Chapter quattuor

4 May 2005

127

R. Linda:

Why did I use Ozzy's name? Because it sounds so Scottish doesn't it? Me character is not Mr. O at all and you will find no similarity to the real person, I just be bloody smitten with the name itself. But I do like Crazy Train, I've been on it all me life. But I digress, onward we go.

Chapter 4

After a two-second trip from Switzerland to the heart of Italy, Sara and I de-shuttled and de-suited out of our astronaut borrows as if we had only just put them on. Off we went to the Italian kiosk at the airport for a map of Rome.

While waiting in a queue for our turn at the Information Kiosk, we stood in awe watching the large screens around the airport terminal. There for all the world to see was a close-up of that tremendous case of jock itch. A reporter's voice-over blared in Italian that it seemed the kidnappers of Ozzy had purposely infected him with the worst case of red rash in history to make him talk. Yes, they wanted the secret formula of the haggis part that Ozzy used in the original best-over-the-counter seller of rash remedies the world has ever known. When he wouldn't give it up they made good on their threat to infect every man on earth with the condition. Add to this horrendous demand, these mysterious scientists also wanted to be given world domination and a free hunting license for haggis, in return for the cure and once they had all that, they'd release Ozzy.

Holding the male population hostage made me want to touch my genital area and give a good rub. But I refrained, I was in public not a ballpark or singing Michael Jackson songs. This latest outrageous demand would bring the world and society to a screeching if not screaming halt, well ok, the entire population EXCEPT the female population part of it that shrugged and walked off without a care.

I whispered to Sara it was imperative that we move fast and get this resolved. What I didn't whisper was the thought it was imperative before I came down with it.

Finding a map and asking where the taxis were, we headed out of the airport. Right away we hailed a cab and told the driver to zoom like the dickens to the Rosati Cafe. We were both in need of a cup of Joe and thought that was the place. We were wrong! We ended up with ice cream since the place is a candy store/ice cream parlour. The sugar in the ice cream gave us the boost we were hoping to get from a cup of caffeine, and we ran out sugared up and hailed another cab. This time we drove to where Sara thought the Non Importa Farmacia Group headquarters were located. From the Piazza del Popola we made it in under 20 seconds to the Porta Latina where sure enough, there was a sign that said NON-IMPORTA FARMACIA GROUP on the top of the castle-like fortress.

"We need a plan of acthon before we go inthide," Sara said as the cab idled.

"Why don't we go to a hotel and sit around the lobby and think of something," I offered.

She looked at me hard and long and immediately I was thinking sex at the end of the story, but she began nodding her head.

"Yeth, that ith a good idea." She tapped the cabby on the shoulder and directed him to the "Hotl thorty evan." The cabby nodded and drove shockingly fast through the traffic, horn blaring like we were an emergency vehicle, but no, last time I checked it was an Alfa-Romeo cab, not an emergency vehicle. That he even understood her was equally shocking. It was a terrifying trip and I was a nervous wreck but only had seconds to be nervous because we whipped by the Circus Maximus as if we were in a chariot race, then zoomed by the Marcellus Theatre which was a blur and I wanted to really really see that, around the bombed out shell of the San Giorgio al Valabro, and under the Arch of Janus it seemed just because it was there -- and out towards the hotel which I could see coming at us at a horrendous speed. We came to a screeching halt at the doorstep of the Hotel Forty-Seven across from the Temple of Vestra. Dizzy, we stepped out.

"Woo wee," Sara said lurching forward. I went to pay the cabby since she paid the last one and realised I had left me wallet and credit cards at home. All I had was some Monopoly money left over from a game I had been playing by meself before I fell asleep. Sara was already tripping her way into the lobby of the hotel. I peeled out three 100 bills and a card to Get Out Of Jail Free. I folded all of it up and placed it in the cabby's hand, saying, "Ho perso I miei traveller's cheques." (I lost me traveller's cheques)

He looked at the fake money and asked me in Italian, "Cos'e questo?" (What is this?)

I left out his curse words. I told him it was French. That I was French and that was the new French currency, something like the Euro, and I was sure he could exchange it for a million Italian lira. 

"Trusta mia," I said with a smile, slowly backing away.

I was saved by a woman who wanted the cab and as I slowly backed up from his cursing and fist-shaking, she got in. As soon as the door was shut I ran into the hotel to find Sara who had made her way to a lobby chair. She smiled up at me as I sat across from her. Her eyes were slightly crossed from the taxi ride, but she still looked beautiful for a blond-haired Chinese girl with an Italian last name.

"I wuth thinking that we thould get thum white theientific unifromth and dreth up like theientith.

She was so bright-eyed, if not still slightly cross-eyed with hope, that I didn't want to tell her we would need more than white scientific uniforms to dress up like scientists. We needed fake IDs. Then it hit me, I still had me fake Mr. Mustard I.D. badge from a game of Clue (for adults) - the ultimate detective game where I was stabbed in the library by Miss Scarlet. In the scuffle in the dark, I had managed to get Miss Scarlet's I.D. badge, the knife was lodged precariously close to me privates, as we wrestled in the dark library. Yes, I thought, this is perfect. I fished around in me back pocket, me fingers feeling the two plastic casings with the cards/badges inside. I took them out and presented Sara with the Miss Sylvia Scarlett i.d. It said she was a qualified taxidermist from Milwaukee and mine read, Mr. Frederick Mustard, maker of Grey Poo-Poo Mustard, Paris, France. With my passing off monopoly money as French currency, could it get any better than this?

We decided to split up in case we were being followed by an irate unpaid taxi driver. We'd be responsible for getting our own white scientist uniform and meeting up at Porta Latina in an hour. With a wink and a handshake, we set off in different directions to confuse the driver if he had come back looking for his fare.

End of Chapter 4

Gabe

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