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lobelia321My mate Kite says, surveillance is the cushiest ride you can get. Sit on your arse all day long, ring for take-aways (triple-decker peperami pizzas; calamari, deep-fried), six-pack by your side -- no drinking on the job! but who's to know? No boss breathing down your neck; line managers miles away on the other end of a phone line. You get a nice upholstered armchair, park your feet on top of the aluminium swing bin, smoke all you like, fart all you like, belch and sneeze and wipe your hands on the anti-macassars, with the bank of CCTVs staring at you with its empty rooms.
Plus: danger rating is near zero. You're not in the line of fire. You're in an entirely peril-free zone. No one even knows you're here. You sit at some undisclosed address, in some little old lady's flat, behind her lace curtains and amid her netted doilies, with a crocheted loo roll holder in the shape of a poodle on the top of the toilet cistern and rows of china dolls dressed in ballerina costumes in a glass cabinet in the lounge room. Nobody around to dust those now 'cos the little old lady is most likely dead, or as good as in a hospice, otherwise why would you even be here? Why would her flat be up for grabs?
So, Kite says, it's cushy. It's sheltered, it's safe, it's a walk in the park, a doddle on a dyke, a swing and a roundabout in the kiddies' playground. It's true you don't get a risk bonus; you don't get any extras at all, just expenses, not even overtime, 'cos it's not that urgent a job. Not even an allowance for being overseas 'cos Germany doesn't count as overseas, Germany is EU.
Nor is this stint any good for your career. It's a dead-end, in fact. Career-wise, that is. A cul-de-sac. A road to nowhere. A long-term car park at Luton airport. That's where they've put you: out of harm's way but also out of promotion's way. A glorified pencil-pusher's job: watch the telly, file reports. Glory be.
Dead-end and dead boring.
"Boring?" screeches Kite. "No way boring! You got a dame, right?"
"A dame? Kite, what decade are you living in?"
"A dame, a broad, whatever. You got one, right? How can that be boring? Hey, mate, you get to see all kinds of kinky shit. You get to see her in the buff, right? You get to see her take a bath? Take her kit off? Hey, you get to see her in her little private moments, know what I mean?"
My mate Kite talks through his proverbial arse.
"When have you last been on a stake-out, Kite?" 'Cos at the moment, now, he's miles away, in glamorous Outer Mongolia, ha. He's chasing drug traffickers or diamond smugglers or some such thing; he's always on the go, rain or shine or hail or sleety Outer Mongolian thunderstorms; he's in bi-planes and choppers and high-speed motorboats; he hasn't got a fuckin' clue.
The target I'm surveilling is hardly a dame. Not even a broad, and certainly not a babe. She's more like a middle-aged lady, although I know from her stats that she's hardly all that middle-aged; she's only 38, five years younger than me, though she looks more like my spinster aunt. Or would, if I had a spinster aunt. She's got legs like pins, hips like a battleship and a bosom like a butcher's countertop.
tbc possibly
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Date: 2006-10-23 11:43 pm (UTC)(no subject)
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Date: 2006-10-24 07:32 am (UTC)Continue please.
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Date: 2006-10-27 09:16 pm (UTC)(no subject)
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Date: 2006-10-27 09:16 pm (UTC)