March 26th, 2025 / µ

Disclaimer

This is a work of fiction inspired by real-life events that occurred in 2019. All characters are fictitious creations based on the author’s imagination. All conversations and scenarios are also products of the author’s imagination; any resemblance to actual conversations is purely coincidental. All other resemblances to real-life people, living or dead, are, in this fictitious account, also coincidental. The street names of the actual events in 2019 have already been mentioned elsewhere on this blog, and the author judged that it was not a violation of anyone’s privacy to use the fifth arrondissement for the fictitious setting, given the size of this particular arrondissement. For more about creative content disclaimers, please go to:

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Listen to both parts of the story here.

Paris, A Few Years Ago

In September, Indian Summer arrived in Paris, and so did a group of monsters.

Now, most people go to Paris to enjoy life, celebrate love, have their spouses drag them to one-to-many museums, suck in the atmosphere, and eat too much. But on this beautiful September day, these monsters entered a beautiful building in Paris to do the only thing they knew how to do:

Destroy a life.

The monsters came from one of the darkest areas of Denmark, not in terms of lighting but in terms of mentality – theirs was a way of life founded on hate and the need to destroy the lives of others, which they did, protected by titles and nepotism. They were evil.

Through lies and deceit, the monsters from the north gained access to a building in the 5th arrondissement, where a Danish woman they had defined as ‘Unwanted’ had gone to live after they had investigated her for years. Their lies and assumed identities had not just secured them access to the building but also secured them access to a network of very shady individuals with whom they immediately found common grounds, and not just because they were all hateful, bad-mannered, and uncultured, but because they were all criminal individuals who saw themselves as victims, even if and especially when they were without a doubt the predators.

“I thought this one would be more difficult,” Oscar said, resting his fat and freckled lower arms on his even fatter stomach. “But evidently, the French are just as sick and tired of the Unwanted as we are. Letting us use this apartment was very nice of them.”

“Yes,” Oscar’s even fatter wife, Berta, said, her oversized free-range breasts slaloming from side to side under her supermarket t-shirt, which in theory was an oversized t-shirt – but even oversized has its limits.

Before Berta and Oscar went to Paris, Berta had jazzed up her appearance with a new perm 1980s style and a new plaid skirt, the type her mother had always worn, appropriate for a woman in their small village ruled by the worst of dark faiths from which Berta had emerged to destroy lives at social services, especially those whores who had babies without being married. Whores like that belonged in Hell, she had learned growing up, and she had done her best to send them on their way throughout her career.

“They understand how serious the situation is, Oscar,” Berta said. “Plus, the end justifies the means, as they say, and after what that Unwanted did to Herbert, the poor thing, asking all those horrible questions. All she could think of was that a whore had died. These journalists have no idea how awful it is to have to deal with this human garbage every single day! She had no right to offend Herbert by asking those questions.”

“I know, oh, do I know. And even if Herbert has had a nervous breakdown, it was good for him to come along. To see the Unwanted die will hopefully give him the closure he needs to get on with his life as the true and dedicated public servant he is, always knuckling on no matter what the Unwanted do. Herbert needed this,” Oscar said, almost frothing with anger.

“Have the people in the building asked questions or -“ Berta asked.

“No, these people know their superiors when they see them and show the proper respect – and even if it was humiliating to indicate a relationship with an Unwanted, it was better that way.”

“Oh, Oscar, you are so brave, but yes, it is awful that they think we are related to that thing – as if such an Unwanted creature could be related to decent people like us,” Berta said, thinking on the inside how fun it was to fool these gullible Catholics. Because Berta hated Catholics, especially the Pope. Where Berta came from, the Pope was the antichrist. Still, Berta kept her hatred hidden because it was convenient to abuse the trust of these Catholics - she was as friendly as possible towards these devil worshippers, praying to their saints!

“But Oscar, don’t get too angry –you must watch your blood pressure. Plus, these Parisian people see what an important man you are,” Berta said, having been so proud when the admiration had shone from those Catholic eyes when Oscar lied about his identity. No doors in the devil worshippers’ social circles were closed to them now. Berta and Oscar, in their assumed identities, were important and respected people here in Paris.

“Could be – but some of these people don’t seem to understand a word I say to them, “ Oscar hissed, being so proud of his linguistic capabilities. On paper, he claimed he spoke fluent English. He did not. His wife claimed she spoke French. She did not.

“Oh, Oscar,” Berta said with such love in her voice. “You cannot expect these Catholics to understand you – they don’t have the same level of culture and education as you do,” Berta stated, referring to Oscar’s assumed identity, which had come with quite a bit of education and culture that Oscar had never possessed but that which had made Berta so proud. Her brilliant husband, a cultured man of the world.

“Right. Plus, they are very useful. They know their way around, come and go as they want to in this town, know everyone, and they hate the Unwanted as much as we do.”

“Yes, so now the most important thing is to watch that blood pressure –“

“I know – but this Unwanted has been eluding me for years, and I feel so close now; I can have her and finally end her. To think that such an arrogant little journalist, sitting there behind her computer screen writing about social services, the Job Centers, and the fantastic work of our esteemed colleagues, and in such a defamatory way, just because some welfare bitch died! Freelance journalist – isn’t freelance just another word for unemployed or tax evasion? And why does the press even have the right to question our work? We are very important people. We guard the Danish state against all enemies, foreign and domestic, and –“

“Oscar, blood pressure!” Berta said once again, omitting what she really wanted to say, that Oscar shouldn’t get too excited because a long marriage had taught her that Oscar tended to fart ever so much when he got excited, a thing that would have ruined their scarce sex life, had she not been raised in an environment where too much bathing had been considered ungodly vanity. But still, the smell of Oscar’s farts could wake the dead!

“I just want to see that bitch dead!” Oscar hissed.

“Of course, you do – and so you shall,” Berta said, feeling that old warmth in her fat body, looking forward to the thrill of the kill.

SOFIE

Sofie had noticed them; they had arrived in Paris and somehow managed to wiggle their way into the building with Herbert’s lies while Oscar and Berta claimed to be her parents:

“She is a former welfare client and prostitute; she owes the Danish state a vast sum. She claims to be a journalist, sometimes something else, but she has no education, and she is a prostitute and mentally ill; you do not want her in the building or neighborhood, trust me. She is dangerous. Her parents have accompanied me; they are so sorry for the trouble; their daughter started doing drugs at an early age, and they want to take her home before she does harm to herself or others. Can we use your home to surveil her to make sure she doesn’t hurt or kill someone? No, don’t worry; the French authorities are aware of this very secret operation. PET has informed them. I have the papers somewhere… The PET? That’s the Danish police force’s intelligence service. Don’t worry, let me find the papers…”

Herbert, Oscar, and Berta were criminals and notorious liars. For decades, the three of them had successfully lied their way to whatever they wanted in Denmark, and that had been easy for them because Denmark was a country where most people were brainwashed from the day they were born to believe that accepting whatever the Danish state and its minions threw at you was always the best policy, even if this violated your or someone else’s fundamental rights. Most Danes sucked up to the public sector, which constituted approximately 1/3 of the workforce, and accepted the state and its minions, even when this state was represented by thugs.

But this was Paris, France, the cradle of Human Rights! French citizens had no reason to fear the Danish state’s minions. Yet, these three monsters had managed to gain entry to an upscale and secure building in Paris with minimal effort. Sofie had not expected this.

What was worse, though, was that it seemed as if Oscar, Herbert, and Berta, after decades of hunting women alongside their friends, believed their own lies and assumed identities, as well as genuinely believing that they had the right to kill women. On top of that, they had created an almost cultish following who hung on to every word they uttered, possibly strengthening their mad credence in their assumed identities and rights to target, hunt, and kill.

Oscar, Berta, and Herbert, as well as their friend Bernard, had all gone ballistic the last time Sofie had written about social services and the Job Centers; in fact, any mention of social services that did not ooze admiration, and these monsters would bend out of shape! But what was there to admire? It was a horrific system of bureaucrats trading human beings as if they were cattle, even outsourcing these human beings to what the Danish state so neatly termed Andre Aktører, that is, private companies awarded bonuses for leasing the outsourced unemployed individuals to companies as labor.

Too many Danish companies participated in this arrangement without questioning its morals. Evidently, very cheap labor that could be treated poorly and never have to be employed on regular terms was more important to Danish companies than fundamental human rights and decency. And this system and the profits from it were as Nacht und Nebel as the foster kid industry.

Sofie detested how the Danish state abused its own citizens, as well as the Danish press’s almost collaborative attitude, rarely, if ever, criticizing anything that social services or the Job Centers did. Everything was so crooked, and no one in a position to speak out against the system said a word. Denmark was headed in a dangerous direction; Sofie was sure of it.

A Paradise for Monsters

Sofie knew that she had stirred up a hornet’s nest when she dived into these private companies, Andre Aktører, owned by people working at social services and at the Job Centers. But that they would go as far as they had done to shut her up; even Sofie had been shocked. - They had broken into her home, stolen her hard drives, and killed her cat!

So, Sofie decided to go to Paris and write this story without a group of monsters and specific thuggish individuals from the Danish police force surveilling her every move – that fat secretary and her uglier-than-death husband who defined themselves as investigators and made sure women reporting the crimes Herbert, Oscar, Bernard and the rest of them committed never made it further than an inbox!

Sofie had been sure she would be safe in Paris. But she had been wrong; Paris was not safe. Europe had once again become a paradise for monsters.

End of Part One

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