The 3rd installment of the Story of Stig-Helmer, part of the #Danskedanske revolution started by FtCS which can be found on Twitter.
The other installments as well as other DanskeDanske posts can be found in the DanskeDanske category here on FtCS – find more of Benjoe’s posts here.
A red car comes speeding through the street, a thick smoke coming from the exhaust leaving a trail behind as if was it a villain in a classic Bond movie from the 60s.
But it wasn’t Goldfinger driving through the city in his Rolls-Royce Phantom III as he was escaping James Bond.
No, rather it was good old Stig-Helmer in the red Fiat Multipla that had been.. swapped.. on the Øresund bridge. What a lovely ride it had been.
It had carried him all the way to “The City of Kings” – Roskilde, but now was the pinnacle of it’s sad existence. Stig-Helmer had barely left the car and looked around himself while uttering, “Jävla..” just the moment the engine compartment burst open. Coolant squirts in any direction before a small explosion of air is followed by an evergrowing darker and thicker smoke.
The entire street, now engulfed in the thick smoke, loud coughs coming from the nearby gardens, people shout into the mist as he dramatically leaves the smoke remembering the good times in his lovely Volvo.
He flips off one innocent bystander before he looks around. How entirely mundane.
A towing truck came by and picked the car up within the next hour. The driver sending Stig-Helmer a tired, stiff look of disgust before wheeling away. Naturally he mirrored the face of disgust back to the driver.
Being in Roskilde, he had followed the advice from Paul – drive until there was no more gas in the tank. Or in this specific case, until the car had essentially imploded with Stig-Helmer behind the wheel.
Originally he had planned to drive to the southern coast of France. He had heard that “Nice was nice this time of year!” and figured to take them up on the recommendation.
Instead now he found himself in Roskilde, in the lovely but far less exciting summer, and was met by no major attention.
Of course, Stig-Helmer, being the man he is, believes everybody disturbs him, and as he walks down the main street of Roskilde and gets to the city square, Stændertorvet, the example that proves the rule takes place.
Approached by four men wearing yellow jackets all carrying clipboards.
With soft feet like a tiger chasing it’s prey they slowly near him, but he soon senses the danger.
“NOOOO! Go away! Let me go you slimy beassst!” he screamed and shouted, shaking his head and waving his arms.
Unwavered they kept pace towards him. One of them, the oldest man in the group with a boy scouts innocent smile and sincerity pouring from his eyes kindly called out, “Hello there stranger! Want to hear about how you can save humanity?” he lets out a calm and friendly laugh.
Stig-Helmer shivered of disgust. “Humanity?! HA! I P*SS ON YOUR HUMANITY!”
The old man’s smile faded as he asserted to the group, “Get him. Now. He will regret those words.”
The three other men – all above the age of 70 – threw their clip boards and set after Stig-Helmer in a sprint of unbelievable pace.
Looking at the men he panicked and ran down a side street.
Behind him, the three yellow jacket wearing henchmen had stopped at a red light and was dutifully waiting.
“Don’t break the laws, gentlemen. We’re not savages.” their leader barks from behind them, before blowing kisses to a young lady who passed him by as he whispers below his breath, “well, not all of us..”.
Meanwhile Stig-Helmer had reached a thrift shop (don’t.) and immediately went in. Perhaps he could get a new attire while he was at it.
As he was changing out of his fancy, Swedish pants and jacket he went around only in his underwear and socks. Desiring something absurd enough to hide his true identity he looked around for inspiration. And then, as he walked down the darkest part of the as of yet unmanned shop, his eyes met the perfect outfit.
A man, cut in granite, made to perfection. In iconic fashion. Flawless style, and exactly what Stig-Helmer wanted.
Finally, an older lady came out from the back room, and Stig-Helmer immediately charged her to get her to get him the necessary rags from this Danish thrift shop.
Within the next five minutes the old lady had done her magic and thrown clothes at him until the outfit matched as closely as she could get.
With the clothes on his body, and his old clothes now on hangers in the shop ready for the next person to wear it, unknowing of the history it had with prostitutes, a homeless spoon-buddy and a fair amount of blood diluted from vodka, he found himself finished.
As he was getting ready to leave the shop they shared a shot of the Danish bitters, Gammel Dansk, to Stig-Helmer’s great distaste, and then headed for the door.
But then, outside the door, a yellow jacket reflected the sunlight sending blinding lights into the eyes of him. He fell to the floor crying out, “I NEED AMNESTY! LADY! DO SOMETHING!”
Immediately she came flying out as the great savior she was, phone in hand and a great big smile.
Curled up next to Stig-Helmer she softly spoke into his ear canal.
“My brother works for Amnesty right down at the square,” she looked at her watch, excited she continued, “he should be down there right now with his friends. I’ll give him a call and he’ll be here in just a min-”
Stig-Helmer punched the lady in the stomach, a rather weak punch, but the surprise caught her and she went to the ground.
“No! Du DANSKJÄVLA! Do you understand nothing! I’m running AWAY from them?!”
Eventually Stig-Helmer ventured outside the thrift shop several hours later.
Shivering from disgust, he briefly remembered the handy price for his freedom. The the old lady demanded some rather explicit photos with the old man the subject while the old lady eagerly clicked her camera.
Now, onwards toward a new life.