Monday, 21 May 2018

The true horror stories in modern Paris part 74

The sharpest sword in the world is said to be the samurai swords.  My ancestors were entrusted with enormous responsibility that could cut through anything…except sludge.  It would simply wrap itself around the sword while dripping on your clothes to stick as stains, which you just cannot shake it off.  I started to wonder if Mr. Honour and Mr. Pride were themselves preyed upon by Mr. Justice’s crowd.  Anyway, it was time to adjust myself.  You do not fight sludge.  The best you could do is to let them win until they weaken themselves with their own toxins.  Did I believe this?  Not at the time, but I chose the reverse psychology by instinct.  Well, more like a prayer it was.

Speaking of prayer, I recall having touched something at the moment I was falling down the abyss, despairing the reality of human nature (part 71).  It was a small statue of Jesus Christ.  Though I am not a Christian, my mother is a protestant that I would take the little statue with me for a nostalgic reason.  I must have knocked it down off the book shelf and the statue fell near me.  In the movies, this would have been the moment I was converted, but I did not wish to choose a religion out of spite of other religions or cults.  Besides I could never bring myself to believe the unrealistic stories preached by each religion.  I wanted logic or psychology.  However, I realized that no logic could explain why the evil was triumphing in the real life either.  Hmm…I could stop being criticizing of the religion.  But like I said, hatred did not seem the right reason to embrace a religion. 

Though I concede that I cannot explain it, I learnt since I arrived in Paris, that there are three types of evils: First is the predator Goliath; the second is the sycophants who support and empower the Goliath; and the third…the hyenas.  In the trail left behind by the Goliath and the entourage, there lay their victims.  Weaken and helpless, desperate for a tiny hint of kindness.  They may not seem much, but most likely the easiest to exploit.  The hyenas know it.  It took me months to realize that I was standing next to one.  It was Mme. Landlord.

To be continued.
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Saturday, 12 May 2018

The bullied takes on Goliath in the true horror stories in modern Paris part 73

‘Don’t tell me you found a dead body down there!’  An English speaking landlord emailed me. He must have half believed it for such was a dodgy reputation Mr. Pride and Mr. Justice’s team had.  When I titled my experience as ‘The bullied takes on Goliath’ I had imagined Mr. Honour to be a formidable antagonist, the kind people hate but grudgingly give credit for owning up to his reputation with guts.  Now I do not presume to know anybody well, let alone the leader of the mighty nation like Russia who has been said a lot of things about, but I do not recall coming across any articles that accused Mr. President Putin for playing the ‘Victim Card’.  He has his own strength to rely on anyway.

But not so with Mr. Honour who portrays himself as the defender of victims.  Self-rightious one as that as I am the living proof of his true colour when it counts.  Was he like Mr. Justice before he rose in the society, claiming to be a victim and accusing any one opposing his wish to be discriminating?  I can picture Mr. Justice telling Mrs. Harmonie with a sigh about me as ‘ungrateful Japanese trouble maker despite all the improvement his sister had made in the restaurant kitchen.’  That his sister installed a commercial refrigerator prohibited in the old buildings made of wood and plaster that would not shield its mechanical noise, Mr. Justice would not mention.  He knew that the authority would not look into such a minor offence, no matter how devastating it was for me.  I found his smile more spine-chilling than Mr. Pride’s greed or irresponsible Mme. Empathy.

I waited for Mme. Landlord to arrive because I was too scared to investigate the basement alone.  She opened the door and found the staircase to be covered with drips.  Water was heard pouring intermittently in the depth of the dark basement.  The stench was so stinging that we began to cough.  We had to stop for there was a large pool of putrid water.  ‘This is a gift of Mr. Pride!’ screamed Mme. Landlord.  The relentless use of water by his restaurant had burst the building’s old sewage system.  I quickly searched for anything sinister, but this is a true story, there was no body.  However, dark sludge was everywhere.   It was an apt symbol of what this old French building had been taken over by. 

Mr. Justice and his team had been driven out from another restaurant by the lawsuit launched by their old neighbours.  However the same colony was allowed by Mr. Honour to return to the same area playing the same old victim game.  I got scared that my existence was known to those people whose nature resembled this dark putrefied sludge.  What would become of me?  From the next post, the title will revert to the original ‘the true horror stories in modern Paris’ because Goliath is for someone with a spine, not for those ‘victims-turned-predators.’  
To be continued.
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Tuesday, 8 May 2018

The bullied takes on Goliath in the true horror stories in modern Paris part 72

Before I go into the thing that touched my finger in my scary hours, I would like to revisit the dawn that followed the nightmare.

The sky of Paris looked gray white.  The crazy howling had finally subsided.  With the heavy sleepless head I went downstairs not knowing what to expect.  I looked into the restaurant glass façade.  Oddly, the floor had been cleaned.  Very much puzzled, I returned to the building.  Something told me to look into the residential garbage area.  I gasped.  It was filled with hundreds of empty drink bottles and mountain of litters.  Mr. Pride had promised that his staff would take their litters out to the nearest commercial garbage station.  Like many other his promises, this was hardly observed.  Now it was up to the residents, like me, to clean up the mess because the employed cleaner would refuse to do more than what was in the contract. 

I noticed a design on a large cake box.  Was it for a religion or a cult, I did not know, and that is not important.  What I knew was that religions teach you to consider other people, while cults use God to justify their agenda.  Stomp dancing all night on the ground floor of a residential building is certainly inconsiderate. Their chorus-turn-howling sounded as if they enjoyed inconveniencing the residents as if it proves how far they have come conquering the world.  Oh, they still need us, the inferior existence, to clean up their mess.  This disturbed me because I had come from the country where religion stays private and is never used as an excuse to avoid taking responsibilities for one’s actions.  Not never, I must admit, because cults do exist in Japan too, but such demands for religious tolerance is virtually unheard of in Japan because if you cause troubles to the society, it will reflect on your personality, not the religion you hide behind when it suits you.  This view may not be accepted in the other parts of the world, but I am pretty sure that using a religion to push one’s agenda is the sure way to become unpopular.

Sadly, some people do not care for other people’s feelings.  Mr. Pride does not even care for other people’s health, so focused on making profits.  Mrs. Harmonie, likewise, takes it for granted the sacrifice from the others, willfully condemning me into the life without fresh air.  Mr. Justice believes in power of politic more than showing empathy when it counts.  Of course these type of characters exist in Japan too, but the Japanese society has the right to denounce them for their attitudes, whilst in France, these characters claim to be victims on the ground of their religion when denied of their my utter surprise.   I remembered how my neighbours were afraid to make complaints to the restaurant from Hell.  The best they could do was to throw some water in.  I finally understood the reason.

As I stood in the dark collider counting the numbers of the discarded glass bins, I noticed the stinking odour.  It was coming from the door that led to the basement.  To be continued.
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Sunday, 29 April 2018

The bullied takes on Goliath in the true horror stories in modern Paris part 71

You may wonder why I still retain the title ‘The bullied takes on Goliath’ after Mr. Honour went out of the picture.  Well…I learnt from this grim experience that Goliath does not exist on its own.  It may even have been made to turn into one by the sycophants surrounding the former honorable man. 

The man who walked into the restaurant was Mr. Justice, brother of Mme. Empathy.  My readers would remember that they sold this restaurant pending 2 lawsuits without a full explanation.  It was a text book case of property frauds and yet Mr. Justice had the nerve to show up with a smile to meet his prey, Mme. Harmonie.  How is that possible?  I screamed inside me.  

In need of some explanation that would make sense I searched the internet.  The discovery was even more incredible.  Mr. Justice worked as a humanitarian.  He denounced Mme. Le Pen for racial discrimination, but this was the man who let his sister build the chamber of horror where I, an Asian woman, was fried above the restaurant cooking ventilation.  This is the man who let his sister terrorize her neighbours at two restaurants and more from what I heard making many French neighours sick day and night.  And yet he smiled in the photo like an icon of justice and benevolence.  Scary part was that he really seemed to believe it himself.  Talk about selective memory…

And where did Mme. Harmonie fit into this equation?  I soon found out.  One night I heard a chorus from below that gradually turned into howling.  Then my apartment started to shake.  The whole building shook from what I learnt later from stomping that continued all night.  I was not annoyed, I was scared.  Usually my curiosity would beckon me to find out what was happening, but instinct told me to stay away from what was obviously a ritual of some kind.  As I listened to their primitive shouts, getting louder each time, I could not help but remember the dark souls of the butchers who lived near Notre Dame Cathedral praying on the tourists to consume their flesh.  Their shops are no more and there is a police station, but their souls that could not have been accepted into the heaven may have found a new hang out.

Nonsense, I tried calming myself.  But I sadly remembered that Mme. Harmonie knew that I suffered from the thin ceiling of the restaurant.  And yet she allowed this thunder like gathering to happen.  No, she probably did not even remember that I existed.  I pictured herself dancing away merrily with Mr. Justice down stairs.  Outwardly she is a respected critique and he is a revered humanitarian.  The whole community of them, protected by Mr. Honour, the Goliath.  I choked on the cursed vapour invading into my apartment.  I felt sick to the core.  I was falling down the abyss of human souls that is essentially evil.  I searched for something to grab at frantically. 

Then it touched my finger.  To be continued.
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Monday, 23 April 2018

The bullied takes on Goliath in the true horror stories in modern Paris part 70

Mme. Harmonie was not beautiful.  But Scarlet O’Hara she was not either.  But the two women shared the look of determination, not letting anyone get in her way.  Mme. Harmonie derived her power from her occupation which was critique.  It would have made more sense if she had been a food critique, but no.   She decided to have a restaurant on side to lean back on.  A very condescending attitude to get into any business, especially the food industry.  It is much more than providing food, drinks and a fake smile promoting ‘honest artisan experience’.  There are number of reasons why there are so few restaurants are awarded Michelin Stars. 

I have come to notice that Michelin Star awarded restaurants, they mostly rent or own the floor above their restaurants so as not to annoy their neigbours.  Their kitchens with commercial size machines are kept down in the basement to protect the clients and the neighbours from electromagnetic, low frequency noise and all other health hazards.  Of course it is all costly infrastructure that requires professional integrity to observe.  What do I know but it seems a wonderful coincidence that Michelin has awarded the restaurants with CONSCIENCE, not just the taste.

Mme. Harmonie soon blasted us with all night dance bar with a disco beat music.  Had she bothered to obtain the costly bar license?  No, there is not yet a sticker of blue and red opal on the façade of her restaurant.  As for my plea to insulate her ceiling, Mme. Harmonie insisted to believe Mr. Pride’s lies that it had been done so already.  She insisted that it was all in my mind.  ‘Don’t jump to judge us just because the former manager was bad.  We’re totally new team!’  
You cannot win with a person who criticizes but takes none from others.

At least with Mme. Empathy, her trademark which was sex appeal was real.  Mme Harmonie billed herself as a friendly down to earth person with little interest to frivolous fashion.  It is a tactic often employed by average looking women in order to appear to have more substance than beautiful women.  We already know she is so kind that she does not give a rat that I am stuck in life where her restaurant does not allow me to open my windows to let the fresh air.   In a nutshell, while Mme. Empathy manipulated people with the asset she truly possessed, Mme. Harmonie deceived with an asset she did not possess when it mattered.

Totally new team, Mme. Harmonie said.  However, I saw a few waiters who used to work for Mme. Empathy.  The main chef was new, but the assistant chef was still the same guy.  I remembered this guy with bitterness because he was the one who kept breaking the regulations.  Chefs were prohibited to wander into the private court of the residents, but he kept puffing the cigarette there with insolence look.  This lack of self-discipline may have been the reason he was never promoted to the main chef, despite there had been 4 or 5 main chefs under 11 months since the opening of this restaurant from Hell.

But it was the man walking into the restaurant with this mediocre chef that stupefied me.  To be continued.

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