The unscrupulous Barnabas confiscates a Porsche 918 Spyder and drives through Hamburg in the super sports car
The electric motors whir, push the gleaming chrome elevator doors aside and a light-blonde two-meter man thirsty for action enters the light-flooded eighth office floor, which is home to an advertising agency, a service company for the creations of deception. If the big one weren’t noticeable by his physical dimensions, his clothing would do the job. He wears a steel-gray, incomplete three-piece suit, the missing jacket over the crisp white business shirt without a tie and the vest he has replaced by a knee-length, tar-black leather coat.The laced combat boots match the gray tone of the solid men’s suit with the help of precisely fitting colors.
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"Good morning, I want to speak to the boss?" Barnabas growls sullenly at the reception desk.
"Who are you?" Replies the employee, Ms. Holz, duped, who sits behind the futuristic furniture that is reminiscent of a command post of a spaceship from a science fiction film.
"That does not matter! Not your business, honey! I want to chat with him!" He mobs aggressively.
"Not like that, you bastard!" Mrs. Holz blurts out clumsily, helplessly looking at a separated room made of glass walls, which generously closes the open-plan office on the opposite side. In it, a slim man in his late thirties in a platinum-gray business suit sways in a desk chair behind an avant-garde, glass table furniture, looking bored through the rear glass facade of the hustle and bustle in the Hamburg harbor on the north Elbe in front of the Kleiner Grasbrook.
"Why not right away, bitch?" Assesses Barnabas cheerfully, thus analyzing her attention, immediately rushing off to the glass office.
"You can’t just run past me," She croaks helplessly.
"Good morning, Mr. Dornbeek!" Barnabas roars into the office, at the same time he opens the glass door and slams it.
"What the hell do you want?" Dornbeek jumps up in alarm.
"I want to pick up the keys to the 918."
"What is that supposed to mean?"
"You are one month in arrears, Mr. Dornbeek!"
"That’s ridiculous! I’ll call my lawyer right away." He picks up the phone.
"Take care, smart ass." Barnabas pushes him roughly back into his synthetic leather armchair, loosely erecting himself in front of him. "We can solve the matter painlessly or with unpleasant consequences. You’re an advertising specialist, everything in your industry is based on imagination. Think soberly! What will your business partners believe when they find out that you are short of money?" To support this, the computer monitor accidentally rattles onto the needle felt carpet.
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Thus, in the end, all pairs of eyes of the employees focus on the two counterparties in the boss’s office. Intimidated, Dornbeek fingers the key out of his trouser pocket and throws it on the desk. "The last word has not been spoken! I just bow to brute force."
"Your right, call your lawyer for help, wimp", this is how Barnabas appropriates the key transponder and runs away. While waiting for the elevator gondola to arrive, he overhears Mrs Holz over the intercom to hear the arrival of the lawyer Dr. Schleppfuss announces, which elicits a smug smile from him.
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Barnabas stows the hardtop in the trunk under the front hood, starts the V8 mid-engine of the hybrid sports car, a gray metallic 918 Spyder, and quietly slips out of Hamburg’s Hafen City over the Kornhausbrücke, branches off to the left into Dovenfleet, and heads east towards Hamburg Central Station. After crossing the Hamburger Kunsthalle, in front of the Lombard Bridge, he turns the open two-seater to the right, past the snow-white Wilhelminian style architecture with the green patina on the surface of the copper roof, the Hotel Atlantic, follows the bank of the Außenalster in the bolide, approaches over the Schwanenwik and Heinrich-Hertz-Straße to the destination in Humboldtstraße in Barmbek-Süd: a massage studio for erotic massages.