Global Hobo | That Time A French Dude Kidnapped Me

Global Hobo wrote: That Time A French Dude Kidnapped Me

Like most Sundays, I wake tasting stale whiskey and drooling on myself, naked. I wake up cotton mouthed in an unfamiliar place, scanning the room for my clothing and desperately trying to jog my memory for the name and gender of the other person under the blanket. Most have been the French dude.

The sun is glaring in, from what I can tell, it’s early, and judging by the dark hair on the leg protruding out from under the cover, it is a man beside me. I’m on the second floor of what seems to be a townhouse, the room is weirdly empty, the man strangely small, and the cause for alarm growing. I need water.

While I am no stranger to a four-litre jug of wine, or not knowing where I am, the situation feels suspicious, there is an air of doom and an ebbing feeling that I am in some trouble. Wearing his child-size shirt and some boxers, I go to look out the bedroom window for evidence, or some clue, of what may have happened.

We are in a complex of rustic, brick townhouses, and then there seems to be literally nothing else here, but there is a highway sign I can just about make out from the window, tiptoe and strain my neck to see, careful not to make any noise, should the small beast wake before I have my wits about me. And what I see shakes me to the very core of my abused and degenerate being, bringing with it a flood of memory and consequently, a terrible understanding of what brought me here; whiskey my old friend, I see you’ve played your hand, and it’s a straight flush straight to fucksville.

The small man… pale with dark hair… my immediate distrust of him and his house; as if my innate Canadian spirit sensed that wherever I was, it was somehow affiliated with Quebec.

Do you want to read the whole article about scary French Dudes? Of course you do, check it out here: