Friday, 9 March 2018

The bullied takes on Goliath in the true horror stories in modern Paris part 64


I wish I could tell you that I stared back at Mr. Pride and Mr. Brave like a cool heroine in the film.  I am sorry but this is a true story that happened to a real ordinary woman, slightly modified to conceal the true identity of the characters.  Fear gripped me when I saw Mr. Brave’s cold reproachful eyes.  I was supposed to have shriveled and fried by the killer ventilation of the restaurant he had designed 7 months ago.  His eyes said ‘Surely the electricity leakage 2 months ago would have finished this stupid Asian?’  However, I noticed he was standing slightly behind another man.  This was the moment I named him Mr. Brave in my mind.

Another man was of course, Mr. Pride.  I instantly turned my face away, but still caught a glimpse of his expression.  He looked like a boy who feared his mother’s wrath at home for his failure.  My guess is that he was afraid of losing the faith of Mme. Empathy, the gorgeous femme fatale.  She would be furious that Mr. Pride failed to gain a permanent right to fix his ventilation extractor on the building.  All it remained was for my lawyer to claim at the tribunal that her restaurant lacked the essential infrastructure.  It would annul her restaurant permit…in the ideal world, but this is Paris.    

I should have had my first hearing a few months after the launching of my lawsuit against the restaurant from Hell.  However, the restaurant of which permit was granted with the recommendation of Mr. Honour (this document, my lawyer has the copy) was not summoned to the trial 5 months on at this point.  I had a bad feeling that my first hearing would be further delayed.  What would the restaurant do in the meantime? 

I did not have to wait long for the answer.  The loud music blasted.  This time I was not the only victim because the restaurant left their façade open.  The hellish beats hit the hereto quiet street, all day all night.  In a way I understood.  The majority of the co-landlords had just rejected the restaurant.  Mme. Empathy would want a revenge, but I could not believe it.  She was much shrewder than that.  I also noticed that she was seen in the restaurant less and less.  The blasting music was played by the chef with the criminal records.  He did not know how persistent I could be calling the police to stop the music, but I had another idea.  Why not let him blast the neighborhood so the neighbors would know the consequence of letting the restaurant from Hell be?   

I decided to spend summer months in Japan.  As I had anticipated, the chef tortured the neighbours day and night during my absence.  Some exasperated resident threw water into the restaurant, or so I heard.  Finally, several people filed complaints to the authority.  It was no longer my one-man battle.  My health recovered in Japan.  My Samurai ancestors would have approved because there was no shame in escaping in order to recover from the wound so long as one returned to fight later.  By September I longed to resume the fight.  This may be the true addiction of the bewitching Paris.   To be continued.

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