Porsche Man: The English Premiere West Ham

Dropping a slot from sixth to seventh, reality haunted Porsche Man’s soul making her take a hard look at the current situation. “Who am I kidding?” The rising star asked herself, “there are no goals in the cookie jar.”

“Fine, but having no goals means, what these days? Extra obligations? More responsibilities?” Settled in a passive mood Porsche Man occupied the kitchen table accompanied with an inexpensive drink.

For the last few months the American theatrical tease, climbed the Premier English ladder, claiming success, depositing goals to get by and collected much needed winning points. Suddenly, everything started a decline, “you were in the in crowd and the red devils are powerhouses, if they want to be,” a ghostly voice bellowed throughout the flat.

“Have to be honest,” Porsche Man thought to herself, “last two meetings with the gunners went my way, I should be able to handle them.”

“You need goals Porsche Man, you need goals,” the mysterious vocal advised.

Rising up, feeling positive, she turned the bubble machine on high and waited patiently, not making a sound. Once in a while peering out the window the fortunate lady saw emptiness and pondered for a moment, they would not show up.

But that fantasy disappeared as the combative contingent approached the apartment flat. “They look serious,” Porsche Man grimaced.

“Well, they are not too happy,” the invisible vocal observed, “twice this year,”

“Twice this year I did what? Found goals,”

“And now you have none!” The commentary faded away letting the knocker send a message.

Pulling the door open, Porsche Man revealed uniformed military service personnel, “You Porsche Man?” They asked.

“Yes,” she responded.

“We were wondering why you are in the top ten,”

“I have been getting goals,” Porsche Man defended herself,

“But lately there has been none, nada, nunca, nothing,”

Sweating things out Porsche Man started shaking, “I know I dropped from sixth to lucky seven, claiming better marketing position.”

As the gunners laughed noticing the star-spangled banner a little tattered, “you thought seven was a better slot then six?”

“Who told you that?”

Shrugging her shoulders, Porsche Man requested, “what are you looking for?”

“The goals you stole from us,” one said.

“Here I got one,” a gunner announced

“Here is another,” a second gunner alerted.

“And wouldn’t you know, the third,”

“Are you saying I took goals from you gunners?” Porsche Man folded her arms in disgust, “I am taking a break.”

Walking out the door, leaving the gunners behind, a furious Porsche Man reflected upon where all her goals went, “how dare those gunners raid my flat wanting their goals back.” She marched down the street, “I should give them a piece of my mind.”

“Where did she go?” One gunner inquired.

“I think she is going somewhere to get hammered, she is a hammer girl.”

Porsche Man returned mentally prepared, “we found three more goals that were ours,” the gunners reported, bagging the evidence in zip lock bags, “and sorry to say you have none.”

“So, what is your point?” Porsche Man glared.

“If you want to be at our level, you must have goals.”

Defensively, Porsche Man listened as the military outfit departed and being gentlemen the gunners, shut the door.

Confronting the living room’s two steps, tired and dejected, the performer model, plopped onto the couch, “Porsche Man you have to negotiate the tricky trees, next.”

“I hope I have a good map.”

“If you have enough goals then Brent Ford visits, bringing buzz.”

“That sounds like a plan,” Porsche Man huffed thinking about tomorrow, strategizing how everything could turn around overnight.