It would have been shortly after the COVID-19 19 Lockdown that had began in March, 2020 and ended in June, 3 months later, that I became aware of the existence of the fat, old spinster I now know to be Irja Saikkonen; a thuggish looking used up battle axe from Sweden. The very first time I had the misfortune to hurt my eyes looking at it was on a Spring morning that June; the sun was starting to heat up for the summer and the chiringuito's on the beach were being prepared for the upcoming season. It must have been past 11 O'clock when I first saw the trio of Saikkonen and her two friends her were as equally repulsive and self abusive as she evidently was. They resembled the three ugly sisters, or something out of a witch story.
Playa del Pinillo, is at the end of the beaches in Marbella, going towards Malaga, just before the beach for dogs; Playa de Caniña, and people from all over Spain and the world go to it because it has not sold itself to capitalism and it's perfect for swimming, but of all the many thousands of people I must have seen coming onto the beach these 3 old hags looked out of place on it. They offended it some how; just being there. As they were approaching I was able to make out the kilo's of excessive weight that was hanging of them; Irja, herself was fat enough to call obese, she had a pot belly on top of mounds of lard, her two friends, to be fair, were just fat, one of the two friends looked like she had been inflated to the maximum and then popped; like when a clinically obese person loses weight suddenly. And to my great dismay, it appeared, that these three horror bags were heading my way. Seeing scantily clad fat old age pensioners, let me tell you, did absolutely nothing at all for me, or anyone else who had to bear the sight of three old bags that had, evidently, spent their whole useful lives abusing themselves and now when the sight of them was truly offensive they choose to flaunt on a beach in Southern Spain.
Irja, pronounced "e-re-a" once I got to know her, a little, I realised was of very low intellect, which in my opinion bordered on stupidity and it was quite obvious, from her looks and mannerisms, that she had been abused in someway; an abusive partner, no doubt, I think if I had to face it, or even be in its company, I would probably resort to violence to escape.
In appearance Irja resembled one of those jailbird women from that old Australian soap, "Bad Girls." She was a dead ringer for a fat recidivists bully called Bee; ugly. I couldn't even begin to imagine just how much self-abuse you would have to put yourself through to look like this woman did; a face like a crash-test dummy and bloated like a balloon. Her lipstick looked like she'd smeared blood on her lips and no amount of make up could ever do anything to improve the wanton damage that had been done to this woman's face and body.
Her companions were not a great deal better than Irja, herself; they were overweight and looked like balloons that had been blown up to maximum and then popped. If I am honest, I would side-step them were they on a pavement walking in my direction.
When Irja Saikkonen spoke to me, though she spoke fluent English, she had an accent I thought might have been German; turns out she's a Swede. And there was I thinking that Sweden produced attractive women; they also produce some of the most repulsive creatures in female form too. But hey, it seems that she can still attract men, even though they are usually homeless and in a desperate enough situation to need help from an ugly old witch. And there are many, it seems, that live out of their cars, or mobile homes, here. And to fat, ugly Irja Saikkonen, these are her prey; obviously in need, road tired, and hungry, with nowhere else to go, of course they are going to take up the offer of a warm bed and hot food, and free sex if it's on offer.
Of course I was suspicious that this woman, and her ugly sisters, should just turn up, out of the blue, without any given reason, but I did not question it out loud because these were strange times we were living in with lockdowns, social distancing and police identity checks, nothing was normal.
It appeared that Saikkonen was only interested in the chiringuito which I had lived in for, then, going on 5 years. The property, itself, belongs to the local government and I hijacked it after, because of government negligence, I lost the opportunity of work. I felt they owed me.
Saikkonen was loud and brash, like American tourists; full of shit with nothing worth saying but they say it anyway. She and her ugly sister friends were intruders and were disturbing my peace and privacy. In general I would ask people, like this, to move on, or keep their distance from my home.
Saikkonen's opening line was to the effect that she intended throwing a party and wondered if I would be prepared to hire the chiringuito out for that purpose. I had recently put a sign on the front of the building saying "Hire this space" which turns out to be Spanish for keep off the property, or so it seems, because that's exactly the effect it had.
I heard her out but didn't say what I was thinking which was 'why the fuck was a practically dead old age pensioner asking me about parties?" The woman, and her foul looking side kicks couldn't party if their life depended on it, but of course I didn't say that. I told her that because of the current measures and restrictions that I doubted that the law would permit parties to be held.
With my history of studying human psychology, for more than 25 years now, I was able to recognise that the traits she was exhibiting were that of a narcissistic sociopath; I would have suggested psychopathy but I know that all psychopaths have a relatively high IQ., whereas this woman was an absolute dummy, so she would be disqualified from being considered a psychopath for that very reason.
I tolerated these idiots presence for about 30 minutes before they left. Small talk just annoys me and it looked like the limits of these ugly women were small and that actual adult discussion was beyond their intellectual ability. I wasn't really busy, at the time, so seeing these waste of space old bags waste my time was not such a big deal. Once they had left I was glad that I could return to what I was doing prior to the arrival of the three ugly sisters.
Saikkonen, from then on, made it a habit to call at the chiringuito when she took her morning swim, which again I tolerated with clenched teeth. This was an idiot, after all, of the highest order.
During that June I tolerated Irja and her equally repulsive friends, on a almost on a daily basis; she would stop on her way to, or from, a swim. And with her face like a bulldog chewing a wasp she would definitely keep the tourists away, so I let it go unabated; I can't think of a single occasion where I felt I should welcome her, it was always an intrusion.
There was a time one of her hag friends brought her son to my chiringuito; the cheek of it was the main thing, I don't invite visitors and if I did I certainly wouldn't have these kind of sheepy weirdos around me. There was no intelligent conversation; they were not capable of it and were not able to comprehend it when it was duly presented to them. They were mouth breathing idiots only able to communicate in 'small talk.' But after being isolated for best part of 3 months I was game for any kind of entertainment and it amused me, at first but soon became boring and pointless. I think it was the one with the son that had an eye for me, which was not reciprocated in any way; I can think of better ways of wasting my life than with some old bag that needs some cock.
In the summer Saikkonen would be
traipsing along the boardwalk showing far too much flesh for the wrinkled up old bag she was, I was genuinely embarrassed for her, but her lack of intelligence seemed to carry her above the dirty looks that people were giving her. There just wasn't the possibility of any sexual interest from me for any of these harridans from hell, they truly were beyond my scope.
The thing that annoyed me most about these horrible hags turning up, as they did, is that the topless beauties that haunted this area of the beach in summer took one look at Irja and avoided the place; this woman was an ogress; she would put Shrek to shame.
It would have been more than a week, and less than a fortnight, that I got to know this woman and her creepy friends, not just the women who came with her to the beach, when she invited me to eat at her mobile home, the converted single decker bus painted purple, parked illegally on a municipal car park, I might add.
I thought it might be a change from what I had been eating lately. So, I went up on the invite and I hadn't been up to her bus to see what it was like inside; I was curious in that respect. When I got up to car park, where her bus was, before I even got within 10 meters of it, I smelt what I knew, having been a grease monkey in my youth, to be transmission fluid; it has a distinct smell and there is nothing close to it that it could be mistaken for. As I approached the the rear of the purple bus, I called Irja and she replied that she was at the front of the bus.
I said "I think you are leaking transmission fluid Irja."
"No, Mohammed has just topped up my transmission fluid." Irja replied.
"Well you can smell it halfway across the car park." said I.
"It's no problem Mohammed has probably spilled some on the engine. Come this way." And she led along the side of the bus which resembled a garage sale with piles of shit stacked haphazardly everywhere.
I had past Mohammed, a tall, lurch type of guy, a Moroccan, he was in the large rear access point of the bus; essentially the boot, and I was to learn later it used to house the engine. I have never trusted Moroccan's, myself; they're too close to their own country and their ways are much different than hours and they'd kill you for a pack of sugar. I had a gut feeling that this guy was weird and that more than a little was missing from his head in the way of intelligence.
Irja had a guest; another overly abused flabby old bag. I thought about making excuses and getting out of there, but Irja was pressing a glass of wine on me, and though I don't usually consume alcohol, if I can help it, I accepted it and was directed to sit beneath a beach sombrello. I was welcomed by the hag who was already seated and asked all kinds of stupid questions, which I felt were impertinent given that I had only just met. Normally, I would avoid, like the plague, the company I was having to endure right now, truly; it's boring and quite pointless, I think.
Irja presented to food, which was a meat dish and I was getting a special portion, it seemed. I had to bite my tongue because I choose not to eat meat and eat a primarily plant based diet. But I said nothing and thought she might be offended if she had gone to the trouble of preparing the meal and I refused it, so I endured eating meat. While I was eating the meat, in particularly, I noticed that when I swallowed the meat and breathed out there appeared to be a strange synergy between what I was eating and the still present smell of transmission fluid. That's the best way I can explain it, really; a bit like when you can smell ground coffee when you are drinking it. At the time, obviously, I didn't know what the significance was until much later on, but it was very significant and the memory of it enabled me to save my own life, as it turns out.
I ate as much as I could of the meat, and the meal, and before I got the chance to slide off back to my cabin, Saikkonen asked me how much would I charge to dig a stone out that prevented her from driving her bus deeper into the land on which stood the car park and was adjacent to it. I said "Give me twenty an hour and I'll get it out."
I took an hour, or so, break and rested out of the sun before I started what appeared to be a simple task of digging around the rock that was buried there and levering it out some way. I didn't know how it was going to do it; I'd cross that bridge when I came to it.
I went to lie down in the cool of my cabin and waited for the sun to go down a little before I set about this rock removal task; I wouldn't usually consider manual labour but under the circumstances I needed the money.
Before I set out to do the job I noticed a stiffness in my right shoulder. I had been working with garden tools for a couple weeks, now, so muscular stiffness wasn't to be unexpected, It wasn't such a great problem and wouldn't impede my work, but it was noticeable.
When I got to Irja's bus she had laid out a brand new spade and pick. She must have bought them for the job I thought. I think I mentioned to Irja about the pain in the shoulder and shrugged it off, myself, as a likely muscle injury, because of my recent exertions in the garden. She agreed benignly. She insisted that I drink water as I was working. Mohammed the brain dead zombie had left Torremolenos earlier, but her flabby friend was there and was all smiles; she definitely had a thing for me, this one. Again, it was not in any way reciprocated, I'd rather be doing something useful with my time than having to face that one at close quarters.
Regardless of the company I started to dig around the stone; the pain in my shoulder was getting worse and I said, "I don't think I will manage it all today with this pain in my shoulder."
"Just do as much as you can manage then." Replied Irja.
"I intend to." I said under my breath.
The two fat, and not so pretty, women sat while I worked to free this half tonne rock from where it had been purposely buried to prevent vehicles moving further on to the land behind the car park.
About a half an hour into the job, it was still seriously hot, about 37°C if not more, the pain in my shoulder had become worse and was accompanied by a numb sensation in the thumb and forefinger of my left hand. I was aware that it could be cardio related but there was no reason I should be having trouble with my heart. I carried on working and Irja was urging me to finish it.
I laboured, despite the pain in my shoulder and numbness in my arm, for about two and a half hours; we had to use the bus in reverse to pull the rock out and move it, but I did it. And when I had finished, although she could see I was having difficulty with my arms, gave me a fifty Euro note and asked me to finish up carrying some decking she wanted at the front of the bus, I agreed and she said she had to be somewhere and left in her wreck of a BMW saloon and she went.
This was all a ploy; the whole thing was a set up, as I was to discover much later on. As it turns out Irja had poisoned me with the food I had eaten and the pains I was having in my arms were a symptom of it. The poison that was administered was actually the transmission fluid I had smelled early, and could still smell it when I left. I later googled the constituents of it and it contains a chemical, ethanol glycolic, which is known to cause heart attacks, the same chemical is also found in some cosmetics and substances such as antifreeze.
As I recall, Saikkonen invited me to breakfast, the day after,which I turned down but she was insistent that I ate a late lunch with her that day. I said I would but didn't really need, or want to. I mean the food was edible even though it was poisoned. The pain in my shoulder had subsided over night and I was glad about that because I was panicking people by telling them my symptoms; the symptoms were real and I was pre-heart-attack. At the time I remember reading a news item about a Spanish man who had turned up at a hospital complaining of precisely the same symptoms as I was, at the time, suffering. He was sent away without treatment and returned a short time later whereupon he died of a cardiac arrest.
Well, as you can imagine, this cheered me up no end. There I was being warned by my body that I not far from having a heart attack and I didn't realise. Had I done, and had I called an ambulance, I can well guarantee that it would be at least a half hour, to an hour, before an ambulance turned up here. If you don't speak their language it takes around 30 minutes to get through to an operator that speaks your language.
My symptoms having subsided sufficiently for me to see what the old witch Saikkonen was offering; I had food but, at the time, I only an oven and a steamer, so if I could grab some free grub I was game for it.
I got up to Saikkonen's bus some time after two, it must have been, I said I would have a bite of something if she had anything on the go and she was preparing some kind of chicken meal, again, it must have been poisoned with the same substance because in a very short space of time, from eating the meal the pain in my shoulder, which had faded away, practically, suddenly started aching again; I didn't think anything of the coincidence of eating Irja's food, then having this shoulder pain, which I knew by then had the possibility of being cardiac related, not at the time. The Moroccan, Muhammad, had appealed out of no where and was making tea when I left. This guy was a classic textbook weirdo, I felt, and history shows that I was justified in that opinion; this bastard was in league with the fat ugly Irja to poison me.
Feeling generally unwell, I returned to my chiringuito to lie down and take it easy. And I had being doing just that when, an hour into my siesta, I heard Irja's voice calling my name from outside and I responded. Accompanied by the lurch-like weirdo, he was over 6 foot tall, Mohammed, and they wanted me to join them for a swim. Now, at this point, let's just analyse what these pair of sick bastards were doing; Irja had recently given me food containing a poison, ethanol glycol, known to cause heart attacks, and here these sick blood thirsty monsters were asking me to join them for a swim and although the ambient temperature was close 40°C, the sea was a little colder than that and had their poison been more effective then it was such an excursion as taking a swim would have pushed my heart into arresting, bearing in mind that the chemical I had ingested would thicken my blood and put a strain on my heart causing it to fail, and perhaps killing me in the process. Those involved would most certainly be deemed psychopathic, without a doubt. The fact that mad Irja wanted rat poison to kill the wild cats that she was feeding and treated as pets should have made me conscious as to what type of nut job I was dealing with here.
As it turns out I badly needed a swim because the heat had been oppressive all day, so I accepted their offer to join them. We went a little further down the beach to the next beach business which is Opium a leisure complex come-nightclub and I duly took my t-shirt off and flip flops and waded in. And I dove and swam; breast stroke, front crawl, back stroke, I was in ten minutes, or so, and I remember, now, these two psychos watching me. And what I know now they had took me there, where it was deep enough to drowned and these sick demented low life shits has took me there to have a heart attack, as I know it now.
Well, needless to say, their stupid plan failed and I dried myself off and left them in the sea. They must have been highly disappointed, to say the least, to see that their plan had failed, miserably, again. On their way past my chiringuito they stopped to make some inane and unnecessary small talk, and I recall now, how Mohammed made a silly childlike gesture with his "Goodbye Mark," with a sick fucking smile on his morbid Moroccan mug. This guy must be a real nut to be going around doing things that are normal in their own country but are against the law elsewhere. I don't think I ever saw Mohammed, again, after that time, thank fuck.
Old Ma Saikkonen had another side-kick, a blond gay guy that drove a van for some tobacco products company, a plum coloured van, with a roof rack and he lived in his van on car parks such as the one Saikkonen was parked on. Saikkonen called him "The Swedish boy," but he was far from being a boy in his 30's. He wore a big silly looking wooden crucifix around his neck and sure looked stupid enough to be a god botherer.
There was, one stage, another Swedish, English speaking guy, on the car park living out of his car. He was a heroin addict and friendly with Irja Saikkonen, I did spend a bit of time listening to his bullshit, but he very quickly bored me. I knew him as the scruffy delusional smack head that lived in his car on the car park. I think it might have been possible that Saikkonen had tried to recruit this bag of shite in her plan, which was actually to get me out of my home, so that she could have it herself; she made it very clear that she liked what I had and clearly wanted it, but the likes of Saikkonen don't go very far in life because they don't have the mental capacity, or capability to raise themselves above the shit they have lived in all there lives.
There was to be a third time that I ate food prepared by Saikkonen and shortly thereafter suffering shoulder pains before I actually realised the possibility I was being poisoned. This Saikkonen bitch was well practiced in what she'd done; she's looked at the psychology behind my situation and made a lot of mistaken conclusions from what she thought she might know about me; in retrospect the majority of her assumptions had come from the likes of Facebook, I know because a lot of what was coming back at me, from Facebook, was propaganda I had put out. It was quite obvious to me that Irja's comprehension of what I wrote was what I would have expected from a child of about ten. Among the idiot's that she evidently had in her life I would expect that she would appear intelligent to drunks and junkies who seemed to be the type of people she had around her. To someone who has nothing I would expect that her having a 400€ a month pension would put her in a position of advantage among those she chose to have around her who were dwellers of squats and those that lived out of their cars. She was highly manipulative of the stupid and ignorant, I saw. I think many of them were taken in by the money she seemed to be throwing about, but was, in truth, no more than her old age pension. I suppose when you get to that age, I think she told me 66, or 67; she claimed to have had a birthday since she told me 66. But you can see, just looking at her, she had gone all out to fuck herself over; fat, ugly, and I mean keeping the kids away from the fire with a photograph ugly; her face looked like she had been used as a crash test dummy and she has a body that was bloated and stretched from a lifetime of abuse.
Trailer Trash is the term used for these people whose mobile homes seem to be grouped in many area's in, and around, Marbella. And, from experience, most are nasty, violent, evil people that have been excluded from their own communities for good reason.
On the third, and last, time I ate with Irja a man of around 45 or 50 was present, to eat with us; they ate a different dish than I did, which I thought strange at the time and in time realised why I had been given something different; mine contained the poison, being what I now am certain of because of the symptoms and how I resolved them, was ethanol glycolic which of course is the toxic constituent of transmission fluid. I think it was quite obvious that these dumb shits didn't have a single clue of what they were doing.
The English speaking Spanish guy that came to the meal I knew was a sex partner of Saikkonen because I had caught them, at an inopportune moment, earlier in the day. I thought to myself that this guy was either blind, or stupid, to be desperate enough to put his dick anywhere near Irja the Shrek double. I would suggest that my own private parts would probably shrivel up as an innate defence mechanism. On one occasion she showed a bit more of her pudenda than was good for anyone and I just felt a bit queasy after the harrowing experience. I noticed that the Spanish guy was trying to intimidate me in conversation, and this guy was a classic 'I know everything' dumbass; as I was a guest I wasn't sure whether I should smash him in the face, or just ignore him. I would suggest now, much later, that he was expecting the poison I had had administered to by way of Irja's food to have a profound effect on my abilities to respond.
It was around the time of the last poisoned meal I was given by Irja that I learned the fate of the man who had actually spent many years building the bus that Saikkonen now owned, or claimed she owned. Apparently he died, shortly after he refused to sell the bus to Saikkonen, of a heart attack I was told. And as she was the first to show an interest she bought it off the man's grieving widow for a song. She was a complex case, with a lot of issues, was Saikkonen, my guess she had been badly abused, somewhere along the line, and this is one woman who, I can well imagine that deserves a good beating just for the way she looks.
Saikkonen wanted to have the party she'd long been threatening to have since I had known her, in fact, on the Saturday night of the 9th of July. She agreed to pay me at the rate I was asking which was 30€ an hour, I had a gut feeling about the situation and I knew that this slimy old bag wasn't go to pay. At one stage I even said that I would give her the use of the chiringuito for her birthday, which like Saikkonen, herself, was fake; her aim was to see who would object to the chiringuito being used in such a way in the hope that I would get some attention from the police and perhaps get me off the seen long enough to break into my home and change the locks, which she believes would remedy the fact she wanted nothing more, at the present than to deprive me of my home because they were under the impression that is all they needed to do was to take me out of the equation and just take over as if nothing happened. Seriously; these bunch of nutcases thought you could go around to people's homes and just take them over by getting the occupants out. That might be the case were they the rightful owner of an illegally occupied building but the law excludes such actions from random nut jobs and limits it to 'rightful' and 'legal' owners and occupants.
The 'party' including myself were 7 people. I don't know if this was the final they tried to poison me, or not because I was still suffering the effects from the last occasion. A friend of Irja's, an alcoholic, as it turns out, turned up to cook us all a traditional paella, personally I am not too keen on any kind of 'traditional' Spanish cuisine; it's always full of dead animals, of one type, or another. And the one these silly cows were throwing together was no different. There was lot's of alcohol, but I didn't really indulge in any of it, I had a beer, or two, but I didn't want to get intoxicated among this bunch of cut-throat weirdos.
I learned during the party that Irja desperately wanted someone to steal her car because it had become a liability to her and she wanted as much as she could get from it and she wanted to get the whole amount she had insured it for. I told her that I didn't know anyone that might be interested, but that she should ask among the Moroccan's they'd do anything for a price.
The day after the party, I gave Irja plenty of time to make an offer to pay me but she failed to respond in anyway. Besides, by now I was beginning to realise that there was something amiss here; these people were fake; Trailer Trash shit, who would rob anything from anybody given half the chance. And I, fool that I was, entrusted them.
By not responding to her calls via WhatsApp I had caused Irja some concern; think about, she has been poisoning me, off and on for about a week and suddenly I take the funnies and refuse to acknowledge her calls, or messages, in fact I think I might have even blocked her. She hasn't got a clue what's going on and so she ventures down to my place and I am just on my way out, at the time, I dismissed her with a wave and said "I'll be back in a hour, or so." and carried on my way. Saikkonen didn't like being snubbed and it showed; her ugly face screwed up to resemble a bulldog chewing a wasp.
I was genuinely going somewhere and wasn't prepared to be delayed by some old boot that had conned me already.
It wasn't very long I was away for, but when I returned, within the space of an hour of my return I had Saikkonen and her Spanish dildo knocking at my door.
Author Notes: This is part of a true story which I have yet to finish. The woman I write of, Irja Saikkonen, was part of a conspiracy to murder me by poisoning me. The group, or gang, had gone to great lengths to try to stop my food supply and ways for me to make money and had arranged to have me be hungry enough to eat anything.
I never got that hungry, but I was poisoned, all the same.