Ulrich Haarbürste's Novel of Roy Orbison in Clingfilm

by Ulrich Haarbürste

  “I am attending to villainy,” he explains. “These are my prisoners.”

  Roy and I bow again. Roy says, “I am sorry to hear about the cabal of enemies who thwarted your husband’s journalistic ambitions, Mrs. Schmidt.”

  The woman scowls. “I have no idea what you mean. My name is not Schmidt and my husband was a wicked desperado and semiprofessional chicken-choker.”

  She turns and dips one of her filthy fingerless mittens into the vat of soup and then licks her hand.

  “You are just in time, son,” she says. “This foul and unhealthy soup is as ready as it will ever be. I have spat in it for extra flavor, the way I used to when you were an urchin.”

  “Ah Mutti, that brings back memories, but I do not have time to sample your degraded cooking. Time waits for no man and business is afoot.”

  “Is there a lot of money involved?” says the crone with a sly cackle.

  “Yes, but I will not give you any of it,” he laughs. “And if you come begging I will punch you.”

  Such infamy!

  The crone laughs too. “That’s my boy! I raised you well.”

  “According to our perverted values, you certainly did.”

  The other two spies are quietly shocked at this behavior but say nothing.

  “I need to use the attic,” says Heinrich. “I trust you have intimidated the neighbors and that if they hear any whimpers and moaning emanating from here they will raise no alarms?”

  “The neighbors will not notice. They spend all their time whimpering and moaning themselves as they reflect on their poor career choices and the unstable property values in this neighborhood.”

  “Capital. There is one other thing. I trust this kitchen is infested with earwigs?”

  “But of course, for my slovenliness is proverbial. In fact I have collected a jar of them, to put in the soup for extra protein, the way I used to when you were a villainous child with hair sprouting in ugly places.”

  The villain smiles. “I am afraid I have another use for your earwigs, mother, and if you object I will bludgeon you.”

  “I do not object,” says his mother. “The fact is, I find earwigs hard to chew anyway, as my teeth are all rotten as I never brush them. I will put some spiders in the soup instead.”

  “Very good, although be assured that if you had objected, I would have bludgeoned you, and flushed your head in the toilet.”

  “That you would not,” says the crone defiantly, “for the toilet never flushes—not that I would bother to flush it if it did!”

  The mother and son laugh loudly at this. “A man never had a finer mother,” the rogue opines. He gives her a rough hug, although in doing so he steals her hearing aid to sell on the internet.

  Reader, I blanch. Yet his villainy must be established if what follows next is to be plausible.

  “You two, upstairs,” he says roughly, gesturing with his gun. Roy and I bow farewell to his mother and are marched up a wooden staircase to a dim-lit attic room with a dusty window.

  The room is empty, apart from a cupboard.

  “This is your last chance,” he says. “Will you tell me where the briefcase is?”

  “I will not do so,” says Roy.

  “Nor I,” say I.

  Jetta merely looks at him contemptuously.

  “Then you have only yourselves and me to blame for what happens next,” he hisses.

  With a savage gesture he throws open the cupboard doors.

  “Gentlemen,” he cries, “meet my cupboard! You are about to become very, very familiar with it.”

  Roughly we are ushered inside.

  “You will be locked in that darkened cupboard for quite some time. But do not think,” he adds in tones of silken menace, “that I would be so cruel as to leave you in there alone.” He is being ironic. “For the fact is, you will have some earwigs to keep you company!”

  And he pours the jar of unruly earwigs into the cupboard with us.

  “Goodbye for now,” he says.

  “Goodbye,” we reply.

  And then the door is shut and we are left alone in the dark—with the earwigs. . .

  To be continued!

  Chapter 36

  Only a fool can fail to remember that Roy, Jetta and I have been shut in a darkened cupboard containing earwigs.

  We hear the key being turned in the lock and the sound of the villain’s footsteps receding downstairs.

  Is it an illusion, or can we also hear the minute sounds of earwigs scurrying and slobbering?

  We swallow nervously.

  “This is a pretty kettle of fish,” says Roy.

  “Yes,” I say. “The darkened cupboard aspect is not so bad, since all three of us are together to raise each other’s spirits, but I confess to having an aversion to earwigs.”

  “Who does not?” asks Roy. “They are charmless and scurrying and have redundant numbers of legs, and, if the wildlife segment of Guten Abend Düsseldorf is to be relied upon, their personal habits would shame a Bavarian.”

  Roy suddenly stifles a moan.

  “What is it?” I ask.

  “I believe one just scurried over my shoe.”

  “Let us hope they stop there.”

  “I fear they will stop at nothing,” says Roy. “An earwig is no respecter of persons.”

  “It is so.”

  “Just so long as they do not get into my pockets. I do not think I could stand it if earwigs crawled into my pockets.”

  The very thought makes me repress a whimper.

  Roy says, “If there was only some way to protect ourselves from this menace.”

  “If only,” I agree.

  “If we could improvise some tight-fitting protective covering somehow.”

  “Yes, something of that nature would meet the case,” I say.

  “Can you think of any substance we could use in that way?”

  “I regret I cannot.”

  Roy clears his throat.

  “I don’t suppose . . . that is . . . do you happen to have any clingfilm about your person?”

  A light dawns.

  I strive to be nonchalant and keep the excitement out of my voice.

  “As it happens, I believe I do. To be sure, I will check my pockets.” I do so. “Why, yes, Roy, it turns out I did bring a roll of clingfilm or so with me.”

  “Also,” says Roy. He waits expectantly—but two can play at that game . . .

  “Does that . . . suggest nothing to you?” he says hesitantly after a while.

  “What manner of thing, Roy?”

  “The juxtaposition of need and supply. We need to be covered in some convenient substance in order to protect our pockets and sundry crevices from the ravages of the earwigs. As it turns out, we are supplied with clingfilm.”

  “I am afraid I do not quite follow,” I say airily.

  There is a pause.

  Roy clears his throat again.

  “I was thinking, perhaps . . . the clingfilm might serve as such a covering.”

  “Why Roy,” I say, “are you asking me to completely wrap you in clingfilm?”

  “I believe I am,” says Roy in a small bashful voice.

  Though the circumstances are not what I would have chosen, this is a great day indeed.

  I decide to be pettish.

  “But Roy,” I say, “I thought you never wanted clingfilm to be so much as mentioned again.”

  “I have changed my mind,” says Roy. “I admit I spoke hastily and in error. Clingfilm is an improbably useful substance and I regret ever having maligned it.”

  I bow my acceptance of his apology, a useless gesture as the cupboard is dark, and I bang my head on the door.

  “Also,” I say. “At your specific request, I will wrap you in clingfilm.”

  “Commence,” says Roy.

  With fumbling hands I take the clingfilm from my pocket. My heart beats faster as I hear the little sticky rasp as I start to unspool it. I start at the shoes and work my way up. Wrapping in the d
ark is strange but unexpectedly sensual. I wrap tightly and snugly, protecting him from all harm, paying special attention to the pocket areas. Soon, Roy Orbison is completely wrapped in clingfilm, in the dark but at his own request. My chakras explode with a shockwave of ecstasy.

  “I cannot see you,” I say, “but my questing fingertips tell me you are completely wrapped in clingfilm. At your own suggestion, I might add.”

  Roy makes a muffled sound that may be “Capital.”

  I wrap myself in clingfilm as best I can and we commence to stand in the dark. Since childhood I have had a fear of cupboards but I have to admit it is quite snug and cozy with Roy standing there by my side and Jetta within call. So as to make the ordeal more pleasant we make topical small talk and hum little tunes.

  This may be an unusually happy point at which to end the chapter.

  Chapter 37

  Presently we hear footsteps ascending the stairs.

  “Someone is coming,” I say. “I had better remove the clingfilm.”

  Roy makes a noise that may be a grunt of assent.

  Quickly I burst free of my clingfilm and force myself to remove it from Roy. I find it is not so difficult to do this, as I cannot see what I am doing.

  The cupboard door is opened and the chief villain glares at us.

  “Well?” he says. “Are you ready to talk yet?”

  “We are not,” says Roy. “We are made of sterner stuff than that.”

  “Bah!” says the villain. “I will lock you in for longer this time. I vow you will break in the end.”

  “Do your worst,” says Roy with a merry nudge to me. “We are protected on our side by something that is strong and will not break.”

  “Yes,” I say, “although it will tear off easily if you want it to.”

  Roy and I snigger to ourselves.

  “I do not understand the joke,” says the villain, feeling left out. He slams the door shut and locks it again.

  We hear him stamping off in high dudgeon.

  “Quick,” says Roy, “into the clingfilm again before the earwigs get us.”

  Hurriedly I wrap Roy in clingfilm again, although not so hurriedly that I am without due reverence for this miracle that I have once more been granted. I start at the shoes and work my way up. Dark though it is, my questing fingers are now familiar with every inch of his clothing. I am like some blind tailor fashioning an outfit for an invisible man in an extremely confined space in some allusive and heartwarming fable. Soon, Roy Orbison is again completely covered in clingfilm. My intoxication is phenomenal.

  “You are completely wrapped in clingfilm,” I report. “You could now be stricken with a biblical plague of insects and not be inconvenienced.”

  Roy makes a noise I suspect is “Danke Schön.”

  Again I contrive to wrap myself as best I can manage and the pair of us stand and wait out our confinement insouciantly. I have left my mouth free and to pass the time I describe my plans for redecorating Jetta’s bedroom while Roy makes noises of interest or surprise.

  Presently I hear a sound of villainous boots clumping up the stairs again. Hurriedly but reluctantly I snatch the clingfilm from myself and Roy and by the time the villain opens the door we are nonchalantly whistling and studying our fingernails.

  “What?” cries the chief villain in disbelief. “Not blubbering and whimpering yet? You must be men of stone!”

  “Stone,” says Roy laconically, “and a certain other substance . . . ”

  We smile knowingly, to the villain’s annoyance.

  “You are only prolonging the discomfort,” hisses the villain. “Time is of no matter to me. I for my part am ensconced comfortably in the kitchen gambling and have already won most of my mother’s gold teeth and one of her kidneys. You can stay here for the rest of the day and if necessary all of the night, and with no supper.” He makes to close the door.

  I nudge Roy to apprise him I am attempting a stratagem and say, “Really, it is not so bad in here. The fact is, since we cannot see the earwigs we have no fear of them. Now if you had been cruel enough to put a light in the cupboard, I do not think we could have stood it.”

  “It is so,” agrees Roy.

  “Aha!” cries the villain. “You have a large mouth, you blockhead, for now you have shown me how I may break you! The way is plain. I will put a candle in the cupboard so that you may see my many-legged henchmen milling about your shoes.”

  And without further ado he locates a stub of candle and lights it and places it by our feet!

  Once more the cupboard door closes . . .

  Chapter 38

  “That was a piece of chicanery worthy of Machiavelli,” says Roy in admiration once the villain has departed. “If you ever ran for the town council you could rule Düsseldorf like a puppet master.”

  “I have sometimes thought so,” I admit. “However, I have not yet decided upon a political program, apart from equal rights for terrapins and the installation of a splendid monument in the town square depicting . . . a certain person wrapped in a . . . certain substance.” I cough nervously. “Be that as it may, I have to say that my cleverness has backfired somewhat on this occasion. For it seems to me that the earwigs are more scary now we can see them!”

  “It is so,” says Roy. “I do not care for the monstrous and distorted shadows the flickering candlelight throws from them. Let us enclingfilm ourselves once more with all haste.”

  “By all means,” I say.

  Once more I start at the shoes and work my way up. It is even more enjoyable now that I can see and admire my work. It is rather romantic wrapping by candlelight and the clingfilm reflects a delightful ruddy glow. I am like some playful Loki encircling Brünnhilde with his protecting fire in some extremely small-scale production of the Ring Cycle for agoraphobics. Soon Roy is once again completely wrapped in clingfilm. My every nerve ending tremors and bursts into song.

  “You are completely wrapped in clingfilm,” I say. “The earwig who can pass through that will be worthy of your pockets.”

  We settle down to a comfortable talk and hum.

  All too soon, however, there again comes the sound of the villain ascending the stairs. Regretfully I divest Roy of his clingfilm cocoon once more.

  “This time see if you can con him out of a pumpernickel sandwich,” says Roy as we hide the remnants of clingfilm. “I confess the thought of going without food all day grieves me.”

  The villain unlocks the door and flings it open dramatically.

  “This is your last chance to talk,” he says evilly.

  “We will not do so,” says Roy. “Unless you mean topical small talk,” he adds wryly with a merry bravado.

  “I do not,” says the villain. “In the sorry netherworld of villainy we take no interest in topical matters of the day, apart from the movements of large sums of money and tales of people who have been maimed or injured in amusing ways. I was referring to the briefcase.”

  “Then we have nothing to say to you.”

  “Then I will be forced to—oh, but there is a thread loose on your jacket, look—allow me.” He makes as if to pick a loose thread off Roy’s dark clothing—but it is a trick! For there is no thread and at the last minute his hand darts inside Roy’s jacket—and comes out with Roy’s door key and his wallet!

  “Aha!” he crows, waving them in our faces tauntingly. “Did your mother never warn you not to let strange men fix your clothes? My mother taught me the sly but nimble art of pick-pocketing!”

  “Give those back,” says Roy.

  “I will not do so.” He shamelessly riffles through Roy’s wallet until he finds a library card with his address on it. “Now I have your address and the means of entrance to your house! Upon reflection I am convinced you have merely dumped the briefcase in your front hall and I will now be going there to check!”

  Roy’s eyes are unreadable behind his dark glasses. “Do what you have to,” he says flatly. “But I warn you if you do so you will be adding trespass and bur
glary to the list of your crimes.”

  “I am proud to say that every crime from the theft of bank pens to the improper use of railway emergency cords is listed on my curriculum vitae! Moreover if I do find the briefcase I will then come back here and kill you!”

  Cackling to himself, he shuts the door and we hear him clomping off.

  “I am sorry, Roy,” I say, “I forgot to ask for a sandwich.”

  “It is of no moment,” says Roy. “I have other worries right now. I confess the thought of that oaf trespassing in my house leaves me bereft of appetite.”

  “Take heart,” I say, “as the briefcase is in the front hall he will not stay long.”

  “And then he will be back to kill us! And even if we do escape death I will now have to cancel my library card, in case he misuses it, or takes out rude books in my name.”

  “That is true. However, just now we have a more immediate concern,” I say. “For it seems to me the earwigs are massing to attack!”

  “It is so,” says Roy. “Make with the clingfilm with promptitude.”

  “I will do so,” I say.

  I loosen the film with a sticky rasp. . .

  And suddenly the door is flung open again and the villain returns!

  “Aha!” he cries. “I thought you were up to some mischief! I faked going downstairs by making receding clomping noises with my shoes—in reality I merely clomped over to a corner and held my breath! So! Clingfilm is your secret. Very well then,” he says with silky menace. “It appears I have no option but to confiscate your clingfilm!”

  What can happen now? Will he make good on his threat? Readers of a nervous disposition or those needing heart medication may want to skip the next chapter, which is horrific.

  Chapter 39

  If you do not remember the climax of the previous chapter it is either due to mental deficiency—or some self-defense mechanism of the brain protecting you from the distressing memory! But you will soon be reminded and I regret to announce that this chapter is even more horrible. If you feel faint you should lie down near an open window at once.

  “Yes,” recaps the villain, “I am going to confiscate your clingfilm, all the rolls of it! Hand it over now!”

  He gestures with his revolver.