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Du er her: Skole > When The Lack of Skills is The Lack That Kills

When The Lack of Skills is The Lack That Kills

Skremselspropaganda med brodden mot manglende kunnskaper i engelsk.

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The heavy rain kept drumming against the window behind me, creating a damp chill where I had sat down purposely o keep my head cool. As I was slowly sipping my pint, I let my eyes run through the bar in search for som pleasant company for the evening. I always sat in a corner. I had become a habit. In the bar, I wasn’t nearly as invisible as I was were I was now. Not that I really fancied chit-chatting with complete strangers for no reason either. Up here, I had total control.


Suddenly the door was opened. A man entered, looking clearly nervous. “What’s on his mind?” was my first thought. But the more I observed, the more my first question assumed a new form: “Where is that fellow from?”. I suddenly noticed that he spoke my native language, so I rised and approached him for a friendly chat. But the second he became aware of my presence, he got up and went out the back door like a strike of lightening. I thought of that metaphore right there and then – it wasn’t until later it accured to me that it could have been a message...


As I ordered another pint, the door was opened again. Although this time, the person who entered certainly oculd be considered to be pleasant company. She was dark-haired, dressed to kill and with a body that could have made even the Pope take a quick peak. She was about 5’9 and in her mid-twenties, or something thereabout. She wore a black business suit and boots with stilettos and a dark, but neutral makeup. As she removed her gloves, she searched the premises with her eyes, just like I had been, just a minute earlier. Suddenly our glances met. I quickly turned away, but I could still feel her eyes in the back of my head. Not many seconds later I heard the sound of stiletto heels heading my direction, accompanied by the smell of an arousing perfume. “May I sit down?” she asked. She looked even hotter this close.

“Go right ahead,” I said.


So I ordered another pint for her. By the looks of it, she was grateful. I would never imagine a woman of her kind to be this humouristic and open, because the small-talk went along without a problem. She clearly noticed my somewhat unperfect English and that I wasn’t from around here. So I told her right away that I was on the run from troubles in my own country, in a limp attempt to impress her. Somehow it seemed to work out, because she reached for her cell phone and called for a taxi. “You wanna come to my place me more there?” she asked in a firm, seducing tone. At this point , I was hypnotized by this woman. Her smell, looks and attitude would have made me scream “How high!?” even before she would have asked me to jump. “Sure,” I replied.



And that’s how my story ends. This took place just two months ago. This mysterious woman turned out to be Liutenant Nicole Barker from the LAPD, working undercover. She wasn’t in that bar to play games with naive foreigners like myself. She was actually tailing a norwegian-talking murder suspect who had been seen walking into the bar.


The guy who ran away when I approached him just before lt. Barker entered, seemed to have mugged old lady and mutilated her dog earlier that evening. The only witness had also been norwegian, and the only thing he had noticed was the killer’s language. It was to darn good to be true. I didn’t even get a fair trail. My attorney appealed to the judge to give me life, but I suppose that it was the mutilated dog that was the last obstacle between me and Old Sparky.


I’ve been in this cell for three weeks now, and today it’s my turn. Now and then you see the lights go out when a fellow inmate, whom eventually becomes your friend, gets cooked. The fact that you keep in mind that you will see them again on the other side, makes it easier to leave with dignity.


Three weeks. They sure didn’t keep me waiting. Others on this block have been here for years. A priest will be sent to me in a couple of minutes, even after I’ve told them he will be wasting his time. And, ironically enough, I ordered a large BigMac menu for my last meal.


All this time I’ve been in jail I’ve practising my English. My lack of competence was what going to get me executed for a crime I didn’t commit, so I figured I would take it as a sign:


Fate took me away for my lack of language skills.

who knows when that might happen again?

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