Paree!

Paris gave me everything I needed in the old days.

Money, respect, women and a lot of power. PARIS was the hub of the Universe for me those days. NEVER a bored day. Whatever I wanted I got. If there wasn't what I wanted I could have it made.

Paris gave me an Al Capone like atmosphere I thrived in. If I wanted to sleep for days nobody bugged me, if I wanted to paint the city red I could go to extremes and NEVER got stopped. Mysterious and rotten to the core, Paris always gave me a boost and a home when I was in pain or in dire straights.

From Paris I could drive, take a train or a plane anywhere I felt like. I'd go for a weekend for cigars and booze in Amsterdam; Getting super-hyper in the 24 / 7 bars of Antwerp and bang a few ballet dancers from the National Ballet. I'd drive further north into Germany and get laid in Hamburg St. Paulis red light district's by the belly dancers from Lebanon and Turkey. Still driving north, I'd go up into up to Flensburg on the border with Denmark and get laid or drunk with the military women there. After that I'd ride the f$%king BMW or the Checy Caprice through the autobahn at 250 km per hour, content on puffing a good cigar or hauling a dumb hitching bitch. I'd stop by Darmstat or Giessen in the north suburbs of Frankfurt and stay with the Hell's Angels or the anarchists ex-Badder Meinhoff faction members who were dirt rich from PLO and Ghadafi gold. I used to march with them in Berlin's Zoo Station area throwing cobble stones at the polizei VWs and Mercedes trucks and then we'd ride the subway through East German shut down semi dark stations, dead drunk up and down sticking our arses or tits ( them anarchist bitches had BIG boobs ) against the windows at the poor VOPOS guarding the desert stations.

Then it was back to Paris to guide Horny tours and make more money hauling gold to Zurich for Jap Heavy Duty companies. I'd drive down to Orange stopping at Le Puy to meet the Black Widow and get into a weirder world of magic Adams Family like character and Manor after which I'd Detox in Vichy for a week on stinking volcano sulphur water fountains many times a day, eating very little. Those days I ate a lot of raw oysters and was always scared of Hepatitis.

Keep on riding South into Andorra. Checking the latest gadgets from JVC portable TV and Radio Cassette players, I carried them to Barcelona tax free and made a pile selling them to the Arco del Teatro whores and pimps; the latest weapons that Andorra was a haven . I'd get the news, check my dead mail box in the hotel of which I also had another one in the Grand Cafe de Opera , Paris.

Barcelona. Here I'd stay at my Grandmothers small place in Mount Tibidabo, leave the car and take the trams and subways to laze out in Plaza Catalunya on a folding chair rented for 5 pesetas a day. Observing the fauna and the walk the Ramblas, I'd dine at Los Caracoles, get drunk in the Mesons and end up in a Plaza Real Hotel with a musky Swede, Kraut or Brit c£$t and laze it out f$%king, eating and f£$king.

Bored with it all ? Borrow Seat 127 from King Rat the pimp and drive to Sitges. In those days it was a semi-quiet avant guard village where you could swim, eat buttered giant sole with lemon and parsley while sipping drink dry white wine. A siesta by the hotel pool keeping one eye open for pussy galore Scandinavian OLs.

BORED again? Money and time not the issue? Get in the Seat and drive along the coast to Valencia suburbs to stay at my family apartment in Calpe. Same routine, different fauna and then if still in it, ride through the mountain road to Granada.

King Rat's Seat was a souped up jalopy coupe - manual gears of course. Great to drive through the night swerving on those 360 curves on the road to Guadix, Granada like a mad man. Eight track bulky cassettes blaring with Eagles or Demis Roussos and flamenco. I had to pay for brand new Michelin tires when I arrived in Malaga's Marbella after the mountain road and Sierra Nevada bout racing pin curves. Money was not the issue every time I did that; Fun was.

Marbella had a Swedish nymphomaniac living there in her rich Lebanese sugar-daddy villa and money to burn. I was always welcome. Now it is Arab controlled and there are no more Scandinavian horny women. I went there in 2002 and was disappointed. The Nynph had gone and although the Villa behind Hotel Africa still existed, the fat Glock totting Arab guard told me not to ring the bell by instinct.

If time was not an issue, we'd hop into her shark fin tail Caddy and drive to Algeciras to take the ferry into Morocco's Ceuta, an ex-Portuguese Enclave and like Andorra, a tax free haven. Then across border into Morocco per se and all the way to Fez, staying with an ex-FFL supplier and snitch big place.

Back to Marbella and into Seat 127 with brand new oil and tyres, I'd drive throughout night to Calpe along the coast, rest and then drive again into Barcelona past Tarragona the Roman town getting into the mountain area to visit the Frexnet Caves and get free booze and buy a half a dozen cases of the bubbly. Time to return the car back to a by now anxious King Rat with ten one thousand Peseta Green bills and a couple of cases of good limited edition Frexnet Champagne as a gift after which it was back to mount TIBIDABO's peaceful Joaquina's place.

There I'd laze it out for a couple of days while making calls to Paris about next incoming Jap invasion and check on the hot news with the FFL guys. It was a refreshing drive into Perpignan, France, ( avoiding Dali's joint like the plague or I would lose my resolution to return to Paree), up to Arles where I'd stay at the FFL forte for old times sake. Onwards into ORANGE, avoiding St. Tropez and Marseilles like the plague or again I wouldn't make it to Paris that soon ...

Temptation.

Onto the highway all the way to Barbizon to eat at friend's restaurant, listen to the gossip and to sort of reset the body clock and mind. And then, Paree at sunset along the Seine into Concorde Square. How I loved that sunset, the traffic and the messy, disorganized city.

Finally, into the Crillon Hotel for news on the Swiss mule business coming next, the Inter Continental for more gossip and the Rue de Saint Anne for the gossip on off-the-boat Yakuza Cowboys in town fresh from the archipelago. Osaka Ramen's for meeting the new Fugitives. I would then present my " KOMATA KOTO AREBA, OIRA NI DENWA SHITTE KUDASAI " ( when in deep shit call me sort of JINGI 仁義 ) and go back to either my Grandmothers place near Printemps or the Maisons Laffite across the Seine and Sartroville to a hide out - a big manor owned by a rich guy, gun smuggler, etc., who let me use all year round along with his cars. All I had to do was keep the place alive and in shipshape.

Voila mon ami. La Raison why Paris and forever Paris till I croak in that city IF I am lucky of course.

PARIS was and IS the hub of my fucked up life.

Not as much fun now because the fauna is different but I still can find old holes to blow my steam up if needed to.

FIN