The Ritzer and the Sleeper

Secret dossier of the syndicate (VS - for official use only)

He wakes up in a cold sweat. He had a bad dream about the hilly Sauerland region, the Olpe - Nord exit. He missed it. Just like he missed out on enjoying the hot liaison with the Sleeper. A fatal affair - which initially started so tender and romantic. She placed a personal ad in the Ritzer trade magazine 'Scarred Wounds' and was confident of receiving a response. She managed to find an interested party.

He contacted her, took no stationery, a torn-out page from a phone book, he did the same. He wrote on it in simple words 'Is this for real?' and left a mobile number. He was already hanging on the display all day long, if his scarce free time allowed him between gaming, cutting, and skirmishing. She contacted him, they arranged to meet for a first casual getting-to-know-you in a locally popular and smoky arcade.

With the docility of a good dog, he throws a few coins into the jukebox, his song plays. 'Cut me one last time' by Roland Ritzer. Her eyes sparkle, the Sleeper hopes for a lot.

The evening slowly gets into gear, she imagines in her wildest fantasies which of her alluring practices to apply to him. She envisions that her seduction skills can free him from the urge to cut. They stand together with incredible passion, boosting each other into an energy ecstasy. The emotions were boiling hot. He licks his wounds, heats up a new toothpick, bites on it to endure the pain.

She looks deep into his yellow-black-rimmed eyes and he, however, does not gaze, as hoped, at her low-cut cleavage, but at his brightly lit display, where his electronic grandma lights up and speaks to him with trust: 'Boy, go eat something!'

She is shocked, whispers in his ear, she doesn't need a polite doggie, but a real man for the night. But now he wants to eat, as suggested by his grandmother. She still doesn't know that cream sauce-heavy ready meals will be her downfall tonight. He rolls up his sleeves, swings the wooden spoon, and skillfully prepares her dinner.

He first pours fourteen liters of booster into the container, twelve different terrines into the container, stirs, swells up, ties a bib around himself, it's served. It smells like chicken, curry, cream sauce, and dried sweat. A truly olfactory panopticon that presents itself to her. She seasons a bit more and he gets angry and consults his electronic grandma again.

He grabs her left earlobe, drags her into his obscure dwelling, and there, he turns on a radio, which, although outdated for him, is still very functional. He turns the dial a few times and with great panic, the Sleeper hears a message that can only be meant for her.

In sheer horror, she ducks, crouches under the wooden table, he immediately recognizes the tense situation, instinctively pulls the blue toilet cord, a package with camouflage clothing falls down, he quickly changes, puts on the snowsuit as if in his sleep, walks through the freshly fallen summer snow to his....

...already waiting for him and provided by a sympathizer, getaway vehicle and speeds off like a madman with squealing worn-down low-profile tires....

Reacting quickly, correctly assessing the hopeless situation, the Sleeper takes out her Protect-me rat from her garter and sends a radio message to headquarters.

A later marriage is thus completely ruled out. Strange, but that's how it's written....