When last we met... (06/12/2006 11:46)

I keep dreaming long involved dreams.

I keep dreaming that i work in administration, somewhere in London.

I keep dreaming that my life is made up of small victories over multinational corporations.

I keep dreaming that my management career is limited to playing some kind of online football management game, where i care a little bit to much about my players.

These dreams seem to last longer and longer, but each time i wake up back in the real world, back in good old Patalonia, back in my office overlooking the shanty town outside the Stadio el Banditos and i know they were just very, very vivid dreams...

Weird hey...

Oh well. So where were we? I think when last we met i was sitting in my office, the body of my (well i suppose, "former") Boss the Colonel slumped on the floor across from me, with a gunshot wound in his back, rotting slowly in the heat. I had for some reason been reading Elton John's songbook and i had just sent Trusty Calabras off to get me food, drink and a new pair of trousers...

If this makes no sense at all, you might need to look at this...

http://www.managerleague.com/blogperma.pl?id=213

Then this...

http://www.managerleague.com/blogperma.pl?id=266

and possibly entries before them...

Oh, and i had just finished listening to an answerphone message that had stunned me into silence...

For a month...

Time had passed, i must have lapsed into unconciousness again as i had quite a beard when i woke up this time. The world flicked into clarity and i played the answerphone once more, just to check i had heard it right.

"Well, young Wojteker, aren't you in a pretty pickle, hmm?" said the voice - high pitched and evil. "Dead boss, followed by instant promotion and a followup season in division three ending in a trip to the playoffs. Comendably suspicious!"

Division three? what was he talking about? How long had i been out? This was very strange.

"Yes it is very strange, hmm? And more to the point, you have had a dead body in your office for over a month and not reported it. The police will find that very interesting i believe, especially when they find the murder weapon in your drawer, with your fingerprints on it. Very interesting indeed..." he tailed off again. I was sweating as i opened my top drawer. The gun was inside. I didn't pick it up.

"Tut tut, my young friend. Not a good position for a young manager to find himself in! This may well mean the end of your career, if not your life..."

The answerphone went beep to tell me that the message had ended. There were some massive continuity errors and plot holes in that message that i just didn't have the heart to explain - i chose to sidestep instead and concentrate on the dead body in the office.

I concentrated.

Hard.

Nothing happened. This was getting me nowhere. Thinking might help. That mysterious voice - who could that be? A wronged player perhaps? someone i wasn't picking, or had sold on to a lower club for profit? Or sacked? Could it be another manager? Someone i mullered 7-0? or pipped to a playoff spot? Or could it be the league officials?

There was a crash outside the door at which i leapt out of my seat.

"Polizia!" screamed an angry voice "Open up in the name of the law!"

That line was extremely corny. Massively so, but then this is clearly a true story so i can't account for how real people act. That's what he said, take it or leave it!

I took a quick account of my situation...Police outside uttering lines from a bad western. Dead body. Murder weapon. Soiled trousers. I looked at the answerphone - that message could get me off the hook. The red light still flashed. Then a little hiss came from the tape...

That was convienient. If i didn't know better I'd have said that was a poor plot device from mission impossible, nicked and put to work, but like i said before, true story. Go with it.

Now I had nothing. I opened the draw and pulled out the gun. I knew full well what the police here were like. Shoot first, screw the questions. The likes guns to much. Well, i wasn't going down without a fight.

Then the phone rang. Instinctively i grabbed it like a drunk man grabs the floor for support.

"Hello?" I said  

"Hey Handsome" said a familiar voice. "What's cooking?"

"Me sweet cheeks." I said calmly. How cool was i? Reading Elton John's songbook...

"Any ideas Delores? I could do with a helping hand here and you've provided them before, haven't you?"

She giggled sweetly. Her voice was dusky and treaclely at the same time. Even in my situation, i was enjoying this. The last flirt before death in a hail of bullets...

"As my friend Morpheus once said - and I'll paraphrase for you hun - The window!"

The Window! an escape route. Two floors up but still a way out. A lifeline.

"Thanks Delores - if i can ever repay the favour, let me know"

"Don't count those chickens sweetie, you have to get out first. If by some lucky break you do, come buy me a drink at the Blanco bar in the 4th district. Just ask Benny for me. See ya, maybe...." She hung up. 

A thumping came from the doorway, i heard a yell or two, a few scuffles. then more thumping. I didn;t have long.

I picked up my chair and threw it at the window. Instead of the shower of glass i expected, it flew right threw and crashed to the ground below. The window was already open. This getaway wasn't going to be as spectacular as i had hoped. I grabbed my trenchcoat and hat, and made for the window...