“I want to play a trick on her. I’ll hang it in the living room. I can’t wait to see her reaction.”
“That will be something to see, all right,” I deadpanned.
“I love it anyway, and Shirley will think this is absolutely hilarious. I just know it.”
“You’re so lucky,” I said, sharing his grin. “Every man wishes his wife appreciates a fat whore’s crotch shot.”
Greg paused to review one final time the squatting, anatomically correct woman receiving cunnilingus from the dandy with the huge penis.
“I think,” he admitted.
We shook hands to seal the deal, and I couldn’t help but tease, “So you are planning on spending the rest of the summer sleeping on the couch, then?”
“This is going in our living room,” Greg answered, grinning hugely at his $60,000 prank. “Talk about a conversation piece!”
“Yeah, I think there’ll be plenty of words, my friend.”
Five minutes later Greg had sauntered away and I had cleared the sale through the ship’s purser. I sat in the empty Rolls Royce Café and stared at nothing as it all sank in. I had surpassed all the goals set for me this cruise by the gallery, myself, and even Lucifer. Success. The realization of it trickled over me slowly, like a misty drizzle that creeps down the nape of your neck and drips down the small of your back. I had done it, and done it my way. While staying open to new ideas and heeding the advice of experts is important, sometimes you gotta stick to your guns.
I am the Frog Prince.
3
Three days later, I paused upon a steep brick road, trying to maintain my footing against the powerful gust of wet autumn wind. To my left ancient oaks thrashed, struggling to keep control of yellow and red leaves before winter muscled in too powerfully to resist. Rearing up to my right was a huge stone edifice, as indifferent to the onslaught of elements as it had been to that of the Huns.
Ship life was so hectic and crammed with so many strange sights and struggles that entire days were needed to stop looking over my shoulder. Immediately upon signing off Ecstasy, my focus had been on Romania. One transatlantic flight and seven time zones later, I was finally feeling that I had, indeed, made it back to the real world. If you could call Transylvania the real world, anyway.
The tale of Orpheus was foremost on my mind. In mythology, after his lover died, he traveled to the underworld to challenge Hades himself. The god of the afterlife allowed him to return to life, but Orpheus insisted that his lover Eurydice accompany him. Hades agreed, on condition that Orpheus lead and Eurydice follow. Should he ever glance back, Eurydice was doomed for eternity. Triumphantly Orpheus marched back, only succumbing to doubt on the very threshold of life. He peeked, then watched with horror as her spirit—who had indeed been faithful—was torn forever from him.
I felt brother to Orpheus, with even my own triumph over Lucifer. Now, on the brink of returning to life, was she really there? Or would my own doubts sabotage all I had already undergone? I spun about, but my Bianca did not vanish. The wind tussled her black hair and brought red to her round cheeks. Taking my clammy hand in her own, she said, “Do you remember that time in Jacksonville, when we kissed in the rain?”
“How could I forget?” I answered with a smile. “It was the most romantic moment of my life.”
Having found our favorite spot in the world, I swept her back and kissed her deeply. We held the moment, hanging suspended in time, oblivious to the world. Alas, the world was not oblivious to us. A car honking its horn angrily jolted us to our feet.
“Get out of the middle of the road!” a driver cursed in Romanian, shaking his fist at us from inside a tiny, battered car. Sharing a laugh, we stepped to the side and continued our walk, hand in hand.
Appendices
Anything worth doing is worth overdoing.
—Brian David Bruns
Appendix A: Department of Homeland Security on B.D.B.
Curious and unfathomable are many things to me—things like women, reality TV, and basic arithmetic. Yet even a worn cynic will take pause at being detained by the Department of Homeland Security as representing a threat to the United States of America.
Looking in the mirror, I see a Midwestern college graduate (B.A. in Art History at the University of Northern Iowa), Boy Scout (from multiple generations of Scout Masters and Eagle Scouts), and proud member of the Civil War Trust (protecting the hallowed ground where our veterans fell). So what the hell did the Department of Homeland Security see? Via the Freedom of Information Act, I resolved to find out.
I filled out the appropriate forms and sent them off. Figuring the bureaucratic nonsense would delay my request indefinitely, I soon forgot about the whole thing. I was surprised when in a timely fashion I received a rather bulky package from the U.S. Customs and Border Protection office in Washington, DC. Rather, and perhaps a bit cryptically, my parents received the package in Iowa, though I never mentioned my childhood address. Funny that they still got my birthday wrong. The following is what the cover letter stated:
This is the final response to your Freedom of Information Act (FOIA)/Privacy Act (PA) request to the U.S. Customs and Border Protection (CBP), dated January 12, 2009, seeking information relating to you in the Automated Targeting System (ATS).
A search of the Passenger Name Record (PNR) from the ATS database is being provided to you under the Privacy Act 5 U.S.C. § 552a disclosure law and has produced five pages responsive to your request.
Furthermore, a search of CBP database has produced 28 pages responsive to your request. CBP has determined that certain portions of the enclosed documents are exempt from disclosure.
That’s right: 28 pages of tracked behavior and an unknown amount of data still considered classified. What had I done that is considered classified? I slogged line by line through the mass of data, shocked to discover just how thoroughly Big Brother has been screening me. Eventually I realized there was not a single note released regarding any of my trips to Morocco, Tunisia, Egypt, or Russia.
Of course they knew every time I entered and exited the U.S., and from where and when. Perhaps I shouldn’t have been surprised that tracking my layover time in foreign airports was a natural extension of such information. They also knew who paid for my airline tickets, what bank account was used, where the purchaser was, both business and personal addresses, and when purchased in regards to flight date. The who, what, where, and when were covered. Their software concluded the why: Muslim extremist terrorist.
Appendix B: Most Expensive Art Sold in Auction
1. Nude, Green Leaves and Bust
Pablo Picasso—$106,482,500
This 1932 painting of Picasso’s mistress Marie-Therese Walter measures 152 × 121 cm (about 5 × 4 feet). The painting has only once been exhibited in the U.S., in L.A. to commemorate Picasso’s 80th birthday in 1961. Christie’s auction house pre-sale estimate was $70M-$90M, but within a mere nine minutes of bidding it was sold to an anonymous buyer for $95M. The buyer’s premium took the sale price up to $106.5M. Sold May 4, 2010.
2. L’Homme Qui Marche I
Alberto Giacometti—$104,327,006
This 1961 metal figure of a walking man by Swiss sculptor Giacometti was expected to sell for up to 18 million pounds at the Sotheby’s sale in London, but an anonymous telephone bidder paid out more than three times that amount. The life-size bronze figure, cast by the sculptor himself, was sold by a German bank. Sold February 4, 2010.
3. Garçon à la Pipe
Pablo Picasso—$104,100,000
Created during the Rose Period. The oil on canvas, measuring 100 × 81.3 cm (about 39 × 32 inches), displays a Parisian boy holding a pipe in his left hand. The record price auction at the time in Sotheby's was a bit of a surprise to the core art buyers, because it was painted in a style not usually associated with the artistic pioneer. Sold May 4, 2004.
4. Dora Maar au Chat
Pablo Picasso—$95,200,000
Dora Maar’s portrait (and a cat!) n
early doubled its inaccurate pre-sale estimate for a new record. Painted in 1941, Picasso's controversial portrait (one of his last) is sometimes described as an unflattering depiction of his mistress, who was an artist/photographer. Their relationship lasted ten years during the 1930s and 40s. Sold at Sotheby's May 3, 2006.
5. Portrait of Dr. Gachet
Vincent van Gogh—$82,500,000
This painting by a Dutch master became world-famous when Japanese businessman Ryoei Saito paid $82.5 million for it at auction in Christie's, New York. Saito was so attached to the painting he wanted it to be cremated with him when he died. Saito died in 1996, but the painting was saved.
6. Moulin de la Galette
Pierre-Auguste Renoir—$82,000,000
Bal au Moulin de la Galette, Montmartre was painted by French artist Pierre-Auguste Renoir in 1876. On May 17, 1990, it was sold for $78,000,000 at Sotheby's in New York City to Ryoei Saito, who bought it together with the Portrait of Dr. Gachet (see above).
7. Massacre of the Innocents
Peter Paul Rubens—$76,700,000
This painting by classic master Peter Paul Rubens, painted in 1611, is the only painting in this list which was not created in the 19th or 20th century. It was sold to Kenneth Thomson, 2nd Baron Thomson of Fleet for $76,700,000 at a 2002 Sotheby's auction.
8. Portraite de l’Artiste sans Barbe
Vincent van Gogh—$71,500,000
Portrait de l'Artiste sans Barbe (Self-portrait without beard) is one of many self-portraits by Dutch painter Vincent van Gogh. He painted this one in France in September 1889. This is an uncommon painting since his other self-portraits show him with a beard.
9. Rideau, Cruchon et Compotier
Paul Cezanne—$60,500,000
This painting by color master Paul Cézanne, painted in ca. 1893-1894, sold at Sotheby's New York on May 10, 1999 to "The Whitneys". Whitney, born into one of America's wealthiest families, was a venture capitalist, publisher, Broadway show and Hollywood film producer, and philanthropist.
10. Femme aux Bras Croisés
Pablo Picasso—$55,000,000
This work, painted in 1901, was a part of Picasso's famous Blue Period, a dark, sad time in the artist's life. The beautiful and various tones of blue are typical of this period. The painting depicts a woman with her arms crossed staring at the endless nothing. Femme aux Bras Croisés was sold for $55,000,000 November 8, 2000, at Christie's Rockefeller in New York City.
About The Author
Adventuring in over 50 countries to gather material for his bestselling books, Brian David Bruns has won numerous literary awards, including the USA REBA Grand Prize. He has contributed to Yahoo Travel, BBC, CNN, Travel Channel, and Reader’s Digest.
Bruns abandoned everything at age 30 to chase a woman who worked at sea, becoming the only American waiter in Carnival Cruise Line history to complete a full contract without quitting. His Cruise Confidential series chronicling the debacle has on two separate occasions been featured on ABC’s 20/20.
After residing in Dracula’s hometown for several years—a mere kilometer from the house where Vlad the Impaler was born—Bruns moved to Las Vegas with his Romanian wife. They live with two cats, Julius and Caesar.
Please enjoy the opening chapters from my first fiction book, The Gothic Shift. This collection won the 2014 International Book Awards Fiction: Short Stories. Kirkus Reviews says: “A delightful balance of whimsy and the grotesque, with a glimmer of moonstruck romance. Bruns creates well-imagined, realistic settings for his lively characters.”
But, like ships, it’s not all fun and games. As Horror Novel Reviews notes, “I found this book to be an extreme delight. Bruns builds each piece with a subtle tension rather than in your face horror. But do not misunderstand that statement: the horror is there and very real."
I hope that you, too, find it worthy. Do let me know!
Brian David Bruns
Twitter: @BDBauthor
June 10, 1994
1
Returning to the table with momentous strides, he set the heaping plate before him. Deft with enthusiasm, the man slid into the seat and wriggled in firmly. His napkin was plucked from the table, the tips thumbed deep into his shirt collar. The peach linen reflected curiously from polished silverware, echoed in popping bubbles of champagne. He brought simple contents from the buffet, but reviewed them with intense, manifest scrutiny. His plate was piled high with pink, unpeeled shrimp. The mound of morsels rose like a pyramid. Circling the heap were four lemon wedges. All faced inwards, all payed homage to the shrine of nourishment. He had very consciously placed them equidistant from one another. Zero, ninety, one hundred eighty, and two hundred seventy degrees were perfectly denoted.
The man’s lips cracked into an anxious grin. A mottled tongue peeked from behind coffee-stained teeth. There was something very unsettling about his mouth. The tips of his short white mustache were stained pink.
He was ready to begin.
With a grand sweep of both hands, he pushed the entire affair from the plate directly onto the tablecloth. Shrimp tumbled to the linen, lemons cascaded after. The backs of his hands became greasy, covered with lemon juice. He brushed them absently upon his pants.
After cracking thick, knobby knuckles, he began to peel. The meat was deposited once more onto the grease-smeared plate. The large hands did not appear a part of the man who utilized them with such precision. Though his waist was trim, his hands were quite bloated. They bobbed in the air before him, not possibly part of his slender person, but as if they belonged to a swooping, pale vermin.
Slowly the plate filled with shrimps anew, now peeled and ready for consumption. The linen beside the plate had since grown wet and slimy beneath the detritus, but the man paid it no heed. Such was his focus; he maintained the appearance of an unthinking robot, a shrimping machine. Yet this was not so. Beneath the mildly sweating forehead—the work was undertaken with great expense of focus and effort—and knitted white brows lurked a thinking man. His mind orbited the plate’s growing contents with unparalleled marvel. He throbbed with anticipation of what was to come next.
Finally the plate was full. The table was soiled with discarded shells and shrimp legs. He excitedly snatched up the citrus and squeezed the pulp viciously. The lemons were horribly mangled in those powerful hands––the rinds actually splitting and the juice dribbling from clenched, hammy fists. The renewed mound of shrimp flowed with the fluid like a volcano spilling molten lava. Once bereft of their precious juice, the crushed lemons were cast aside as so much useless rind.
The food preparation ritual required nearly five full minutes. Eating did not. He shoveled the shrimp into his mouth and gulped them down in barely a single breath. The man wasted no more time on contemplation—or digestion. After literal seconds, his napkin was ripped from its home and tossed to the table. He departed.
2
“Oh my God,” Lisa groaned to Wayne. “He’s back again.”
“Who?”
“The shrimp guy.”
Wayne echoed her moan. To properly show his displeasure, he even went so far as to bang his head against the wall. After seeing that his theatrics failed to get the response he had hoped for from the attractive Lisa, he harrumphed, “What, is this guy European or something?”
Lisa Mercado paused, momentarily marring her forehead with a frown. It turned her features into a pout, which actually improved them. She was blessed with a charming, natural allure—the quintessential girl next door. A sprinkle of freckles only added to her approachability. Lisa was undeniably attractive, if not particularly beautiful, but far from worldly.
“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” she said to Wayne. “I guess he kind of looks European. Why?”
“Lots of Europeans come in late and stay all afternoon,” the burly young man answered. Wayne Yost stood well over a foot taller than Lisa. His shoulders were immensely broad, but not yet thickened. He was inordinately proud of them nonetheless and took pai
ns to roll them whenever female eyes drew near. “You know, those countries with siestas and stuff.”
“What’s a party have to do with anything?”
Wayne shook his head, flopping the long flaxen hair over his forehead. He arrogantly laughed at her ignorance—no doubt suffering the delusion his superiority was appealing. “Siesta, not fiesta,” he corrected. “Siestas are their breaks in the afternoon.”
“Well excuse me for not knowing any Mexican,” Lisa replied, hands on her hips. “But no, I don’t think he’s European. He’s too nice.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Wayne asked. It was his turn to frown; the expression resembled a pout on his face, too, but was decidedly not an improvement.
Lisa was happy to educate him. It was a welcome change. As obnoxious as Wayne was—and he really, truly was—he was also very smart. He was acing college with a 4.0 GPA. Lisa explained, “Most Europeans I’ve served are really demanding and think of waitresses differently, like a servant and stuff. You know, Americans are friendly to waiters.”
“You think?” he acknowledged, lost in thought.
Lisa peeked around the folding screen that hid the service station from view of the restaurant. The small dining room was mostly empty at this hour. She had entertained visions of getting off at a reasonable time. But then there was table 29.5. The man always sat at the little half-sized table by the pillar, and always did his shrimp thing. He was so weird!
Ship for Brains (Cruise Confidential 2) Page 33
