I was lying about the Lincoln, by the way. Well, I do own the car, but the wheels have been removed and the engine has been stolen. I haven’t been able to drive it for a long time. I can’t even sit in it anymore, because someone has taken a shit on the seat. Pardon my French, but I can’t think of a better word to describe this atrocity. Possessions aren’t worth the trouble around here anyway. Things are changing owners much too fast. Property is hugely overestimated. I just take what I need and leave it behind when it’s no longer of service. I wouldn’t exactly call it Communism. Anarchic anti-collectivism would be more like it. Roaming the neighborhood on foot makes more sense anyhow. This way I can pass a baggie here and drop off a pouch there. Do some street-socializing. And always give to the homeless, something I highly recommend. A unit now and then doesn’t hurt anyone, and these guys will be eternally grateful.
On my walk along the Warsaw I come across a kebab store with three young Lemons loitering in front of it. Already from the distance I get the feeling that they’re looking for trouble. These children of the gutter usually communicate in a blend of German, Arabic, English, Turkish, and Russian. The teens sport sweatpants, gold chains, and gilded watches. And the ubiquitous base caps, which have been part of the uniform for decades. The scimitars the generation before them only wore as pendants around their necks, are now dangling from their belts, ready for action. On my approach I listen in on their conversation—or whatever you want to call their staccato-like grunts.
“Wanna go X’berg, slap rich dudes, yalla?” Shorty’s just suggesting to his two companions. As if these jokers could simply take a stroll across River Spree when the mood hits them.
“Yalla” and “Hey, man, gross.” His friends don’t seem to be averse to a little outing. “Yalla” originally means “Let’s go!”. Meanwhile, the word has found an inflationary use and is good for almost everything, even as a verb. “I’ll go home” in street lingo is “Me yalla home”. And “Me yalla yo” stands for “I’ll kill you”. I think so, at least, because things turned nasty every time someone said it to me.
Shorty plants himself in my path, legs spread. “Yo, kuffar, yalla,” he accuses me, the infidel. I give him credit for the fact that he doesn’t know who he’s messing with. Always watch out for the small guys. They often need to make up for something and are nimble fighters and also hard to shoot. He fondles his crotch. De-escalation is useless with dudes like him. They only chalk it off to weakness. Therefore, I resort to my standard program. “Anything interesting to discover down there?”
“Deez-cov-er?” Shorty repeats. The word obviously isn’t part of his vocabulary.
“Because you seem to have trouble finding it,” I reply, pointing at his crotch.
“Yalla! Sonofabitch, yalla.” Shorty is clearly not amused. Self-irony, my friends, is something gang bangers are sadly lacking in.
“Show de fucker, Jihad,” one of his comrades edges him on.
I haven’t mentioned it yet, but my briefcase happens to be rigged. If you want to survive in the Ghetto, it’s advisable to have a couple of tricks up your sleeve. The lower edge of my briefcase is equipped with a telescopic needle, which I can release by pressing a button underneath the handle. A little nudge with the case, just in passing and hardly noticeable, and the fine needle shoots out, pierces the flesh, and injects half a milliliter of neurotoxin into the opponent’s bloodstream. This is the treatment Jihad gets, who’s still blocking my way. The thug’s leg immediately turns numb, making him drop to the ground.
“Yalla, sonofabitch, I fuck yo and yo family, yalla.” He’s a little confused and tries to get his head around what has just happened to him. Still, he continues to list the members of my extended family he plans to bring to bodily harm and keeps on spouting abuse, all the while feverishly rubbing his paralyzed leg. I pull my Glock and release a rubber round that hits home smack in the middle of his forehead. Blissful quiet settles over the scene, at last. His friends scurry into the kebab store. Respect is something money can’t buy. You have to earn it. I keep on walking without looking back. If they try to cause me any more trouble, it’ll be time for escalation step two.
Natasha is waiting for me at the entrance of RAW. I throw her a quick, suggestive look. Inside of me, a mad longing rears its head, but I don’t give in to my urges. Sometimes you have to bid your time, it only hones the desire. But it isn’t easy. I have the impression that she wouldn’t mind either, because she runs her hand through her blonde hair and smiles. The SWAT guys who are with her comment our casual flirt with sneers. In the eyes of these upright civil servants I’m nothing but scum. Vermin, albeit useful sometimes. I’m not fooling myself. The tough guys have shown up in four armored Mercedes off-roaders. Balaclavas covering their faces and twitchy fingers on the triggers of their HK416s, they have taken position in the doorway where three letters rule supreme: RAW. A telltale name. Especially when I think of the sado-maso whorehouse Natasha’s now taking me to. I can almost hear the question that’s on the tip of your tongue: How do sado-maso practices go with Sharia? But even prostitution is halal—allowed—as long as the Imam makes a profit. The man is resourceful enough to interpret the laws of the Quran to his own liking, while keeping his people under his thumb with the help of arbitrary rules. Hell. Just like the Pope in the Vatican, the Imam is a questionable man of
