How to say no

Ave you beautiful people!

Today was one of those bless-the-oh-so-great-Lord-Vosges-Whitebeam-days – I had an appointment with bank manager. I dearly despise those appointments with all my heart, since my bank always tries to sell me buildings loan contracts and other funny stuff like an increase of my overdraft – yeah, sod you, you bank people! You and your mathematical miracle-calculations when it comes to interest charging (I almost operated a decade in red).
Anyway – I created a bank book back then to have money for my mega-ambitious United Fucking Kingdom relocating project. Which miserably failed due to circumstances. I changed everything into a super awesome Ukraine relocating project which A L S O failed due to other circumstances.

Today – in a nutshell – I finally had the possibility to terminate that darn bank book, but was a little scared that they might talk me into investing that money in parcel of land somewhere in Syria.

Yes, that has been bugging me ever since. My bank manager always reposed in his leather armchair throne, while I had to kneel on a wooden bench, not knowing if I will have to dance and sing or juggling with six eggs in the pedestrian area for a loaf of bread, because he just appointed me to be the proprietor of farmland in the Mongolian desert.
But this time, I promised myself, they would play by my rules! Dance, my puppets, dance!
Thus it happened that I prepared myself for the glorious appointment with all my grim will of iron – as soon as my bank manager would get of the track and deviously tries to lure my money off my wallet, I would invocate the pure and immaculate fury from the depths of my inner abyssos hosted by a superior satanic-666-apocalypse-rage-rubberducky, and say:

Simple! I trained this little word of freedom till oblivion.

So after the regular small talk with my bank manger – who is unquestionably labeled mother’s loll – he put on this mischievous trap grin, which promises illusionary wealth and financial peace, and said: “Now, Mrs. Zarges, sign here please to confirm the termination of your bank book…”

That provoked the following reaction – accurately reflected by this arty mashup

Me: “How dare you, you inferior deworm? I will summon Ctulhu from the deepest depths of R’lyeh to drag your wretched and pathetic soul to the abyss of all infernos, where ferocious entities will tear it apart in the shades of Baphomet until forever before they’ll spit you into the greedy gorge of Netherworld. Go to the Deuce, you… what did you say?”

BM: “Just sign here…”

I actually celebrated a great success until my phone rang, and a young woman introduced herself as my new bank manager. Looking forward to humbly take care of all my belongings, she said. I should be interested in big landowner, she said.

When she suggested a new appointment, I just hung up.


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