Sunday, 28 July 2019

The true horror stories in modern Paris part 117

It's been three weeks since I last updated my blog.  I had again temporarily lost mobility of my wrist, the one that got damaged by Mme. Landlord who overworked me by making me clean and paint her apartment without a heater during the cold month of February while she was warming herself in her other heated apartment.  It was a blatant abuse of immigrants' labour by the self-acclaimed protector of the weak, but I needed to learn the lesson of life the hard way. 

Enough about myself.  I promised to an author Mr. Meade to give updates on the characters of my true horror stories in this modern Paris.  The restaurant from Hell went all out to deceive potential clients.  Each time some honest reviewer wrote a negative comment about their rip-off price for their stingy portion, the chef would bribe a young French with a free meal for a good review.  I once saw a girl chatting friendly with the chef inside the courtyard.  Shortly 5 stars review appeared on a social media with her photo.  Thus tourists and some French who are looking for a new place continued to get sucked in.  Nevertheless, the restaurant is never full because the neighbours would not dine there, not after being blasted with a loud music continuously until midnight.  This tactics backfired though as the restaurant kept losing their chefs who must have been exhausted by the long hours. 

However I find myself without zeal to write about the misfortune of the characters from the restaurant now that I know that they had ignored my written pleas about my physical suffering caused by the restaurant because they knew that I was under the influence of Mme. Landlord.  Mr. Pride and the other landlords all knew that Mme. Landlord would lie and exaggerate her suffering and thus I was suspected of fabricating my suffering under the instruction of Mme. Landlord.  In hindsight she forbid me to insulate my floor which would have mitigated my nausea and sickness because she needed to use my physical suffering as a big humane excuse to drive out Mr. Pride's restaurant.  Later it was revealed that she wanted to recover the value of her apartment which had been devalued by the opening of the restaurant.  My readers would have read about the hell that broke out after I disobeyed her.  She tried to drum up the residents to impeach me, which failed because they had already gotten to know me.

Never the one to be discouraged, Mme. Landlord turned to the new woman buyer of her apartment and fed her with the lies and scandals about me.  Mme. Landlord accompanied the new buyer…I shall call her Mme. May because that is when we first met, with the purpose to abet the young couple Mme. May and her husband to…God knows what she wanted, but she had this odd habit of announcing her move in advance in emails.  She had announced to the residents that she was going to correct all the wrong in the building for the sake of Mme. May.  So I had prepared all the written documents to counteract her lies and practiced my poor French phrases.  However, the God was on my side because Mrs. May had worked in America and thus spoke English fluently.  So I quickly explained the situation in English (thank you, Australia, you taught me well) and the obvious relief on her face was uplifting.  Mme. Landlord screamed ordering me to speak in French but Mme. May and I, we both ignored her and we bonded.  We are going to meet again on a cup of tea soon. 

Horror stems from many thing, but in my case it was my naïve bleeding heart.  In hindsight I refused to recognize some signs that old Mme. Landlord was a user because it was easier to hope that my patience with her ways would soften her avarice.  My damaged wrist is a stark reminder of my weakness which I must combat.  Some people may say that suing her for compensation would be the right revenge.  Yes, logically.  But if a person grows by overcoming the misfortune or troubles, then accepting money from the culprit would leave the person as the same weakling as before.  Being a weak fool is not a virtue.  In my case I have lost a lot through associating with Mme. Landlord, financially and physically, but only through earning back the loss through my merit I would be able to deem myself to have grown and overcome the hardship. 

In the meantime, Oh, the injured pride of Mme. Landlord upon realizing that her plan to humiliate me had failed.  I have at least gained the right to stand on the higher ground and look down on her.  This feels surprising good enough while I note that facial expression of Mme. Landlord has become both sheepish and vulgar.  What a face to show to the Lord when her time has come to return to Him.  But of course, she is an atheist so it would not have mattered to her.  I see religious people as trouble makers stirring up division among people.  God has been used to shield man's ulterior agenda for centuries.  Here in Paris I have witnessed the snobbery of one religion, the violence of one other religion, the victim game of one other religion and even the manipulation of one other religion.  And yet having no religion risks a weak soul like mine to turn into a self-acclaimed God as in the case of Mme. Landlord.  I need a religion to keep a check on my soul and attitude which is what the religion was initially set up for.  It is the people who have changed the good religions into self-serving cults.  Then only through keeping my religion absolutely private and secret may protect me from corruption.

So at the end of my long true horror stories in the modern Paris, I found myself bruised but in the place I had least expected.  I have chosen one faith.  This takes care of my soul and as for my career, I have learnt to use my left wrist to lessen the burden on my damaged right wrist.  NEC of Japan has launched a laptop whose keyboards offer 'light as feather touch.  I will resume my translation work with this new device.  And as for my dream to publish a book through a publisher, well this one is gone forever because my wrist will no longer cope with drawing many graphic novel pages at a time.  However, I have discovered that a few pages of graphic novel can be uploaded onto YouTube.  This will allow me to write at my slow pace and the potential readers will not have to pay money to see my work.  It would give me a sense of purpose if my graphic novel earned some clicks even though it is extremely difficult to earn living through clicks.

The last four years, Paris has thrown so many things at me without intermittence that I did not have time to sit down to draw a single page of graphic novel.  It may have been waste of time or life?   Yes and No because my plot will be more realistic after all this.  This post concludes this section of my True Horror stories.  Will Paris provide me with more 'True Horror'?  I wait with apprehension because this beautiful but cruel Dame will most likely do so.

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Sunday, 7 July 2019

The true horror stories in modern Paris and Bucharest part 116

Outside the Bucharest airport it was already pitch dark.  Miss J was still recovering from the shock of having missed the last shuttle bus that had left the airport before the scheduled time.  She remembered the all the horror stories about cabbies who would take advantage of women passengers, financially and sometimes even more…Yes, women, we've all been there.

Miss J looked up at the smiling face of her savior, ironically that was how the man appeared to her, this Mr. R from Romania.  Judging from the photo of an article, Mr. R's facial feature was surprisingly normal in the photo that his smile would have been disarming.  She did not know him but surely the cab driver would not misbehave towards her in the presence of another man…

Once inside the cab he told the driver to go to North Station where Mr. R had offered to accompany Miss J so that she would not be alone with the cab driver.  Miss J was a beautiful young lady who was no stranger to the kindness of men.  Thus she missed the fatal sign, the understanding look exchanged between the unofficial driver and Mr. R.  The taxi started driving towards the opposite direction, which of course Miss J would not know it. 

Shortly the taxi stopped.  Bucharest airport is practically surrounded by the forest where the light would be scarce.  Miss J could not quite see where they were, but as Mr. R got out the car to get her suit case the taxi driver insisted to be paid.  Unfortunately, the keen sense of obligation of Japanese compelled Miss J to focus on paying the taxi driver.  I know I would as the same Japanese woman.  I am 90% positive that she only had Euros on her because I personally experienced that none of the ATMS at the Bucharest airport accepted my Japanese bank credit cards.  I had to use my French card to get the local cash.  So back to the fatal night, the unofficial driver would have attempted to rip Miss J off, or at least confused her with the currency conversion rate.  Miss J would have felt uneasy by sensing a foul play which blinded her from the other more sinister risk.  She wanted to join her savior Mr. R outside, away from this dodgy unofficial driver.

The spot where Miss J got off the taxi with Mr. R was only 2 meters away from the forest that Miss J would not even have had the time to look around before she was grabbed by the strong Mr. R and abducted into the forest.  She would have screamed but they were out of hearing distance of any human existence.  In just a split second she had left the normal world behind.  Her blood must have curdled inside her veins from fear.  However she fought back, fiercely…until she felt a knife slashing her thigh.  According to many articles the autopsy found the muscle tissues torn so horrendously which would have rendered Miss J impossible to move from the extreme pain.  But there was more to come. 

I do not have the right to go into the details of her brutal defilement, but recounting of her pain may not tarnish her dignity.  After Mr. R had his way with Miss J, he punctured her eyeballs.  She lost her eye sight.  Then he attacked her ears.  She lost her hearing.  I can only hope that she had fainted before Mr. R lunged his knife into each of her organs.  The following morning, pieces of her were scattered all over the place.  Nobody deserves such an excruciating painful death.  Sadly the Romanian press disagreed.  'Stupid Girl', they condemned the deceased.  'All she had to do was to take an official taxi.  Our country's image got smeared by one foolish Japanese woman!'  I hope this was mistranslation for Miss J's sake, but apparently no sympathy was shown to this tragedy that befell on a human being.  Or was an Asian woman not seen as such here? 

The Romanian press did not let up with Miss J's parents either.  The translated text stated that 'The parents of this Japanese girl failed to raise their daughter to be sensible.  Even our three years old would know better than trusting strangers.'   Was it necessary to kick Miss J's mourning parents when they had to hold the severed head of their daughter?  

Despite their broken heart they took the criticisms in silence.  They head home carrying their dismembered daughter while being made to feel guilty to compound on their pain.  I wish to share with them my own experience at Bucharest years later.  I had pre-booked an official transfer through an airline site, but the driver was not at the airport.  I contacted the Romanian transfer company but they texted me coldly that there was not enough cars.  'Take a taxi.'  Needless to say I never received reimbursement for the fare that I had paid in advance.  Miss J's parents ought to know that Miss J was never foolish, just unlucky.

My guide informs me that even if Miss J had arrived at North Station in one piece, she would have still been doomed.  My guide points a finger at an entry to a sewage system as he drove past the North Station.  Underneath the block of cement that seals the underworld, a colony of orphans live there, abandoned by the government.  They are exploited by the adults to prostitute themselves thus many of them are infected with AIDS.  My guide continues 'they are also drug addicts and would do anything for money.  The locals stay away from this area after dark.'  

I sensed doom from that concrete lid that hid the hell on earth.  Those Romanian orphans would know better than trusting strangers even before the age of three.  Finally something that I could agree with the Romanian press.  Miss J was raised by loving parents to be kind but a little too trusting than those three years old orphans abandoned by their people.  

Her death finally stopped Mr. R who had long been suspected of murders. But I must mention one courageous act in this gruesome episode.  Mr. R was apprehended following the call from the taxi driver, the one who drove Mr. R and Miss J from the airport.  He may have been a partner in a small financial crime of Mr. R, but not the partner in murder.  As soon as the news of the death of Miss J was aired, the driver contacted the police.  It was courageous act because he knew it would enrage Mr. R and that it would put the driver at the risk of retribution.  The driver would have known that the police had released Mr. R without conducting DNA test in order to grudge the expenses.  If Mr. R was released again, the next target would have been the driver himself.  The irony of life is that it was one unofficial taxi driver who did the right thing in the end.

My trip to Transylvania of legendary Count Dracula necessitated my mother and me to fly into Bucharest, but the death of Miss J cast a shadow throughout our trip.  I could not shake off the sinking feeling until we crossed into Bulgaria where it is becoming more popular destination for Japanese tourists than Romania.  My Japanese guide noticed the decline in the number of visiting tourists after the tragedy of our Miss J and the arrival of one Bulgarian athlete whose warm personality made him a popular figure in Japan.

This post concludes the horror stories in Bucharest, but that of  Paris continues.
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Saturday, 22 June 2019

The true horror stories in modern Paris and Bucharest part 115

After the initial panic, I willed myself to calm down.  I knew what to do in the situation like this for I had been sexually harassed by every superior (of various nationalities) that in the end I opted for working from home by myself.

Now sexual harassers can be sorted roughly in two types: one who enjoys overpowering the weak and delights in the misery of the victim.  The second type is the overconfident who believes that every woman wants a piece of him.  Both types ignore the will of women and thrives on our reaction, either pain or joy.  So I had developed this method that always worked which was to turn into a cool cucumber showing no pain nor joy which would fuel the excitement of the harassers.  
I blocked the curious hands of Mr. Treasure by covering my breast with my both arms while letting him continue to stroke my back.  I regularly receive remedial massages for my stiff back that it was easy to switch off my senses of that area.   
I made sure that my back was facing him so that he could not kiss my lips.  That would have grossed me out.  He was kissing my neck from above my hair, but the hair are essentially dead cells that again I felt nothing.  It was time to activate my precautionary insurance.

What Mr. Treasure did not know was that before I let him into my apartment I had contacted the president of the Japanese Association in Paris because Mr. Treasure had put his advertisement on the Association's communal Page.  The president naturally wanted me to report the result.  The words of mouth is sacred among the Japanese society which Mr. Treasure would have known after living 15 years in Japan.  His breathing was becoming louder but I spoke calmly.  'Would you like to meet the president of Japanese Association? 

Mr. Treasure finally stopped.  My method worked again as I used to check my former superiors' sexual advance by befriending their wives or their bosses.  Those jerks who would stoop to take advantage of their subordinates were always cowards.  I took this waited opportunity to break away from Mr. Treasure's grip, now weakened in his bewilderment.  He muttered.  'Why aren't you getting excited?'  What a pathetic question.  Thanks for ignoring my preference in men.  
Mr. Treasure whispered that 'I like you' as if that would have justified his unwanted advancement without my consent.  But I felt the danger had passed that I almost laughed at his next question.  'Did you not ever date a white man?  This reflected his low opinion on Asian women and my thoughts were on those Japanese women who had encountered him in the past.  No doubt, they endured his ego with bitterness.

I said to him 'we are very tight, the members of the Association.  The president welcomes friends of Japan, but he is also watching out for friends in disguise.'  The expression on Mr. Treasure became uncertain.  He had boasted himself to be more capable than French tradesmen and that many Japanese clients saw him as their savior.  However, I have a written proof that he aggravated the electricity leaking in my apartment.  He was correct in pointing out the flaw of my former architect, but when the man from my washing machine came to fix it, his testing equipment registered unusually high electricity leakage.  It was worse in the kitchen.  The figures on his report became the concrete proof of Mr. Treasure's substandard job.  In the end, it was this Japanese electrician who was able to stop the leaking.  And this was the man whom Mr. Treasure had badmouthed as 'an old man whose amateur jobs I (Mr. Treasure) had to redo.'  So, Mr. Treasure discriminated against the aged too. 

As soon as he left, I contacted my lawyer to deal with Mr. Treasure.  In a way I was lucky that he was the lesser dangerous of the two types of sexual harassers.  Mr. Treasure sought my excitement to endorse his ego.  However, the other more sinister type of sexual harassers thrives on the pain and the misery of the victims.  I have only encountered this type through my girl friends who suffered domestic violence.  (None of them ever listened to my pleas to leave the aggressor)   No doubt, Miss J fell in the evil clutch of this sadist with no mercy at Bucharest.  It is daunting that I must finally recount the gruesome crime in my next post.  
To be continued.
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Friday, 14 June 2019

The true horror stories in modern Paris and Bucharest part 114

I am in the process of reporting the misfortune of Miss J at Bucharest, but I could not help wondering if the Romanian press may have been kinder had she not been an Asian woman.  'They are all whores, u'know, those Asians', so uttered Lord Sewel while being taped sniffing drugs.  He was caught donning a pair of red bras, but as the title Lord indicates, he is well respected man in the Untied Kingdom and perhaps his opinions are supported too.  It is not better in Germany either where a video advertisement showing an Asian woman paying money to sniff the dirty underwear of a German bloke.  

The Ad did not specify the nationality of the role, but the background setting was that of Japan.  The producer was unapologetic claiming the video was created based on his research.   Now, unless he had been badly jilted by a Japanese woman we had done nothing wrong to this producer.  Maybe this is why he targeted us because his research would have informed him that Japanese women are raised to suffer in silence (at least up to my generation.)  Indeed, it was the Korean and the Chinese women who raised their voice to denounce the uncouth video.   Had it not been for them, the producer may have gotten away it.  Besides, slant as our eyes are, Asian women can still discern the handsome from the mediocre looking Caucasian men.  Atrocious our pronunciation of English, French, Germany, etc. may be, we can still tell when the white men are lying to appear successful in hopes that we Asian women won't know better. 

However, I am also aware that there was a time when Asian women also contributed to this defamation through either working as household servants under the white mistresses, marrying a white senior man for Visa, or in the worse case, being exported to the west by their pimps.   Therefore, I can tolerate discrimination from the older people, but the modern generations ought to be aware that the new Chinese are so rich that they can hire a group of servants themselves.  I remember that this town called Bondi Junction in Australia was suddenly bought by the Chinese money that the majority of the white employees were replaced by the Chinese staff virtually overnight in the year 2014. 

The economical boom has sadly passed for Japan, but it is safe to say that Japanese servants, or prostitutes would not need to leave Japan where they would be paid well, if not better.  This I expected this Tradesman to know after he had spent 15 years working in Japan.  'I love Japanese people who taught me to do jobs well caring for the details!'  (Hereafter referred to as Mr. Treasure as his favorite phrase was 'all my customers are my treasure')  Surely, he would know that one thing the Japanese women seek outside Japan is recognition for their intellect.  

This is still hard to find in Japan.  Even our new Empress Masako was long forced to live a semi-confined life as a punishment for bearing only a princess.  That she was a graduate of Harvard University and Tokyo University (the most elite institution) had been brushed aside until President Trump and Mme. Melania praised the beautiful command of English of the Empress Masako.  Thanks to them, the Japanese media has finally acknowledged the true worth of our hereto wronged Empress.  It was not just men because  the ladies nearby lifted not a single finger to the Royal Highness Masako.  I want the readers to know that this blog is not about man-bashing.  Women have been just as guilty of gender discrimination.  

Now I would not dare to compare myself to Empress Masako, but I expected that Mr. Treasure would treat me fairly decently.   He showed me the recommendations from his Japanese clients to reassure me.  In hindsight I should have noted that they were all men, but he was son of an immigrant, an outsider to the French society like myself.  He was sympathetic that my woman architect had let me down.  'I'll come and make you the real pasta to cheer you up!'  Mr. Treasure bellowed with a friendly smile.  I temporarily forgot that in Paris, the enemy of an immigrant was other immigrants.

It was not long before it became clear that Mr. Treasure's affection for Japanese clients was fake.  As soon as his workers went home, Mr. Treasure took advantage of the fact we were alone and grabbed me to kiss.  I turned away so his lips would not touch mine, but the yucky sensation on my cheeks and neck followed.  His one hand sneaked under my shirt to touch my back skin while his other hand searched for my breast.  The man was twice my size.  My 2018 was looking to become my worst Christmas ever.

To be continued.
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Friday, 7 June 2019

The true horror stories in modern Paris and Bucharest part 113

My old modem has gone off that I do not have regular access to WIFI until the new one arrives.  I hope the problem will solve soon because I feel so vulnerable in this NO-WIFI environments that I must rely on internet cafes.

Miss J also felt utterly vulnerable when her plane landed in the Bucharest airport on that fatal day.  She was completely out of her comfort zone.  Away from Japan known to be one of the safest countries in the world, deprived of means to communicate.  Her English would have been useless.  I know so because the Japanese are not born with the DNA that would have helped us in mastering foreign languages.  (I am one of the exception who is in turn is pathetic at mathematics, something most Japanese are known to excel at) 

The first thing Miss J would have done it to withdraw local cash from ATM in the airport.  She would not have succeeded in it because I have also tried my credit cards issued in Japan there in the Bucharest Airport and it did not work.  The cash was only dispensed after I switched to my French bank cards.  I was relieved, but no such a comfort for Miss J who was met with an ATM that did not give her local cash.  She may have tried many times while time slipped away. 

Miss J finally gave up and searched for a shuttle bus to the central station in the city.  She arrived there in time only to discover that the bus last bus had left before the schedule.  The driver wanted to go home and did not care if his action jeopardized the plan of the potential passengers, or in this case the future of Miss J.  The shadow of Communism continues to cash a shadow in the mind of the Romanians despite the government may have gone democratic.  The mind frame of communism is that one will not be rewarded for a job well done.  So why would the workers want to try to do well?

The camera at the airport recorded Miss J visibly in shock and dismay at the bus stop.  Her panic was palpable and a vulture smelled weakness.  A stout built man approached Miss J with a smile.  He had a boyish face which did not alarm Miss J.  You may say why did Miss J was foolish enough to trust a stranger.  To that I answer that I would have done the same thing because Japanese women are so skeptical of male taxi drivers.  I myself have been ripped off almost all the time by male taxi driver that I avoid them at all cost.  I have been threatened to be left in a deserted place with my luggage while my departure time at the airport was fast approaching in Korea.  I was subjected to a sex talk by an Indian taxi driver that I was almost ready to jump out the taxi in Australia.  In Paris, a taxi driver did something to the meter when he saw me which made the meter rise at every second in Paris.  A Japanese taxi driver in Kyoto took the one way road and used it as an excuse to do a round about tour.  So…I would rather crawl than take a taxi and I would not be surprised if Miss J shared the same phobia.

So when a nice looking gentleman (Mr. R in this blog) offered to share a taxi with Miss J to the central station in the city, she would have been relieved that she would not be alone with a taxi driver.  The Romania media condemned her for not having taken a ticket from the official taxi ticket vender, but when I looked around the Bucharest airport, it was small and was not that easy to find for a new comers.  Remember, Miss J was already in panic for having missed the shuttle bus.   Besides, Miss J would have read in the guide book that even the official taxi drivers had been know to rip off tourists.   Miss Harmony who had regarded Miss J as her rival, arranged this risky night travel after abruptly cancelling the tickets that would have landed Miss J safely in Wien, Austria.

The camera in the Bucharest airport captured Miss J entering a taxi with Mr. R who had been arrested for violence and even homicide, but not yet apprehended because the Romania police officer begrudged the cost of the expensive DNA test of evidence.  Miss J was slim and sweet looking girl.  She was too young to suspect that this man and the taxi driver were a team.

To be continued.
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