Go to the Mirror!

After his evening stroll, which he took now that Maria could look over the Bakery, even though she did a piss poor job of it, Holger saw some crazy guy who was dancing around, jumping in puddles and, just making a complete fool of himself. Holger saw this loony crackpot fool before. His name was Nebulator or Neb or Ned....something like that. However, as the night continued, Holger went back home to sleep. Afterall he had a busy day the next day. Just like everyday.

Holger woke up at the usual time the next morning...As he went about his normal routine, something felt different. The some bullethole-sized, blood-stained, dough bites were still decorating the floor. The counter was still sticky with the same unknown substance as before. Maria was still a leere Flasche. What changed?

As Holger walked outside, he discovered what was different. The sky, which normally had dark gray clouds completely covering continuous areas, was a nice Bavarian Blue. The sun was shining. God must be happy. Bush probably resigned. And Cheney, too. Why else would the weather become nice after years of natural disasters since January, 2001?

Holger brought his cane and hat and went for a nice walk. After stopping to light his pipe, he turned to look at one of those scratched mirrors next to the movie billboards at the bus stop. As he looked in the mirror, Holger saw a body lying on the ground near the oak tree.

Spontaneously, Holger broke out in some songs he remembered that would fit the situation. Some of what he sang went like this: "Who are you? Tell me who are you?" and "He seems to be completely unreceptive.The tests I gave him show no sense at all. I often wonder what he's feeling.Has he ever heard a word I've said?Look at him now in the mirror dreaming. What is happening in his head? I wish I knew." Ahhhh...remembering those days with the good music made Holger have a great day. Not so much for the kid though.

Leere Flasche

Holger war im Bäckereizimmer, aber Maria hat nichts arbeiten. The red-stained studs of dough were still on the floor. Hearing the soft song of an ice cream truck through the pitter patter of the rain, Holger added to the city noise symphony the soft brushing of a broom. After sweeping every single bite of dough and bit of paper on the floor out of the door onto the street, Holger went over to the gas station, not bothering to close the door.

With hundreds of empty bottles Holger bought from the homeless war vets, Holger started filling them with lard to make a lamps. Distrusting the Butcher to put quality meat on the table, Holger got his own meat when he went to West Virginia to visit his childhood friend. In his 1951 Red Willy's M-38 Jeep, Holger piled, strapped, and tied any dead road-kill he could salvage every possible place in the red jeep. Using Odin's Sword, Holger would butcher the road-kill slicing through the slabs of meat and lard, making two mounds on the bakery counter.Holger melted the lard in a large cast iron vat he found on the side of the road on one of his trips. He poured the hot oil into the bottles with candles.

Holger knew that the mess he made in the bakery was never going to be cleaned by Maria. Holger often considered firing her because she was just too fucking weird. And she grew progressively weird, too. When he first hired her, he thought she was just neurotic, but now on top of that less-than-desirable trait, her mind also began to be wander when she was working. She burned the bread more and more. Somehow the strength of her wandering mind overpowered her inherent woman's instinct on how to cook - she never had to one to clean.

Perhaps this was to be his life. Maybe he was destined to live a life of solitude, although through no fault of his own. Perhaps he should stay out of any fighting for control of the neighborhood...


...unless the fighting came to his own territory.

Typical

Smoking his pipe on the corner, Holger readjusted his leather coat that he fashioned from a road-kill he found in West Virginia - where it is also legal to eat road-kill. The sleet pelted his animal pelt coat. Suddenly, he viewed a most amazing chain of events where he saw a Lamborghini speeding away from the chasing Cadillacs and coppers. A black van pulled in front causing the Lamborghini to become Kersplatten. There was no need to be riled, this sort of thing was typical. He refilled his pipe with fresh tobacco he got from his friends in southern Virgninia. The sleet began to fall more heavily.

He turned to his left watching the other side of town. The manhole was open but the road workers stopped weren't working. "Typical." The government spends money to pay people for jobs they aren't doing. His hand dug through some keys, a knife and crumpled bills before finding another match in his pocket.

The sleet momentairly subsided as a kid on a bike rode past. Of course that hoodlum had no helmet on – he was too B.A. for that. He was going so fast that he couldn't evade the manhole in time. Holger's deep, booming laugh forced his abs to expand and contract so ferociously that the last piece of dough in his chest popped out and rolled off the curb onto the street into the manhole. "Die Ratten werden keinen Hunger haben."

Free bite-sized bits today!

The dough plugging his bulletholes were dried now. As Holger walked outside his shop for his 4:30 morning jog before opening his shop, a gust filled with the grit and smoke of the city blew about him. Holger remained standing outside his shop – the wind continued, with the addition of some stale, blood-stained, bite-sized bits of dough. Jogging around the city, Holger saw some shiny peices of metal in the street. He reached downwards and examined the former companions to the bullets on the floor of his shop. Holger turned and looked into the glass window of the building and decided that he would help George Jefferson to take down Machelli and any others that stood in their way. Holger would of course need to persuade Jefferson. Holger returned to the shop and started making some more dough.

Heute nacht regnet es rot

Three bullets were lodged in his back, and probably more in his shoulder, but those were the least of his worries. He had to get back home before the Poilzei came. The blood ran down his arm, dripping off his fingers. It was red, like those damn Commies. Those fucking Soviets were the last ones who put bullets in him before tonight. He opened the closet and searched for some hydrogen peroxide. None. He searched for some rubbing alcohol. None. He went back outside into the rain. It was a good thing they lived with lots of air pollution. The acid rain was the next best thing to hydrogen peroxide. It cleaned his wounds before he pried the bullets out with the tip of his sword. Going inside, Holger grabbed some of the rising dough from what would be a loaf of bread and plugged the holes in his body with the yeasty wheat dough. He used dough to plug wounds before. The yeast helped coagulate the blood. When the bulletholes healed, the dough plugs would fall out. Holger didn't need to worry about that though. He had a new employee. Better yet, she was a woman. Despite the 19th amendment and all the feminists, she would still do her natural job. She would still cook and clean. Hopefully she would be there on time. Most women were always late. Making excuses for everything. Unfourtunately, the Butcher was still alive, but he listened to George Jefferson's words. Perhaps they could make an alliance.

Odin's Sword

Holger woke and from within his straw mattress, he found the only item he inherited from his parents. Wrapped in a white cloth, the ancient heirloom was passed down generations.

Holger Vollsunger is the descendant of Sirgurd the Dragon-Slayer son of Sigmund from the house of Odin. The only item inherited from his parents was the great sword Sigmund pulled out of the hard wood of the apple tree. The heavy double-bladed iron sword measured almost six feet in length. The hilt was almost a foot across curling upwards into branched points that would kill anyone who would have lived through the initial thrust of the blade. The blood that stained the sword's iron antlers continued along the entire blade of the sword. The cold iron grip of the sword fit comfortably in Holger's warm calloused hand. The broad blade imbued by Thor never broke or lost its sharpness. It could hack through the strongest armour, yet it could still slice a tomato. The sheath was made of the same material as the sword with the owners' names etched into the metal. On the side of each name were notches, a tally of those killed by the sword. Over eight hundred years of the sword's existence resulted in almost a thousand dying at the sword. The past few owners had no notches next to their name, but Holger knew that two more would be added, soon. If not, Holger would meet his death.

Holger knew in the entire area there were only two people that might be able to rival his size, George Jefferson and Oscar the Butcher. He knew that soon the time would come for them to fight for control of the town since the mayor sat in his office embezzling money and the true police officers were corrupt or weak. Holger had no love for Jefferson or the Butcher. He needed to take control if the neighborhood would thrive. The Butcher would make money but only for the corrupt. Jefferson would clean the neighborhood, but then would lose control as his idealistic views for a clean neighborhood would die with him. The door knocked. He wrapped the sword and hid it in the mattress again. He answered the door where a Latin American women was standing. He sensed some German in her though.

Help Wanted

Holger wiped the sweat off his brow. Even though autumn was already half-way over, the heat was still there. That didn't matter though, the bakery had fires going two hours before sunrise until he closed at dinnertime. He took a loaf out of the oven. A savory steam escaped through the cracks of the hard brown crust. But at that moment, the bell rang at the front of the store. A man stood there with two crumpled five dollar bills in his hand.

"Hello? The sign on the gas station said to come over here for service."

Holger's frame almost filled the doorway as he walked through. "Yes? I own the gas station next door."

Looking up, the man rather timidly said, "Could I get some gas? - and then I'll get on my way."

Sighing, Holger grabbed his keys and locked the bakery, walked across the parking lot, unlocked the gas station door, and unlocked the pump with the switch next to the cash register. The couple of months were filled with this tedious process because his two eldest sons, who used to help run the bakery and gas station, left to live with their mother. After the man left, Holger saw the Help Wanted sign on the floor - the suction cups were not air-tight. He never got used to the cheap plastics made by those Commies from China.

Despite the slight annoyance of the poor plastics, Holger's entire life was spent dealing with Reds. Grabbing some duct tape Made in America, Holger taped the sign to the window, going through the same tedious process, made his way back to the bakery. There were a few war veterans outside waiting for some food. Holger let them in and gave them the loaf with the hard brown crust, which retained most of its heat since it left the oven. He also gave them the bread from the day old racks. Even though he paid his taxes, he knew that next none of it went to supporting the veterans eating the bread in his store.

The already hazed sunset completely disappeared as black storm clouds rolled into the city. Seeing their refridgerator boxes already half soaked, Holger invited them to the back of the bakery where he used to live with his family. With three extra beds, the homeless graciously slipped under the covers. Like a heavy oak, Holger fell onto his bed. He was asleep before his head even touched the pillow.