Following A Trace of Blood

gary-bendig-169036His flight to Tokyo had been cancelled until further notice. Not a fan of waiting at the Airport bees nest, Antoine had left his luggage at Heathrow, and then felt free and weightless exploring the darker side of London: Soho.

Not used to the rude crowds and always getting in the way of busy smugglers- “je m’excuse, je m’excuse“, his smartphone was ringing inside his pocket, but he was too absorbed as an outsider to hear it or feel it vibrate. The co-founder of his Fur Fashion company needed his e-signature desperately that morning.

Comics shops, sex shops and betting shops seemed to wink at his presence.

Until he spotted a trace of blood on a short-cut alleyway. A rush of excitement got his heart pumping and taste buds alive and greedy.

Wasn’t he the enfant exemplaire, the perfect husband, father, citizen, cart racer? Not today.

He looked around him, and looked down to the relish stain again. He hadn’t seen any cops patrolling. The stain drew a line, jotted with little burgundy spots like French wine, and he just followed it.


Through a window above, the four Romanians quickly took their leather jackets off.

A door. A broken door.

-“Hi! I know you from somewhere. You want girls?”, asked a strong bold man with golden chains, smiling as he knew all Antoine’s sorrows, longing and achievements to the gut.

-“Ah, me, no, I’m just a businessman from Toulouse”.

-“Come have a Whiskey then!”

Antoine saw that the trace of blood disappeared at the door step, and not knowing why, what or when, he followed the bold bouncer up the narrow stairs. He would never have done this on a normal day, but the Bouncer had caught him off guard.

-“This is Alex, Dumitru, Constantin and I’m Victor. You?”

-“Err.. Antoine Salesse.”

-“Noroc!” All four cheered, almost forcing him to sit down and giving him a drink.

-“The cat is Maya, but be careful- she’s dangerous! Ha, Ha, Ha!”

On the walls there were pictures of the Beatles on Tour which made him feel safer. The coffee table was unusually low, but the sofas squeezed his behind oh so comfily. He had been walking alone for two hours already and so he appreciated the company.

Maya the cat sat on Antoine’s lap as the men were conspiring with looks and secret signs.

-“You been to London Dungeon?” said  Dumitru. “Makes the kids strong for this bad life!”

-“A long time ago. Does it still exist?” And they all laughed. Alex played “Help” by The Beatles on a very old cassette player.

-“We best customers of London Dungeon. Do you have enemies?”

-” Enemies? Why do you ask this? Every successful man has enemies. It’s Life’s Law.” Antoine helped himself to another drink, reminded of the thought of Animal Campaigners who had made him relocate his business elsewhere, almost making him bankrupt and mad.

-“You wearing fox scarf? Nice one!” Victor touched his glasses which meant the other three could proceed to opening business.

-“You want to buy some? We produce three thousand a year!” Antoine suddenly felt very proud, goal driven and very at home in this little derelict flat. The cat was staring as he stroked her.

Dumitru got to the point.

-“We are your friends, Antoine! You tell us what’s the problem, we make one call, fix stinky problem- and then you go party with very young girls! We have our own little private London Dungeon here.” They all looked very serious. “Nobody takes the piss from us. It’s Life’s Law“.

If Antoine would have followed a different path in life, he wouldn’t be mesmerised by their offer. He could only think of Belinda Millson, the top Animal Rights Campaigner from Amsterdam who shamed him on Social Media, took him to Court and almost ruined his health.

Were all those useless foxes really worth the hassle of stressing Antoine Salesse, the French Aristocrate who had won the Paris Cart competition at age ten only, And paid his mother’s Bingo debts to save the family House with the prize?

“Help” by The Beatles played once again.

-“One more whiskey please my friends.”

Victor poured more whiskey into his glass, and then brought a yellow piece of paper.

-“I have only one bitch enemy”. Antoine bit his lips.

-“The good news is if she’s on Facebook, then we take her to London Dungeon. Ha, Ha, Ha!” All four strangers laughed.

Antoine’s mouth watered, but something at the back of his mind was taking him sixteen years back in time -and telling him off badly. Those poor animals. But the whiskey was getting into his system quickly, and Temptation of Revenge was growing as strong as an airplane taking off.

-“Belinda Millson”.

-“Sign here, give us a check and go.” Alex was fatherly.

Antoine signed thinking today was one of those once-in-a-life awesome days people talk about on their deathbeds.

As he pulled his check book out, there was a misunderstanding over the currency. Now these men turned into Foxes. The Foxes his firm had been slaughtering for almost two decades.

But Antoine was now bonded. The paper had disappeared into Constantin’s jacket who had quickly left the flat.

After a struggle, and showing a prowess of matter-of-life-or-death strength he never knew he had, Antoine was running the streets of Soho, pushing passers aside and making cars pull the breaks very loudly. He sheltered himself at a Museum and camouflaged into the queue. What a fool, they hadn’t even been chasing him.

What a fool. What a fool.

-“It’s eleven pounds fifty pence for a single adult” said the blonde, baby-faced cashier.

As Antoine reached his pocket, the National Gallery metamorphosed into the London Dungeon. Because he had left his Wallet, Cheque Book and Boarding Pass at the flat.

-“Are you injured, Sir?” asked the Museum’s Security Guy. “You are leaving blood footprints all over the floor!”

The End.

More humor here.




My Tattoo Book

votenow-2-transMadhura had been walking for twenty minutes under the rain through the streets of Uxbridge. It was half six AM and the whole world had embraced her new freedom -which could be described as her favourite belongings in a small suitcase, purse and smartphone… and her fully loaded travel card.

No. She was not going to be forced into marriage with Fadil, her father’s favourite driver from the family’s mini-cab business. A decent member of the community.


She had spoken to Betty about her plans to leave the house. “You’ll get in trouble, you’ll end up murdered, you’ll be begging to be let back in and then they’ll treat you like crap” Betty kept warning. But Madhura wasn’t going to take any advice from a spoilt, white girl.

The  first thing she had to get rid of now was the scar on her hand from when she refused to come down to the living room to meet stinky Fadil, getting marked by the struggle with her father.

She had a little Tattoo book that she had started a year ago and managed to keep hidden inside the mattress. That scar had to be covered- she didn’t want to remember that year. She didn’t want to remember the terror of being “handed” to Fadil.


Now she started to laugh under the rain, even though she was getting soaked- Fadil, my husband? Ha, Ha, Ha! And I was going to get free taxi rides to the Market everyday!


She started to notice people passing by, and for the first time she  realised that pedestrians actually have stories inside, stories of captivity and regained freedom- she just wanted to hear each and every one of these!


Madhura didn’t quite know where she was going, maybe to a Restaurant where she could use her cooking skills to start an adult life. She was going to contact Sheila and  Betty in a couple of days, once she found a place where to stay.

After getting off a bus ride and wondering through Finchley street, and having been scorned by about four restaurant staff as she asked for a ” cook position”, she noticed a Tattoo and Piercing studio. There were Tattoo designs on the window in every colour possible, skulls, angels and elves. But she had her own Tattoo in mind and on paper.


“Aren’t you popping in young lady? It’s not raining inside!” The Tattooist was ever so cheerful she felt she wanted to let go and let him take charge.


“Sure” she said, shyly.

“Another teenage self harmer! I can fix that!”

“I’m not a self-harmer. And I have my own design to choose from. I want Cobalt Blue”

As she pulled out her precious  Tattoo Book, and fearing he might stain it with inky hands, Brad’s eyes became very serious. He went slowly through every design without mumbling a word, until the last page, then he went through it all again.


“What’s your name?”

“My name’s Madhura. I’m looking for a job as a cook.”

“Did you do all these?”


“Well, Madhura, you ain’t gonna chop one more carrot in your whole little life again! This kind of designs are exactly what I have been looking for for the last two years. I’ll pay you three pounds per design and the Copyright is mine. I will teach you the craft. Soon you’ll be tagging punks from all over the world. As for the scar on your hand, darling you’ll make enough money here to get it sorted with surgery. Go leave your bag upstairs, I’ve got a customer coming in at seven. And put some lipstick on please!”


The End.


More Humor here.

London’s Pink

“I promise I won’t be long Candy, just going in there to get us some Marshmallows!”
Honey? I won’t make it to the hallowe’en party!
Two baby Unicorns are born in London again
Two legs bouncing on four wheels!
Friends will be Friends
Don’t we Love London?!
If only there were benches in London

New Monday

Monday, they call it

But mine will not be boring

The perfect excuse to make a new start

Speak out from my Guts, start the fire spark

Flat’s a mess, hair’s frizzy and can’t find my keys

I love the War zone where I shall plant my tree.


Weekend chaos mimics the Big Bang

Energy flowing -it’s body-soul mis match

Because this week my World will change

I blow a kiss to the mirror

Don’t I love this place!


I’ll fix it as it breaks

Because there is such thing as Fate

And it’s smiling at my Face!