday items, our friend Carsten. It looked to be a fine late summer’s day, the sun graced the old worker’s neighbourhood with its rays. Cool Jazz did what it could to make the day better, more easily handled.

The little green phone behind the counter buzzed discretely.

"Carsten, hello…" Carsten listened and expected to hear someone announcing their business from the opposite end of the line. The only thing he heard was a grotesque and well nigh evil hizzing.

”hello”, Carsten was quickly getting fed up with this.

”Help…it is over…I can’t take anym…” the connection fell. Carsten heard a click, as if somebody disconnected a line. In the background there were several voices discussing Belgian Parliament. Whispering. In Flemish. Carsten did not understand what was going on, thanks to his youth in Flanders he knew a little bit of Flemish, but a sudden voice proclaimed that the circus was over. Congo had forever moved away. This made him think of uncle Dietmar, an elderly relative from the Foreign Office in the 50's and 60's. Maybe a call to Belgium would be in order.

The Magpie sitting outside the window pecked discretely at the window. Carsten twitched. Opening time.

A dark, evil limousine slid by outside. A sinister shade could be felt more than seen inside the smoky windows of the grotesque vehicle. Carsten jerked as he sensed sort of a 'cold' in the corner of his left eye. It really was not 'cold' per se, more like when a jazz solo is ended prematurely. Abruptly without having been 'finished'. A weave of evil was forming. A pattern of events seemingly unrelated. A robbery at Kungsholmen. A lethal traffic accident. A rendez vous at a castle. A mysterious envelope, and a dead lady below an elevator. The sum of it all was, one would say, less tasty. A ragü, but less tasty. The crown to top it all would prove to be that one of the confused links led, by way of the Belgian parliament and higher strata family, to present day Congo.

Carsten Felder shook his head, thinking he had better not enter there. He was probably right. Sadly, the two unpleasant men that left a parking house at 11.27 a.m to swiftly – well swiftly to be very overweight and in a generally poor physical condition – walk to a little wine cellar called Carsten's appeared to have ulterior motives and completely other ideas. Certainly they were aware of Carsten's family bonds to the former Belgian Foreign Office representative. The one of the two men who seemed to be the leader introduced himself as 'Herr Schwarzkopf' and implied he was in the posession of a number of documents. Documents that would probably be of interest to certain Belgian contacts. He clicked his glove covered but still very well maintained fingers above his shoulder. His company, our friend Lütz, handed him a folder crafted from the very best Alligator hide. His hand was also glove dressed. The similarities ended there. His hands were not well maintained. He took care of the grooming himself. Using tools from his kitchen cabinet. In his little suburban one room studio. Herr Schwarzkopf handed Carsten the well maintained folder.

"If you regard this selection from a very extensive collection of documents treating Belgian business in the Congos of the 50's and 60's we are certain you will find it a good idea to contact a certain Vieldhauser to discuss the possible value of keeping this between you and I, so to say."

Carsten was generally an easygoing character, but these two he had a hard time getting along with.

"But listen", Carsten tried to explain he had no idea what they were talking about, "I have no idea what you are talking about."

Lütz, or Herzog as he preferred to be called during working hours, walked up to Carsten who preferred to be called Carsten at all times and pushed one of his lily white and fat but for the time being glove covered fingers into Carsten's right eye. Quite brutally. So brutally in fact that it hurt quite severely. This done, and Carsten having cried an involuntary 'Ouch' and covered his by now red and rather swollen eye with a hand, the very same Herzog rudely coughed Carsten straight in the face. From a distance of about 15 centimeters. Something which, depending on whether one appreciated sour coffee breath mixed with stench of sardines, might be regarded very nice indeed or the utter disrespect. Carsten was part of the group who considered sour coffee breath mixed with yesterday's sardine fumes something awful, but he was occupied with his by now blue eye so he didn't mind very much.

"Inspect these documents and we will be in touch in a day or two." Herr Schwarzkopf wasn't going to waste any more of his time on this. The document handed over, a finger in Carsten's eye. 'All in all a fine morning.' Our evil friend thought to himself. Carsten said nothing. He was happy these evil characters decided to leave his establishment.

"A glass of white, perhaps?" Carsten's inner waiter came forth.

"Shouldn't think so, my good man." Lütz growled. Two evil guardians of darkness walked towards the Skanstull parking house. Due to Lütz' disgusting feeding habits there was a stinking cloud from pieces of sardines stuck between his badly maintained teeth surrounding the evil couple. This attracted a number of semi wild cats that spent their lunch hunt in the area between the Maria Church and the Globe. They found the stench ever so interesting and started following our gangsters hoping for an easy to catch fishy meal.

"Damn. Get away, you bastard cat." Lütz kicked after a grey brown speckled mixed breed named Sophie. Sophie was a very nice cat, and lucky to have survived a fall from third floor. After quite some surgical work and care she was back to her old self again and easily escaped Lütz' angry foot.

"Stop it man. Leave it be!" Wilmuth Schwarzkopf did not want to attract attention of any kind.

"But look at all these cats. Just look!" Said Lütz waving his lily white but glove covered hand vaguely at a herd of stray cats closing in on the couple.

"If you start using a tooth brush and perhaps flossing a bit after your sardine meals I should think it will get better." By now Lütz was kicking wildly about himself, running towards the garage entrance. Three or four cats were hanging nailed to his pale and fat thighs. Small drops of blood penetrated the synthetic cloth of his cheap trousers which would need cleaning.

“Damn, stop it you...cats!” Lütz arrived at the garage, got rid of the last few cats and entered to get the car. "Turn the fan on, hey." Herr Schwarzkopf coughed disgustedly waving to get rid of an imaginary swarm of flies in the area of the back seat. Lütz did as requested and they emerged from the garage. Stories of a certain August afternoon and a hoard of wild cats manically meowing while chasing a black limousine having very dark windows could be heard in the Skanstull subway station area for a long time.

There, see.

Our friend Carsten was sitting all alone on a chair behind the bar desk, and had poured himself a glass of Cabernet to calm down. Fingering the envelope he looked to see if he still had the short number for the Belgian side. Oh yes, there it was. What had started out as an envelope handed over at a castle and subsequently been part of no less than three odd events, finally had come to witness unappropriate events at international top level, ending up on a little sideboard aside the owner of a little wine cellar in south Stockholm.

Carsten sighed slightly watching the traffic through the window. It had started raining.

1 Chapter 10

A steaming cup of coffee at a so called 'vintage' table. An old kitchen table with the grey white decor from the fifties, is what ordinary people would call it. Elvis karlfeldt was no ordinary man. To him it was 'vintage'. The old and worn jacket he had found at the nice price 20 € at a second hand market was also vintage. As was the abstract green Meline coffee machine he found at a local flea market. Anything old, worn, scratched and ugly, and hardly working, was vintage to Elvis. The reason for Elvis early cup of coffee this wednesday morning was not that he had planned to open his book store earlier than usual. No, he had plans. He was going to the flea market yard sale around the corner. To see if he could find some vintage equipment.

"Fine vintage day, this!" Said an Elvis who had just been refreshed by caffeine and the morning news, the 'echo'. It was a fine Wednesday morning at 8.30, Elvis had heard rumours of a possible cigar blade cutter in sterling silver from the Hauptmann Studios in Berlin. Elvis was very excited indeed. He put on a pair of old sneakers, his vintage jacket and a vintage bowler hat. He smiled at himself as he passed the mirror on his way out, winked and said 'A dopo.' Elvis left the building.

On his way down the stairs he couldn't help noticing several lines from 'A Midsummer Day Dream' written in red pro marker on the wall. His neighbour, Veronica Lagerkrantz, who was on her way to a day care center with her five year old, nodded at the words.

"Sad we cannot even get away from that sort of thing out here." Out here meaning on the isle of Kungsholmen. It was well 'known' among the dwellers that grafitti and such was common in the subway, in the suburbs and such. Jakobsberg. Akalla. Norsborg. 'Well', Elvis thought, 'I guess that's the future'.

"yes, terrible. But this one had taste at least." Veronica Lagerkrantz looked at him as if he was demented, dragged her kid by the arm to hurry her up a bit.

"Come Anaïs, we have to run." The child didn't protest. It thought Elvis appeared odd, and her mother had warned her to stay away from odd looking characters.

"Yes, I'm coming." The mother and child disappeared quickly, the mother looking over her shoulder, a bit worriedly, to see if Elvis followed them. She always had can of maze in her hand bag. Just in case. She checked with her left hand. Yes, it was there.

Elvis turned left out on the pavement. Only a few meters to the neighbouring yard. He checked that his wallet was in the pocket where it was supposed to be. He was met by a smiling Hartwig Johanns, an old acquaintance and also one to appreciate antiquities.

"All well, Elvis?" The question harboured a genuine portion of interest. Hartwig was a considerate person, who felt a bit sad for Elvis' living all alone in that tiny apartment.

"Oh, it's generally fine. And how are you, old rogue?" Elvis quacked. An Elvis who, I guess it could be said, also cared about the wellbeing of his acquaintance. Not in the same manner, mind you. Elvis found Hartwig to be an amusing and entertaining chap, making the neighbourhood a tad exotic. He also thought, which was indeed a mistake, that this man, sprung from the local soil, appreciated his jocular tendencies. Hartwig felt sorry for Elvis, but disliked his tendency to add funny sub clauses to most conversations. Hartwig took on the image of a cloud. Hiding the sun and making things miserable.

"Ok." He retorted while making an effort to find a reason to walk as far from Elvis as possible, away from an Elvis whose perceptive qualities had become somewhat out of tune, one might say, from being a bachelor for years. Elvis started wondering if he smelled of something unpleasant. Last night's fish soup perhaps? 'I had a shower this morning.' He thought confusedly. This, however, would not be allowed to sabotage this opportunity to perhaps find some interesting vintage detail to bring his dreams of perfection closer to fruition. Gazing at the tables set up across the courtyard like a child close to the secret chocolate factory. On a table further up he saw something that made his vintage feelings sparkle: Did he see a Pfeiffhauser IX? It appeared to be one of the early models, with the prime cover. The one with a transparent top. Elvis charged smilingly in to the yard, taking care not to display his current degree of joyfulness. As he approached the table he noticed a dry and as it appeared irritated hand reaching out towards what might by the look of it be a Pfeiffhauser IX Slide Rule in mint condition. He almost choked. Stretching out. Jumping. A final leap. YES!

"Hands off, it's already sold." Elvis shouted ecstatically. He had found the slide rule of his dreams. A German Pre War masterpiece in the rare original cover. The one with the transparent top.

"Oh dear." Elvis was ever so happy.