A fashion clueless struggling in Paris. The world is attracted to the light of this city,and me to the history, but the shadow beneath her reveals herself to you eventually. The Parisians are forged thus so attractive is their culture. Why ‘the third red apple?’ A hint maybe in the page available in English and French.
Sunday, 17 September 2017
The true horror stories in modern Paris Part 39
I came to with foggy mind with spasm in one
eyelid, but it could have been worse. My
blood pressure which the restaurant had pushed a skyrocket high, was somewhat
under control thanks to this potion its recipe is known among Japanese, or at
least passed down among my family.
I chose to make it regularly when I embarked on this losing battle
against the big money, Mr. Pride, and the queen of manipulation, Mme. Empathy. They would have liked me to shrivel up like a
dead insect and disappear, taking Mme. Landlord down with me, but I was not
going to make it that easy for the enemies.
I could practice acupuncture on my own which helped putting my daily disrupted
system back to some what normal. Thus,
Mme. Empathy looked puzzled when I walked past her restaurant appearing to be calm. The truth is I was staggering but I was
holding myself together with a sheer mind power. She still needed to receive the writ of my
lawsuit and my lawyer had advised me not to raise any suspicion in her mind
lest she refuses to receive.
But there was another reason I had to escape
my apartment. Some long-time readers of
my blog would recall a woman named Leila in the earlier episodes of True Horror
Stories in Pairs series. Introduced in
my episode 7, she was a disturbed woman who held grudge against all the Parisians
who would not befriend her. She took her
frustration out on the previous tenant of my apartment by repeatedly harassing the
aged old man. He barely escaped but an
anonymous letter was posted to her as a warning that her malicious, bordering
on murderous, intention was in fact noted.
Leila turned her toxic eyes on me, but could not touch me for a
while. Until one day she found me
staggering out of my apartment and discovered that I was living in a hellish environment. She sensed my newly developed weakness, worn
down by this sound hypersensitivity.
Since then her tenacious midnight washing started and it tormented my
senses already tattered by the restaurant during the day and evening. I was fighting two evils, Leila and the
restaurant from Hell.
The long-time readers would remember that
Leila was removed from my life after my small act of kindness to a
stranger. My voice was slightly shaking
from excess stress because Mme. Empathy held another blasting loud music party
night. Notwithstanding, I mastered up my
sense of obligation to provide help when asked for it. A poetic justice was delivered and Leila and
her toxic fiancé was gone. The
restaurant from the Hell however was too strong. The authority was on their side because of
Mme. Empathy’s connection. My lawyer
assured me that the judicial system is still safe from corruption calls PISTON
in French. Hoping against hope, I
accessed the internet site of the post office.
A green big check appeared on the scene.
The writ of my lawsuit had finally been accepted officially by someone
from the restaurant.