Froderik and the Disco Surprise

It all began at around eleven on a seemingly ordinary Saturday evening. Froderik was, as always, hiding in the bushes in front of the nightclub near his home. Following a beating on the dance floor from the butcher’s son for the crime of stepping on his girlfriend’s toe, Froderik had not been seen in any of the region’s nightclubs in recent times. Instead, he had taken to painting black stripes on his face, disguising himself with Polish army camouflage gear, hiding himself outside the entrance to the club and watching the wild goings-on of his peers from an appropriately safe distance, assisted by a pair of night vision binoculars. In this way, he would be sure not to miss out on the sort of fun that every juvenile and potent boy should be having on the weekend, and he could remain firmly in the loop about local happenings.

On this particular evening, he was treated to a number of especially interesting sights. It was not a public holiday, nor was there an exchange of Swedish students underway in the town, but there were nevertheless scores of pretty girls heading into his favourite hangout, few of which he had seen before. Lying flat on the ground and enthused by the idea of a romantic encounter with one of these beautiful ladies later in his dreams, he unconsciously began to shift from side to side on his pelvis.

Suddenly, he heard a loud and startling “PSSSST” from near his left ear. It was his friend Jochen, who had crept up behind Froderik and who appeared to be dressed in his finest clothes. He was even sporting a colourful bow tie.

“What are you doing lying around here, Frodi?” asked Jochen. “Don’t you know that tonight is the Miss Wet T-Shirt competition?“

Froderik shook his head.

“You really shouldn’t be peeping around outside here in the dirt – there’s much more to see inside. And the best part is that if your ticket is drawn, you can win a meal out with Miss Wet T-Shirt herself. No ifs, no buts…”

Froderik was glad that it was dark, as this news had turned him a bright shade of red. A romantic evening meal with the woman of his life? The chances of this happening were not huge, but they were large enough to actually go into the club – a potential risk to his life should he bump into the butcher’s son again.

After successfully convincing the doorman that Froderik was only wearing his camouflage suit because he thought it was a Halloween-themed event, the two boys headed inside and waited with great anticipation for the impending spectacle.

As the fifth contender for the grand prize stepped onto the stage in bikini bottoms and a white T-shirt and was promptly doused with a bucket of water by the moustachioed club impresario, Froderik’s first thought was that he had just clapped eyes on his dream woman. Just five more to go, then he would find out if he had won a meal out with the buxom lady, followed by the glorious crowning of the winning Miss Wet T-Shirt.

When the lucky number was announced, Froderik – overcome with joy – let out an uncontrolled grunt. At that moment, all the happiness in the world was his: he had won the draw. When the candidates were asked to line up, however, his joy soon turned to terror: Froderik’s mother, Hilde, was also on the podium. Where had she come from? Had he been in the toilets when she had been on stage? His mother was about three times as old and twice as heavy as all the other competitors, although these unquestionable facts did not seem to bother her in the slightest. After spotting her son in the crowd, the humiliated and disturbed Froderik could only manage a feeble wave in return.

During his prize dinner, Froderik’s mind was straining to understand how his mother could have won the competition. Perhaps the drunken crowd really did think that she was hot stuff, or perhaps it was all a big joke? In any case, the meal – mashed potatoes and fish fingers served by his mum, who had still not removed her wet T-shirt – was somehow different to the meal that he had originally dreamed about.

From now on, rather than actually going inside, he would stick to watching the nightclub from the outside – with no exceptions. He could survive an episode such as this a single time, but a second time could do permanent damage to his reputation.


Kommentar verfassen

Trage deine Daten unten ein oder klicke ein Icon um dich einzuloggen:

WordPress.com-Logo

Du kommentierst mit Deinem WordPress.com-Konto. Abmelden /  Ändern )

Google Foto

Du kommentierst mit Deinem Google-Konto. Abmelden /  Ändern )

Twitter-Bild

Du kommentierst mit Deinem Twitter-Konto. Abmelden /  Ändern )

Facebook-Foto

Du kommentierst mit Deinem Facebook-Konto. Abmelden /  Ändern )

Verbinde mit %s