Pravles Redneckoff 🇷🇺 Z

Friday, November 1st, 2019, 13:55

Abwehramt, Hetzgasse 2, third district of Vienna

"Herein!" Riml-Löhr growls.

Need to scare away any unwanted visitors, Riml-Löhr thinks. This close to the weekend any visitor is unwanted.

The door opens and a tall, sixtyish man in full dress uniform with lots of orders and medals enters Riml-Löhr's office.

Judging by his chest candy he must have single-handedly won the nuclear war, Riml-Löhr thinks.

This is Brigadier General Georg Mahr, Riml-Löhr's formal boss. He has short, black hair, a thick mustache, and a scar on his cheek.

When Riml-Löhr first met the general, he thought it was the result of a skiing accident or something. How naive he was!

Later he found out that the general used to be a member of a dueling student fraternity. The scar is the result of one of the Mensur sword fights he participated in.

It is, of course, very masculine to risk your life fighting with swords your own civilians, Riml-Löhr thinks. Very noble, and very conducive to the protection of the motherland.

The general usually has the resting bitch face.

From time to time Riml-Löhr ponders what the root of the general's dissatisfaction may be. He developed multiple hypotheses and here is the one which Riml-Löhr finds most believable.

The general has to interact with his colleagues from NATO countries. Austria is neutral and, according to the 1955 State Treaty, has to maintain an army capable of protecting the country from the invaders for at least three days.

That's in theory. In reality, keeping an army and air force with such capabilities is expensive and, given the lack of enemies, wasteful. Generations of wise Austrian politicians downsized the Austrian Armed Forces to the point when interceptor aircraft can't operate on weekends due to shortage of military air traffic controllers. The older ones are retiring and younger ones prefer to work in civil aviation where the salary for the same job is twice as high.

They should put a billboard in airports: Dear terrorists, please hijack airplanes and intrude the Austrian airspace only Monday to Friday, from 08:00 through 16:30, won't you?

In other areas the situation is comparable. Riml-Löhr knows many military experts who say that if the Swiss attacked Austria, the former would overrun the latter in three hours, not days.

This means: Whenever the general goes to conferences or joint exercises he sees all sorts of equipment that NATO militaries have and the Austrian one doesn't.

Big toys for the big boys. The general, being a grunt to the bone, gets a hard-on at the sight of a F-35 airplane or the HIMARS multiple-launch rocket system.

He must feel like an adolescent, testosterone-overdosed boy at a strip club, Riml-Löhr thinks. You can look at those marvels of science and engineering, but – contrary to the cool kids at NATO – you can't touch.

Unlike the boy, there is no obvious way for the general to relieve himself of his libidinous attachment to lethal weapons, which is unrequited by Austrian politicians in particular, and the Austrian society in general.

Today the general looks a little less dissatisfied with the civvies and the pitiful state of Austrian armed forces. He holds a red folder in his hands.

That's a bad foreboding, Riml-Löhr thinks. I hope he isn't enthusiastic over yet another of his ideas. The only thing worse than a fool is a fool with initiative.

"Good afternoon, Dr. Riml-Löhr!" The general says.

If I don't do something, I will become like him, Riml-Löhr thinks. This perpetual irritabtility has already rubbed off on me. Here is another reason to hate him.

"Good afternoon, Herr General," Riml-Löhr says. "Any plans for the weekend?"

"Indeed," the general says.

General's less-than-usual frown turns into a smile.

I wish I had brick to wipe that smirk off his puss, Riml-Löhr thinks. He always wanted to expose me, I'm sure. He always hated me for not "working my way up." I hope he doesn't smile because he got dirt on me.

"I've got weekend plans for you, Herr Doktor," the general says.

He pronounces "Doktor" as "Dokhtor."

My doctorate is also a point of contention, Riml-Löhr thinks. It's always like this with the hoi-polloi – they hate you for having something they are too stupid or too lazy to get. My doctorate is proof of real brains, not some gender studies bullshit.

Why, then, are you wasting your life away with the proletarians with shoulder boards, Dr. Smartypants? Riml-Löhr thinks. Shut up. Shut the fuck up! Now is not the time!

"How come?" Riml-Löhr says.

"Our colleagues in Slovakia saw a guy buying ammunition and an automatic rifle near Bratislava," the general says. "They notified us."

He gives Riml-Löhr the folder. Riml-Löhr takes it without opening.

"What does it have to do with us?" Riml-Löhr says.

"This guy lives in Vienna," the general says. "He tried to join the ISIS and went to prison for that."

"What does it mean – he tried?" Riml-Löhr says.

"It's all in this folder," the general says. "He wanted to cross the Syrian border and was caught there."

Riml-Löhr opens the folder and starts browsing through it.

"Doesn't seem like a particularly skilled terrorist, does he?" Riml-Löhr says.

"It doesn't matter," the general says. "He tried to buy weapons and we need to make sure he doesn't do anything."

"Well, I can take care of it on Monday," Riml-Löhr says.

"No, no, no," the general says.

He makes a movement with his index finger.

"Not on Monday – now!"

"What do you mean now?" Riml-Löhr says. "It's almost weekend."

"We are here to protect our country from terrorists," the general says. "They don't work nine to five. They don't go on vacations."

They do, too, Riml-Löhr thinks. Or they don't exist. Otherwise, how do you explain nobody invading Austria in spite of defunct air force?

"First of all this is, at best, a wannabe-terrorist," Riml-Löhr says. "He failed to join the ISIS! How dangerous can he be?"

"That was several years ago. He may have matured," the general says. "He could have made connections in prison. The best time to kill a terrorist is in his mother's womb. To arrest him now is the second best option."

"Still–" Riml-Löhr says.

"No. Take care of it as soon as possible. Search his flat," the general says. "He must store that ammo somewhere. Arrest him, if necessary. The warrant is in this this folder."

"Alright," Riml-Löhr says.

"Thank you. Many, many thanks for your sevice, Herr Dokhtor," the general says. "The Vaterland ain't gonna forget you."

The general laughs like Newman when he leaves.

The Vaterland ain't your ass, Herr General, and I'm not going to kiss it, Riml-Löhr thinks. He loves to ruin my weekends.

He looks at the red folder.

In a way, this is worse than dirt on me because then my Sisyphean torture would end, Riml-Löhr thinks. It's time for a meditative coffee.

Riml-Löhr goes to a kitchen. He wants to make himself a Melange – half a cup of brewed coffee with half a cup of steamed cream, topped with milk foam. He notices the catastrophe – there is no cream. Without cream you cannot make proper coffee. He makes himself an Americano.

He takes a few sips and looks at the lizard in the "evolution of man" picture.

Look at me, Riml-Löhr thinks. I have a doctorate in computer science. I'm a nobleman, living in the Central Europe. Yet I'm drinking coffee without cream. Like a savage, like an animal, like that lizard!

He notices he is talking with himself aloud. His hands are sweaty.

Need to calm down, Riml-Löhr thinks.

He takes another sip and winces. He puts the mug on the table.

Drinking this battery acid is as pleasant as eating that lizard alive, Riml-Löhr thinks. Soon you'll have made it through. Just relax.

His mobile phone rings.