Who cares about Pochtrump, that bigoted BMW puppet of a dictator, and his war criminal buddies, when you can enjoy “Commissioner B. goes south,” chilling out quietly in slippers by the fire, after sweating all day on those motherfucking pyramids?

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About a hundred yards down the road from the sign he spotted a small forest path on the right. Was it precognition? Sixth sense? Extreme caution in unfamiliar territory? He slowed down to a crawl. The next second, the reason for this irrational move emerged from the  path. At first, he thought it was a deer or a wild boar. Except that wild boars rarely run on their hind legs. He slammed on the brakes. As surprised as he was, the creature stopped dead in its tracks and stood there, hypnotized by the fog lights. If it wasn’t a boar, it sure had the fur. Long, shaggy hair and a thick beard covered the face that protruded from the thick canvas jacket, buttoned up to the collar.

Before the individual tried to shield them from the sudden light, B. had seen his eyes. They were filled with intense fear. The din coming on his tail made him turn around in panic. Returning to the hood of the car, he stretched out an arm as if to prevent it from starting up again and running him over. Half a second later he had crossed the road and disappeared into the woods on the other side.

Surprisingly for a cop, when forced to choose, Commissioner B.  tended to side with the hunted rather than the hunter.  He figured that by moving forward just a little, he would block the exit from the path…

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Okay people, let’s forget for a moment  we’re here toiling away like Pyramid builders back in ancient Egypt. Haven’t I told you about my friend Commissioner B. ? Want a sample?

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Atmosphere. After turning the massage parlor graciously sponsored by his mother-in-law into a brothel, the jealous husband would film his wife/business partner’s services!

“Pictures and sound, gentlemen! Pictures and sound! Decency compels me to skip the pictures…” A lewd chuckle (mingled with a hint of bitterness), “…As for the sound, the conversations of these unscrupulous slanderers leave no doubt as to their willingness to sacrifice their respective families on the altar of their guilty passion.”

But where had this child from the suburbs of Bangkok learned to speak so learnedly? From the local officials who jostled at the door of his exotic bordello? Had the honorable intellectuals, writers, artists, and politicians (some of whom were quick to proclaim,  on television or elsewhere, the indescribable joy of being unbuttoned by a child) given him private lessons?

“The world will know, Commissioner! The world will know all about their plan to run away together! Like thieves! Leaving Port-Léon without anyone knowing! To go and settle in the countryside! That scoundrel of a farang claimed he was about to inherit a castle! A castle, Commissioner! Ah, you should have heard him speculating about his own mother’s death, that good-for-nothing! Date after date, he worked her up into a frenzy, that loose woman…”

“Less than nothing,” “loose woman.” More delightfully vintage expressions gleaned from prostate-dependent gentlemen, fervent believers in essential oil body rubs…

“…Like they were going to start over from scratch… Set up a bed and breakfast, rent out rooms, or whatever… The ‘high life’, as they say…”

As they used to say, dude. It’s about time you brushed up on your linguistic fundamentals. Ask Chef Poiret to set you up with Netflix. Or listen to a little K-pop, may be…

Read more? Download Commissioner B. goes south

Epub / Kindle