You may have noticed that I’ve not blogged for a while. And there again, you may not have.
This is because I’ve been kept busy with the ghost-writing project – you know, the one about the German guy who made $20m fraudulently the day before Black Monday, was arrested, and spend time in the same compound in the Federal Correctional Institution in Miami as Manuel Antonio Noriega before being extradited back to Germany, and serving three years in clink.
It’s an extraordinary story and I’m totally immersed in it. In addition to the narrative I already knew, it transpires that – prior to his short-lived and checkered career as a Wall Street broker – he established himself as renowned performer is the 80s’ porn industry; first as a peep show artist, then in Hamburg as a stage performer in the infamous Safari club (where a naked dwarf who he had upset, concealed in a Papier-mâché dragon, tried to set him on fire with a flame-thrower) and finally as an “actor” in what used to be called “blue movies”. After this he was shot and then… hang on… why am I telling you all this? Wait and buy the book.
Added to this, I’ve had the pleasure (and a certain level of advisory responsibility) in following the wayward progress of a friend who is probably best described as a “born again w***er”.
Now I know that he’ll be reading this, and will no doubt be mortified by what I’ve just written. So, before I go any further, allow me to explain that – in my book, at least – there are two kinds of w***er. First, there are the irritating ones… for example, all Spanish drivers, because they are clearly too busy with their other hand to indicate at roundabouts. And then there are w***ers who are classed as w***ers simply because they are not very “cool.” They feel the need to regale others with tales which they really should keep to themselves. For example, hiring an “escort” for a night is fine (no judgement here), but why share the information that they played snooker with her? Unless something hugely stimulating and totally unrelated to the game of snooker happened on the snooker table? You get the picture? Good w***er… bad w***er.
So, what are these nine things one should experience before you end up farting your liquid breakfast into in a nursing home chair?
I put this to my friend and he came back with a couple of items (one of which I’ve already touched on), but I’m not going to divulge further information, because this may lead to “jigsaw identification,” and also because this isn’t what this blog is about.
I’m sorry… I’ve lied to you. I’m only going to write about ONE thing you should experience before rotting in a piss-stained armchair, and to be honest, it’s probably not that exciting. Certainly, when compared with playing snooker with a “professional”.
So what is it?
Prompted by some of my IT orientated students, last week I decided to dip my toe in the water of AI, and signed up (or whatever it’s called) for ChatGPT.
And whilst it may not be as entertaining as playing snooker with the aforementioned, I certainly had a lot of fun with it. So much fun, that I thought I would share one of my “interchanges” with you. This rather extends the normal length of my blog, but I do urge you to stick with it, because if – like me – you’re not weak at the knees with the prospects on what IT can do for you, this may come as… well, a surprise.
So… here we go.
First, a bit of context.
I have a friend, who is not called John… well, he’s more of an acquaintance really, and he asked if I could store a suitcase for him for a couple of months. I acquiesced. He assured me that it contained nothing “dodgy,” and it has been sitting in a wardrobe in my apartment for about eight months now. I recently tried to get in touch with “John” without success. No reply to my phone calls, my Messenger messages were not received, and no reply to my emails. So, I’m wondering two things: a) where is “John” and, b) what is in the suitcase. I have not opened it… yet.
THE SORRY TALE OF JOHN’S (FUCKING) SUITCASE
Write a story in the 1st person about someone called John who asked to leave a small suitcase in my apartment in Marbella. He went back to England saying he would return and collect the suitcase in a few months’ time. Six months passed and I had heard nothing from him, and was unable to make contact with him. After another few months, I decided to open the suitcase and found it to be full of €500 notes, to the amount of €2 million. You can decide what I did with the money and what happened to John. The story must be written in the style of Charles Bukowski.
It was a blistering hot summer in Marbella, the kind of heat that makes you question your sanity for choosing to live in a place like this.
And there I was, John’s old friend, stuck with a small suitcase he left behind, promising to return in a few months to retrieve it. Little did I know that those months would stretch into an eternity.
John was a charismatic character, always on the move, chasing after the elusive dream of fortune and fame. He had a knack for getting himself tangled up in strange situations, and this suitcase was no exception. He came to me one night, desperation emanating from his every pore, and begged me to keep it safe. I could see it in his eyes, the flicker of fear mixed with a glimmer of hope. He promised to return, to make things right. Foolishly, I agreed.
Months turned into half a year, and I heard nothing from John. My attempts to reach him were met with a wall of silence, as if he had vanished into thin air. The apartment became a shrine to his absence, filled with memories and unanswered questions. I grew tired of waiting, of being tied to this damn suitcase that seemed to mock me with every passing day.
And then, one gloomy afternoon, I made up my mind. I couldn’t take it any longer. The suitcase had become a dark cloud hovering over my existence, a constant reminder of John’s betrayal. With trembling hands, I pried open the locks and lifted the lid. What I saw inside took my breath away.
The small suitcase was bursting at the seams with stacks upon stacks of €500 notes. The sight of so much money was both thrilling and terrifying. It was as if the gods themselves had placed a temptation before me, testing my morals and resolve. I had always believed in the straight and narrow, but life had a funny way of pushing you towards the edge.
In that moment, I made a choice. I decided to take the money and run. The weight of guilt settled on my shoulders like an old friend, but I couldn’t resist the allure of a life transformed. I had dreams of escaping this suffocating existence, of traveling the world and leaving my mark on it. This was my chance, my ticket out of mediocrity.
As the days turned into weeks, I buried myself in meticulous planning. I set up a new identity, erased all traces of my past, and prepared to disappear. I left Marbella behind, heading towards a new horizon, a life of uncertainty and endless possibilities.
But fate has a funny way of catching up with you. Just as I was settling into my newfound freedom, the news of a manhunt broke out. The authorities were closing in on a certain John, a man linked to illegal activities and a hefty sum of missing money. My heart sank as I realized the truth. John had used me as a pawn in his game, his escape plan at my expense.
I followed the news from a distance, a silent observer of the chaos unfolding. The irony was not lost on me. I had sought liberation, but instead, I found myself shackled to a guilty conscience. The money I had dreamed of had become a burden, a constant reminder of the choices I had made.
In the end, I decided to make amends. I returned the suitcase, its contents intact, to the authorities. I confessed to my involvement, knowing that the consequences would be dire. The truth had a weight of its own, heavier than any pile of money. It was time to face the music and accept the price of my actions.
As for John, he remained a ghost in the shadows. The whispers of his fate reached my ears, tales of betrayal and deceit. Some said he had escaped.
This is not written in the style of Charles Bukowski. Bukowski swears a lot and uses colourful language. Please re-write this is a more authentic Charles Bukowski style.
It was a fuckin’ scorcher in Marbella, the goddamn kind of heat that makes you question your own sanity for choosing to live in this shithole.
And there I was, stuck with that sorry excuse of a human being named John, who dumped his small suitcase in my crummy apartment. He had the nerve to bugger off back to England, leaving me with a promise that he’d return in a few measly months to collect his precious baggage.
Well, let me tell ya, those months turned into an eternity, and the bastard never showed his sorry face again.
I tried reaching out, God knows I fuckin’ tried, but all my attempts to contact John were met with a wall of silence. It’s as if the prick disappeared into thin air, leaving me to deal with his baggage, both literal and metaphorical. That suitcase became a grim reminder of his betrayal, a constant thorn in my side, reminding me of my own damn gullibility.
After six long months of waiting like a chump, I’d had enough. I said, “Fuck it!” and decided to pry open that suitcase. Maybe there was a clue, some trace of where that lousy prick had vanished to. But what I found inside… it blew my goddamn mind.
The suitcase, this little fucker, was overflowing with stacks of €500 notes. I’m talkin’ about enough cash to make a man’s head spin. It was like a goddamn jackpot, a treasure that fell right into my lap. The temptation, my friend, was too fuckin’ much to bear. I could feel the darkness creeping into my soul, seducing me with the promise of a better life.
So, I did what any desperate son of a bitch would do. I took the money, man. I said, “Screw you, John, and screw your empty promises!” I had dreams of leavin’ this shit-hole existence behind, of livin’ it up, traveling the world, and raising my middle finger to the system. It was my chance, my golden ticket outta this miserable existence.
For weeks, I vanished from Marbella’s radar. I created a new identity, burned all the bridges behind me, and embraced a life on the run. I reveled in the thrill of freedom, knowing damn well that it was only a matter of time before the walls came crashing down.
And crash they did, my friend.
The news started buzzing with reports of a manhunt, a hunt for the elusive John and the moolah he took. The fucker had led me right into a goddamn shitstorm. I watched from afar as the authorities closed in, as the walls tightened around him like a noose. I couldn’t help but feel the irony, the bitter taste of regret in my mouth.
It was then that I made my decision. I couldn’t run forever, couldn’t outrun the guilt that gnawed at my soul like a rabid dog. I knew I had to make things right, to face the consequences of my greedy choices.
So, I did the only decent thing left in me. I returned the goddamn suitcase, its contents untouched, to the powers that be. I came clean, spilled my guts, and accepted the punishment that was comin’ my way.
As for that sorry excuse of a man, John, he remained a ghost, a wisp of smoke in the wind. Rumors whispered tales of betrayal and deceit, of a man gone to ground with a pocket full of stolen dreams. But his fate, like the remnants of smoke in the air, was forever lost, swallowed by the shadows.
And so, my friend, I faced the music, danced to the tune of my
that is much better!
I’m glad you enjoyed it! If you have any more requests or need further assistance, feel free to ask. Cheers!
Oh, one more thing… please complete the final sentence: “And so, my friend, I faced the music, danced to the tune of my…” my what?
And so, my friend, I faced the music, danced to the tune of my own redemption.
Thank you! I’m thrilled that you found it brilliant. If you have any more requests or need further assistance, feel free to ask. Keep enjoying the tunes of life!
So, there you have it. I was a little surprised at the inclusion of such “colourful” language, and while it certainly hasn’t achieved mastery of Bukowski’s style, it’s not a bad attempt.
I certainly won’t be using it to complete my German client’s memoir, but it’s an entertaining way to pass a dull afternoon, and a great way for semi-literate students to cheat their way to better grades they they deserve.
This leaves seven other things you should experience before you end up dribbling in the nursing home. I promise I’ll get to those another time.
Finally, as the bishop said to the “actress”, ‘sorry this is a bit of a lengthy one!’