Tales of Worrow Volume II

by Darren Worrow

  John will never forget his smirk, that disturbing glare, induced by far too much expensive brandy and whatever else that devil indulged in behind the closed doors of The White House. John, at first was just pleased to be in his company, he was satisfied to be part of the gang. Sure John was ahead of his game, a high riser within his industry surly, in his own mind, he did not compare with Gareth Humphries the media plutocrat, James Jones the celebrity Baseball star whose marriage into Monaco’s royalty took his power way beyond the sights of the sport he excelled in, Quinten Braithwaite, the English art dealer and international playboy and Mohamad Ahmed Khan, the Sultan of Brunei’s international advisor. Still he was among them on a social level and was enjoying the attention; could life get any better?

  Still, as they gathered on the President’s super-yacht and from above the crashing waves of the Atlantic the tinkle of glasses and the merriment of the world’ aristocracy set the mood. It was an ambience of pleasure of the highest order; this was the top step on the rich man’s playground and even a man of John’s calibre felt slightly out of place here. The snobbery of these people though it seemed he had burst his way through, they overlooked his initial fears and welcomed him. A warm buzz flowed through him, the fact he was operating on their level now, the fact he could socialise with them was surely a good thing.

  He came into the conversation a bit late, the others were gathered around the President who interrupted the tête-à-tête to introduce him, “John!” he held his hand out and then moved onto the others, telling them of how he had secured the Kuwait contract with such ease and professionalism and followed it up with a firm gripping handshake. The others were impressed if a little off-balance at what exactly the contract involved and they let it be known that John was welcome into the exclusive club. Mohammad appeared to be more actively impressed than anyone else and hugged John who was unsure quite how to respond. Years of dealing with Middle Eastern customs on a less authoritative level had not prepared him for the embrace. Mohammad though, like the others was keen to reroute the conversation away from shop and convert it back to the pursuit of a more leisurely subject. He asked the President how the boy, whoever the boy was to John he did not know, coped with the idea. The President laughed, “He couldn’t count to ten!” he bellowed to receive applause of laughter and swaying of the concentrating party members.

  “So what say with give it go huh?” the President opened up the next section of the conversation and the others looked uncertain how to answer. Then the pompous English guy spoke up, pushing through the circle of men Quinten spoke in that Oxford graduate tone, “Marvellous idea, count me in sir!”

  One could tell that the Sultan of Brunei’s international advisor was not to be outdone and promptly moved into the circle too, “and me, it would be interesting,” he gathered his thoughts and spread them with gusto and pride, shaking the President’s hand.

  “Far from interesting,” commented the President with a witty tone, “It will be fun! You know our positions leave us little time to contemplate the importance of fun but our power supplies us with the fuel to extenuate it to the full. It is our duty to employ some fun into our lives, it is our prerogative, wouldn’t you all agree?”

  They all nodded in approval and joined in with agreeing to the proposal, save John who was left in the dark. His obliviousness to the suggestion was quickly noted by the President who leaned into him, invading his personal space but in a kindly fashion. “What do you say John, do you want to play with us?”

  John was thrown back, without a real response to this. His body language spoken the thousand words for him and so the President clarified the proposal. That is when the smirk visited his lips, something untrustworthy about it was obvious but the temptation was far outreaching than that for John. The thought of the prize swelled his enthusiasm far greater than the uneasy notion of the smirk as the President laid down the unpretentious rules to the game.

  With the smirk disguised by the mirth the game seemed simple to John for it was in essence a simple game of hide and seek. The President was only to keen to point out its simplicity, he counted to ten, ten hours that is, then he would come looking. He was equally enthusiastic to reveal that the prize for the winner would be a cool billion dollars US. The contestants are able to use any means at their powerful disposal to avoid capture and that was all that was involved.

  2.

  Oh how John looked back on that decision and kicked himself. As the sun beat down on his swollen red face, his beard itched and his clothes stank they began shouting in their coarse and heated American accents, ever getting closer to him as he rolled out of the hole.

  Was this really worth the billion? He managed to talk but it was slow, broken and frail, “call the president…” he whimpered but the energy it took him to mouth the word sent his head spinning, white spots aimlessly floated around his path of vision and he felt queasy enough to pass out; his dynamism was so low it faded his mind to the beginning of his plight.

  When the boat docked in the mouth of the Hudson John figured this would be all so easy; any fool could get lost in New York. Straight to Bay Ridge on 95th Street station to 4th, change to F line and onto the AC line at Nevins St, by which time he had almost forgot the smiling faces as they rushed off the vessel wishing each other luck; John doubted their sincerity.

  Now, with one hour under his belt he was wandering in a mass of people at JFK airport, looking for a flight. John was of part Scottish ancestry and considered visiting friends he had met there on a pilgrimage for his roots as a young man. If only they lived in the secluded Highlands, rather they resided in the city of Edinburgh and this could make him easily found. Shrugging this idea off on the train John could only think of one other possible option, his contacts in the Middle East would help. Although this may be a rather detectable place its vast open land was wrought with hiding places and the Iraqis must know of many to evade capture from Americans.

  By the time he had boarded the plane for Turkey he had begun to ponder the whereabouts of the others, how they would fair and what powers they had at their disposal to actively evade capture. John had also contemplated how much time and effort the President would go to in order to find them. He doubted it would be much under the circumstances, he had to be one busy dude and this was some wide game. John gathered the notion that it would not be long before more pressing matters occurred and he would be needed elsewhere. All of these thoughts twisted and transpired when he took up residence in this lonely cavern. How, until then he would have assumed that the lengths that were taken would be so extreme that he would finish his life like this, a broken, weak man.

  As to his competition, well surly he had won, they must have been captured in order to have worked together against him. Even as far back as the New York subway ride John had to consider that all the money in Monaco would never be able to hide a celebrity face like that of James Jones and that, other than undergoing serious plastic surgery or moving to the Amazon rainforest, he would surely be the first to be found.

  In fact he was proved wrong; James had gone far into a land that would not recognise his celebrity status and by the media attention the English art dealer and playboy, Quinten Braithwaite was first to be found. Connections in Australia led him into a pit of inequity of his own doing. Unable to keep it in his pants, the guy was seduced by one of Gareth Humphries’ humble glamour models and promptly despatched back to the President. The scandal story found its way to the English tabloids in just enough time for their belated arrival in Iraq some week or so later, before he found this way to this frightful pit.

  John found this scoop all too amusing, the headline read of his insolent behaviour at a bar in a far flung outpost in the Australian outback and his conduct towards a strumpet who was blatantly set up to expose him. He laughed to himself as he figured just how fast these trashy news stories travelled the globe and how it confirmed that the one man was at least found. The power of the media and how it might affect his strategy had fai
led to cross his mind. The bombs exploding in the distance was something that was not out of the ordinary in this war-torn hell hole.

  The power of the media, the whole game depended on it; something he failed to pick up on. The reports flooded in about this scandal, the news focused on the story far too much. It seemed as if Gareth Humphries was controlling this in order assist the President which meant only one thing; he must have been found too. The media assault on Quinten may well be seen as amusing on John’s part, but when Mohamad Ahmed Khan’s name was flung up in the blaming of recent terrorist attacks John became concerned how far the seekers were prepared to use their resources. Mohamad now had a price on his head, wrongly, or so it would seem to John, accused of such crimes.

  When John found his way out of Basra the checkpoints were heavily manned, they questioned him and checked his papers thoroughly. They asked if he had any dealings with the Brunei and when John questioned this they informed him that the dynasty was harbouring wanted criminals. This is when John came to realise that this was no longer a fair game, the President was using them, if not for a purpose, for some sick and depraved form of entertainment. Obviously this led in some part for him to question, what could they reproach on his name.

  John shivered through the hot plains of Iraq, it was never safe here, none less alone and possibly a pawn in a rich man’s game whereby a bounty could have been put on his head. After a whole day’s hiking he met some nomadic people that were aggressive to him. They wore the uniform of the alliance against the regime, they were playing for the Americans and when they began to give chase across the mountainside John knew something was very wrong.

  A small hold farm had been the resource for supplies during the worst part of the war; the farmer was fiercely against the Taliban and always welcomed John whenever he stopped by. He had even helped him cross the border when times were so bad that Westerners were not safe. He approached the building with caution and when the farm workers saw him they shouted at him to go. Barked at, thrashed at by the man who had helped him, he was wanted they said; wanted by the Iraq government; did he know where Mohammad was, did he help his escape from the American forces he asked. John denied it but the farmer shook his head, he wanted to believe him and so he made a pact that he could take him to a safe-house, a cave some fifteen miles north where he could rest and consider his options. John could explain to him that this was a setup, why he felt indignant and ashamed that such a stupid set of affairs would find him in this crisis. To the natives here the conflict was not a game; it was serious.

  Serious enough for him to hide in this hole for weeks, this shitty little hideout infested with insects that homed in on his badly disposed faeces. As time moved on he questioned why he was doing this, if it was really worth it and then he found himself forgetting where he was. In the beginning he counted the days then after some time passed he forgot what day it was which lead to him questioning his own sanity.

  Mixed emotions then flooded his mind when it was time to be pulled out of the hole. If it was not done in such a hostile method he thought at first he would be glad to be out of there, that some hope existed that it was all over, the game was won. As the sunlight burned his retina he scrambled with some words, “call the President,” he requested in a husky low tone.

  The militant men just laughed at him then returned their expressions to anger. They pulled him about, thrust him out and rolled him onto his back. They grabbed hard at his hands and tied them around his back, all of the time jabbing the barrels of their gun at him.

  Through all this harassment he managed to compose a smile, an insane giggle, “if you call the President of the USA he will confirm who I am…..” he protested louder this time. His occupation in the hole consisted of the dreams of what he would spend the billion dollars on, how his whole family for generations to come would be financially sound. His thoughts of his family invaded his mind, how he hoped he could hold his wife and children again. Just one more obstacle to overcome, just one more hurdle to leap. The men surrounding him would soon change their ways of they could just contact the man who set this crazy game up. “Get your captain; I need to speak to him.”

  A brash man stood forward, “I am the leader,” he bluntly commanded, “you are wanted for crimes of harbouring a known terrorist; your human rights have been exhausted; if you resist the arrest you will be shot. Have now doubts, my men are highly trained and will carry out my order.”

  “You need to contact the President!” John shouted now, “He will explain who I am.” He will have to; he has the power and authority to contact the man directly. Years of business dealing in this warzone taught him much about the legal practises of the US military, the decision to kill him would have to be taken from the top once the request was made. Soon, all this would be over, he would be relaxing with his family on a Caribbean island, drifting in the cool pool with the palms gently swaying above him in the breeze. “You have to contact him, by law!”

  The commander sighed, “You fool!” he shouted abruptly, “I have no good reason to tell you this and I don’t see why I really should but while you have been sitting in your own shit the President died, assassinated by the monster you helped escape. Now, if you don’t mind quoting me my job I think we are a long way from home and I am not a sucker for the rules. Out here the only rules are that of nature, do or be dammed.”

  John looked at him with a sudden desperation in his eyes, the President is…. no, it cannot be. His expression changed to one of horror as the swimming pool, the palm trees and the blazing sun faded into a fiery pit of hell. One last look up at the captain’s boots as they strode away he could see a whip of his wrist, a signal to the soldiers who pointed their weapons closer.

  John closed his eyes and breathed deep then a terrible sound rang in his ears and the billion pounds was but a fleeing dream followed up by an intense pain; a pain John knew would be the last one he ever experienced.

  The 51st State of America

  1.

  The sprawling metropolis of Birmingham’s city centre assembled below them like an urban patchwork quilt as the blades of the chopper forced a need for its occupants to shout. “It’s going up!” yelped out the pilot pointing with enthusiasm at a huge pole being erected in the city centre that was hoisted up with three mega-sized cranes.

  Neil looked down at where the pilot was pointing and produced the most splendid smile that a multi-billionaire businessman could ever hope to achieve in his busy and stressful position. His lifetime plan was slowly beginning to see the light and it gave him immense pleasure. “Yes,” he stumbled; it was the only word he could find. His mind was drifting, locked in with the trance-like perpetual motion of the chopper’s blades. Gradually he was taken back, back to a simpler time when his only wish was to visit that shop.

  “Welcome to Create-A-Cuddly Workshop!” beamed a chubby student girl, lisping her words of welcome through her teeth’s metallic fence. Although his father could see her braces glistening under the neon lights, little Neil could not; he was only knee-high to a grasshopper and far too eager to get started on his project than to concern himself with the young shop assistant’s dental issues.

  All little Neil could see of her was her two rolls of chubbiness under her large youthful breasts, tightly wrapped in a Batman logoed T-shirt. He smiled and the girl picked up on it, “do you like Batman?” she asked of him to which he only shied away to bury his face into the loud coloured skirt of his mother. She gave a smile, exposing those braces for all their glory as she turned to the father of the family who was clutching his wallet through his pocket, concerning himself with just how much this bill would advance to. As she did so Neil got a full waft of the most amazingly decorated cuddly teddy-bear poking out from a pink rucksack. Meanwhile the father had her full attention; above the T-shirt reared a youthful student girl with pointed ended red glasses and so many ribbons and beads in her hair you could hardly tell what style or colour her hair was underneath.

  “It’s his
birthday,” pointed out the man, still grasping his wallet, hoping for a reprise under the circumstances. She failed to reply but remained as electric in mood as she was upon welcoming them. Turning to the little boy she beamed, “Oh wow!” she cried, “is it your birthday?”

  Neil found some courage, “yes,” he mumbled.

  “Oh wow,” she repeated, “and how old are you today?”

  “5!” he wisped, proud as Punch.

  “5!” she responded with a fake glee, “wow, what a big boy, what is your name?”

  “Neil,” he stumbled again with a warming to her breezy and excited attitude.

  “Neil!” she screeched, “happy birthday……”

  “Happy Birthday Sir,” said the other man in the helicopter, his hair was grey, he was suited in expensive clothes and sat on his lap was an enormous quantity of paperwork pinned to a clipboard.

  “Thanks,” said Neil, bursting suddenly out of dream reminiscent, “it’s looking good isn’t it?”

  “Sure is, we will be underway in no time,” he replied with a look of awe at the fellow besides him, “the wind is strong and blowing from the east.”

  Neil just hummed, wondering if all the power of the natural forces would be adequate. His top team of scientists, geologists and marine experts had forecast the mission’s success; they assured him that his dreams would come true. Although it was something he wished as a boy it was not selfishness, Neil had used his hard-earned billions to create this project for the people of the UK and an overwhelming majority voted for its approval. He just couldn’t believe this was coming to a conclusion so soon after production; the mining team had dug underneath the country so soon.