Franz the Surly and Moustachioed Co-Worker

snaps and chomps his gum in an unbelievable display of speed and rhythm. I think he must have been practicing this since long before his moustache turned silver. The sound is like the percussion in 'Cecilia'. How the hell does he do that, I wonder from my frozen-with-fear position in the passenger seat. We are on another zany newsgathering safari, always made more exciting by Franz's gum-chewing, creative cursing and breakdance-style driving. It's all choreographed into a beautiful high impact performance - the snaps in crisp counterpoint to the brakes, the chomps accentuating the jesusfuckingchrists. Tires actually squeal, I learn; not only on TV but on a simple trip to the goddamned airport to attend a boring press conference that he knew about 20 minutes ago. But leaving earlier would compromise the intensity of this performance, I imagine, as I'm pasted against the window by the centrifugal force of a nicely executed left turn. I digress. His dexterity is marvellously specialized. Years of practice make him able to multitask and scare the living shit out me with the utmost precision - like the amazing Cirque du Soleil contortionist or the Tuvan throat singer, he has earned my wonder.

But as I become unpasted from the window, there's a little smile horning in on my face's expression of horror. Because I'm imagining the day when Franz's calculations are just the tiniest bit out. He'll brake when he should curse. He'll snap when he should chomp. And as he goes to nail that left turn he'll realize what has happened but it'll be too late - the gum will have grabbed onto his moustache and clung like a baby orangutan. Attempts to dislodge it will only exacerbate the situation, until his once-proud handlebars are completely tangled in saliva and cinnamon. Like Samson he will submit to the razor. Then he and his naked face will drive docilely, shorn of their power. And I, Delilah, will laugh. Jesusfuckingchrist.