FOND THOUGHTS ABOUT THE GERMANS

A discussion with a large beefy friend recently did not go as planned. 
It was quite unpleasant, and for the record, I do not "plan" conversations, they just happen.  Also calling him a friend is perhaps an exaggeration.
I know him. We talk. We're on casual conversation terms.
But he has views with which I cannot agree.

Such as the opinion he delivered: "a country should be small enough that we can steamroll it in three days". Now, given that he is of German ancestry, and knows that I speak Dutch and lived in Holland for a while, the astute student of recent European history will readily understand that he was obliquely referring to the German invasion which conquered the Netherlands during World War Two.
How the Dutch ended up on the winning side still baffles him.
So undeserved! But just wait until next time!

Supercilious arrogant bastard.


IN GERMANY

He got on the train just in time, and moved down the carriage looking for a seat. The other occupants drew up their long noses, and puffed themselves up to occupy all available space. Finally he found a seat, opposite a large bloated individual with facial scars that testified to past experiences in the duelling fraternity at university. Probably one of those Teutons who thought unkindly of his type.
He didn't really care. This was modern Europe.
Trolls had the same rights as humans.

Just to make a point he flexed his shorty furry arms, clenching the hands with the impressive claws. The old gentleman blinked, and studiously looked away.
Sigurd grinned. When he did so, fangs were visible.

The train rolled through verdant countryside, where hefty peasant women pulled plows while yodelling. Their unmusical vocalizations were audible over the rumbling of the carriages, and Sigurd grimaced. More fangs. What was it with these pale hairless things and their pretension of civilization? Everyone knew that trolls had invented the wheel, metallurgy, and the arts. Why did these krauts persist in befouling the world with their unimaginative attempts at "kultur"?
Outside of Germany, most people were rather fed up with them. Large clumsy farmers with ill-fitting uniforms, and brassy oompah music in lieu of refined melodies.
Germans - no taste at all.
Bah.

The train slid into Badschinkenfressersberg Station, and the scarred Teuton stood up to leave, hissing something insulting under his breath that ended in "trolln". Sigurd tripped him with his umbrella, and the oaf went flying.
"Entschuldigen sie bitte, es war doch eine ungeschiktigkeit...."
Horrid language!
Unlike Dutch, Flemish, and the various Scandinavian colloquials, German always sounded like someone coughing up a hairball - such as he himself did, whenever he licked himself in his sleep too often. It was a nervous childhood habit.
Anyway, German was an ugly sounding jargon. No wonder they had started dubbing their movies into English. A pity they hired their own people to do the voices.
The German got up redfaced, looking like he wanted to pugilate, then thought the better of it.
Sigurd and his kind were only half the height of adult humans, but built like tanks; on the whole a remarkable handsome race of sentient beings, though crucially, all muscle.
Solid, hard, whiplike muscle.


Later, near Loch Im See, while he was brushing the hair on his shoulders and stomach, a frail young fraulein came and sat across from him. Initially he paid her no mind, but when it became evident that she was fascinated by his thick, thick, glossy fur, and his well-muscled chest, he blushed a bit. Not that the flush could be seen underneath the fur. Even his snout was furry, and the skin underneath was utterly invisible. Still, he did have an element of modesty, and was easily embarrassed.
He put his leather overcoat back on, and composed himself.
She smiled at him in a most engaging manner.
It turned out that the young lady was part naiad, and majoring in human sociology at a school on the other side of the border, in France. Did he, she wanted to know, by any chance speak French? Why indeed he did! He was delighted to converse in a civilized language for a change, this constant barking of gutteral syllables was tiring his tongue.
Like all her kind she was feisty, juicy, and sharpwitted.

They had a splendid conversation for the next several hours, discussing all manner of things. Politics, mythology, Grecian financial acumen, metal work, and floodcontrol.
She talked about her mother, who had caused the disastrous flood of 1969 that wiped out Rundfunkschau in Bayern (it was meant to be a practical joke, and in any case everyone else thought it funny), as well as her uncle Minotaurion in Berlin, who believed that vegetarianism soothed the savage beast. She herself was a meat eater, but could very well see why Minotaurion had his ideas. The Germans were a good object lesson in that regard, as it wasn't until they began eating properly one generation ago that they had come out of their caves and started living in actual mud huts.
Sigurd mentioned his hometown, Trollholm, in the far north, and showed her some of the golden objects for which he was a manufacturers representative in this barbaric place. Golden bracelets, heavy rings, expensive vulgar pendants. And, lastly, the prize of his collection; a large garish steel banded horned helmet, with golden accents and heavy gold bezels around the rim. Once he had delivered it to the customer, a certain Frau Gackernschnek, who was a member of an opera guild, he was heading out of here.

Sometime around four in the morning they reached the town of Grossübelriech, near the border. Both got out, and shared lodgings at a hostelry run by missionaries of the Freemasons, who had long been attempting to spread literacy and cleanliness among the natives.
Elder de la Claise had no problem with them bunking together.
After all, they were different species!
What could possibly happen?

The next day he delivered the ghastly helmet to the fat lady, and met the half-naiad for supper at the very best Italian Restaurant in town. He bought her dinner, to thank her for being such splendid company.
He had thoroughly enjoyed chatting with her and criticising the Germans - so easy to talk smack about, and so very deserving of that treatment - but he had to go! Spending too much time in Germany was a profoundly traumatising experience - his race being rather sensitive, and easily depressed by hostile emanations and horrid food - and he was leaving that very evening. Would he ever see her again? She assured him that he was the best thing that ever happened to her, and quite the most civilized person in this ghastly place.
They exchanged communication spells and talismanic contact data, and strolled back to the hostel. When they arrived, the Freemason in charge was ranting about rolling tanks right across this pestilential country, dammit, all the way to Poland! Flatten the place.
Bloody Germans, they started it!
Both of them thought it wiser not to ask him what he was on about.
Really, it could be almost anything.
Rats, mooseheads, fruitsalad.
He seemed most upset.

After Sigurd finished packing, she went with him to the station. When the train came to a halt, she kissed him, and vanished in a puff of mist, as was the custom of her kind. He entered an empty carriage, and stowed his valise under the seat, then pulled out a briar and lit up.
Such a charming young lady! A bit too smooth and hairless for his taste, but just enough of the amoral immortal to excite. Pleasantly spicy!
Soft, too!
He was sure that one day he would read about her in the newspapers, washing away some dreary German burg on a drunken dare, or setting fire to the Reichstag, just for the hell of it.
He looked forward to that day.

As the pipe reached perfection and the Latakia smoke filled the carriage, the train crossed the border at Yolo Tengo, and he breathed a sigh of relief. Life was good, after all.
Even if there were Germans in the world.
And other humourless creatures.




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