by Peter Marks
Anna was searching the metal draws for more silverware. An English educated Swede, she was tall and her hair, long and lustrous, was unusually dark for a Scandinavian. Gaulingly cheerful most of the time, she wore a perpetual smile and had a birthmark sorta’ the shape of a deformed eagle flying across her left shoulder.
Equally gauling, and like all too many Europeans, she spoke five languages. Fluently. French, English, German, Italian. And Swedish (just to state the bleeding obvious).
Such an educated tongue, for Anna also knew more than a smattering of a few others, meant that when she was propositioned (frequently) almost anywhere on the planet, she inevitably understood.
Inevitably understood enough to club the proposee senseless.
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Night was sliding through the windows. ‘Where are the nuts kept?’ Anna asked.
‘Out front,’ Gish replied, laughing to herself. Shoving Anna out of the way before diving into the dark recesses of an upper locker and throwing another gross of the fresh packed nuts on the floor in front of Anna. Then pushed pass her to grab some more plates.
‘Christ Anna, get out of the way will you! If you don’t move your arse, I’ll strip you naked and use your bare cheeks for a magazine rack!’ Gish promised.
Anna moved her arse.
‘God Gish, why do you always behave like you invented PMT?’ Michele enquired lethargically, somewhat amused that Gish so clearly frightened the crap out of Anna and Danielle.
‘Cos it amuses me,’ she whispered between clenched teeth, chasing Anna through the curtains, waving several clutched magazines at the fleeing Swede.
Michele, the everywhere educated, father in the diplomatic corp., English born, Wright approved Michele had known Gish for years. So she was the only one not intimidated by the ever angry one’s whip tongue.
Or dire warrings.
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For the next couple of hours, the four of them took turns serving the horde up front. (With enough booze to fill several kidney wards).
As one swept in with the empties, another disappeared, steering an overloaded trolley back out (Wright, it seemed, employed an entire chapter of A.A. … failed).
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Uncorking another vintage Chateau Rothchild, Gish, pulling down the hem of her short black skirt to a more presentable point on her stockinged thigh, turned to a still shell-shocked Michele. Who’d just arrived back. From up back. She’d gone up to serve The Boss dinner but he’d neither eaten her offerings. Nor seemed to notice her.
‘What do you think of King Wanker Michelle?’ Gish enquired, curious.
‘He’s either retarded or crazy. I haven’t decided yet. God Gish, he didn’t even notice me when I asked him if he needed anything.’ She said sadly, still dumb-founded by the King’s unusual reaction (i.e. none at all).
Why, this hadn’t happened to her since that date with that short, fat boy. She was sixteen at the time and at boarding school in Switzerland. Then it was spooky but understandable because it transpired that the short, fat boy was prematurely gay. And irreparably blind.
But this time?
‘Maybe he’s fallen victim to such womanly wiles before? Maybe he’s seen your tricks’ elsewhere?’ Gish chided, a grin a wide as the Pacific. ‘Maybe this is one male who can’t be swayed by a pretty face and blonde hair and an open invitation?’ She added, champagne rushing down a drain pipe throat.
Exhausting half the bottle before placing it carefully back on the trolley, wiping the tell tale residue from moist lips, she looked at Anna. Then Danielle. It was obvious that both had serious misgivings. After-all men were men. And men just loved blonde’s.
If there was an international male language, blondes were it!
‘I know what you’re thinking!’ Michele scowled, noticing the faces. ‘I am NOT a bimbo! I have a Ph.D. in Chemistry, a Masters in Philosophy and more Degrees than you’ve had hang-overs,’ she said to the three of them. ‘Besides, I’ve got a black belt in karate so you had all better watch out!’ She menaced, muttering damn brunettes, dark hair, dark temperament. ‘What’s wrong with we blondes anyway?’ She asked defensively, now blonde-butting Anna, burying her under the mass of her man bait hair.
What was wrong? Gish frowned. She knew of at least one blonde who’d done the decent thing. The right thing - Marilyn Monroe suddenly springing to mind.
‘Well?’ Michelle again.
‘Some have the manners to suicide,’ Gish advised.
Chapter Three
CONTACT
THE TABLE WAS EMPTY. There was no food and nothing to drink and Nathan, struggling to find anything else to say to himself, put Wander aside, placing it gently on the floor by his shoeless feet.
With his stomach churning in empty revolt, he patted the expanse to calm it. Realising he hadn’t eaten since Melbourne, nothing but the odd snack anyway, he considered pushing the button on the armrest to summon something to chew on but ignored the impulse.
Around him, the silence, aside from the dull roar of the engines, was pervasive. The rest of the Wankers must be dozing. Either that or dead he conjectured, deciding his growling innards could wait for Wright was trying to lose some. Weight that is and starvation was the quickest way he could think of to achieve a weigh-less state.
Slouching in the seat, lighting a cigarette, he told his stomach to shut-up, ordering it to keep as quiet as the rest of the aircraft was.
The Wanker flagship, a Boeing 707, night black with a large silver W on its tail and brought from a bankrupt Florida land developer had been specifically partitioned for the excesses of the overly wealthy. The front was reserved for the not very important while the back belonged exclusively to the not overly active - one Nathan N. Wright, wanker Chairman of Wanker Enterprises (International Inc).
Separating boss from bossed, front and back, wanker from bigger wanker was an entertainment lounge that had plush grey couches lining two walls and a self-serve bar at the rear. There was a half-size pool table bolted to the floor and three Macintosh computers replete with a full range of mindless games (for the mindless. Or the under twelve’s - the mental age of his staff Wright claimed. Wright’s I.Q. they suggested) which were set into grey, ceiling high units that ran round three walls of the lounge. There was the latest in stereo and video equipment to blast noise and images and the minimise the tedium (or would have blasted noise and images if Wright hadn’t interceded). There were phones and facsimiles. Books and magazines.
And a duke box full of songs only the deaf could possibly appreciate.
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The one thing Nathan had neglected (on purpose the staff claimed) was to update the selections during the refurbishment’s. He didn’t seem to care that their only choice in music lay between two hundred and twenty Elvis classics. Or nothing. Nathan, for a laugh, had also hidden all the CD’s and videos so leaving the juke-box as the only source of song for every-one else. But him. Obviously dear dead Elvis had no great fans amongst this lot for the lounge was conspicuously quiet. This had allowed Wright to concentrate on sending Wander into premature melt-down.
Besides he’d remembered his Walkman. So he didn’t care that every-one else aboard was as bored as Wander was.
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Through a polished black door at the back of the lounge, in the Presidential Suite, Wright was still pounding away on the keyboard. Behind him, beyond the fat seats and grey laminate tables, through another polished black door, was a small but cosy bedroom supposedly off limits to all but the chief Wanker. There was a television, a stereo set over the double bed, book shelves, a desk, a small fridge and an en-suite with shower. (And a condom vending machine disguised as a Coke dispenser).
Leaning forward, Nathan grasped the Walkman. (Which he called Merle after a close friend who was the only other object he knew of that was as aurally invasive as this yellow box could be. Unfortunately, in Merle’s case though,
he’d never discovered a way to turn her volume down. Or better still, switch her off). Carefully inserting the headphones in either ear, Nathan hit PLAY and Stephen Bishop sang to him of loves lost and hope regained.
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One of the many strange habits mine host, mine nemesis, Nathan N. Wright had acquired over his rapidly diminishing life span was this: he named his possessions.
Why? Well, the neuron deficient newt did this in the misguided belief that personalising each item was a form of future insurance against misbehaviour or breakdown.
Basically, Wright’s idea was that by giving each and every owned object its very own name he and the thing would be buddy’s. So they’d not dare fail him. Now any-one who has ever experienced the stunning unreliability of friends can gauge how nonsensical this quaint bit of delirious reasoning was, but Wright was not one to be argued with (or achieve intelligence prior to burial apparently).
In consequence of this whacko idea, he named everything he owned, rented, leased or stole. He called the washing machine Shake Abdul, the television God and the hose for the in-built vacuum Huge. He called the alarm clock Hell, his best jacket Debbie and the stereo was the Wife.
And his socks? Just Stunk.
Wright would slip into Debbie, tell the Wife to shut-up when couldn’t make himself heard on the telephone and throw his entire wardrobe at Abdul, demanding the thing shake the grime from his five week unwashed while Huge was used to impress girls. Wright would stuff the vast false phallus down the front of his denim, dinner encrusted jeans and eagerly await the cheers, the looks of lust, envy and admiration. Unfortunately, the ploy fooled no-one. The girls he propositioned were, as most girls he’d ever encountered, too smart for Nathan’s own good.
Sadly, the response to the bulge in Nathan’s jeans was never rapturous. They didn’t cheer (though they did mention clap regularly). Nor was the reaction one of lust, envy or admiration. Basically they responded with unbridled ridicule. Then laughter. Giggling feverishly, they’d insert the end of the preposterous beast in the nearest socket and watch in apoplectic hysteria while Huge writhed like a demented python in the pants of an agonised wearer.
P.S. Me? He calls me ‘His Burden’.
(When he’s not calling me something utterly obscene).
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It, he and they arrived at Kai Tak at 8.47pm. Wednesday. Hello Hong Kong with its awesome walls of sky mostly mould scraping flats, washing draped over every balcony, was bright and beckoning.
Wright, not tired but still not terribly with it, just wanted to be ushered from the cool sanctuary of the aircraft into an equally comfortable, and comforting, air-conditioned interior. But fame has its price and Nathan was just about to pay up.
Although Hong Kong, the heat and the humidity, the noise and the omnipresent bustle were familiar, the reception was not. Stepping from the aircraft, he was met by a strange sight. There, camped on the tarmac, immediately at the bottom of the stairs he was about to shuffle down, was a pack of people. There was a whole tribe of fawning officials, the British Consul General dressed to the hilt in full Naval uniform, and an entire brigade of other suit and tied minions.
Nathan, stepping carefully down red carpeted stairs, stared at the throng crowded below him and wondered what all the fuss was about.
Maybe the Pope had stowed away on Wanker One with Wright the one wanker ?
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So what was all the fuss about?
It was about him basically. It was about his bank balance which had now climbed, abseiled in fact, to such mind-boggling proportions that he was now one of wealthiest men on earth. And so was more welcome by the rich than the Pope was. (The Pope seemingly more useful to the poor, who really needed divine intervention to protect them from rich fuckers. Like Wright).
Wright, the Rich, had two body guards shaped like gorilla’s (with an I.Q. to match). He had an international profile matched only by the likes of God or Madonna. He got two thousand letters a day. From young girls and wizened old women. From men and boys and transvestites.
And sado-masochistic iguanas it seemed to his secretary whose onerous task was to answer the mass of mail.
Most of them implored Wright to marry them (while those from his friend’s implored him for money - or to end his life if he refused). Most contained photographs of the bride to be. Of their family. Or of them on holidays wearing a revealing wrap or skimpy bikini. Some were amusing, some weren’t. Some were simply bizarre. There were Polaroids of men in frocks with too much make-up. Pictures of old women with tyres for stomachs and parking meter heads. Some of them were pictured with pets. Some were with their kids. Some were just downright obscene. These were the only ones he kept.
Basically, Wright had no time for people crazy enough to contemplate marrying him. His response to these preposterous propositions was to suggest the secretary eat them whenever she asked him what she should do with this flood of incoming offers.
Brenda was stick thin and Nathan thought her munching on the bullshit he refused swallow might help. Wright was utterly dismissive of those so eager to make a fast buck from his fast acquired bucks.
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Standing on the sun softened, almost glue black tarmac, he adjusted his tie, loosening it slightly. Lighting an Alpine, tired and somewhat disinterested, dressed in a grey Armani suit, a fresh white shirt and Lanvin silk tie, he drew back, inhaling deeply, staring at the circus around him and wondered why, ever since he could remember remembering, he’d so craved all this attention. Before all this attention actually focused on him.
Now he just wondered just what personality defect had made him pray for so long to be just this adored? This revered?
Because he’d always wanted to be just this adored and revered, he smilingly remembered. But it was a fuss. Fortunately, it was also still quite a novelty, so he relaxed to enjoy the adulation.
Hand outstretched, he moved slowly forward and began shaking the mitts of the unshakeably greedy. There were about two dozen VIP’s standing in a dignified line, an honour guard funnelling him toward Gate 54 of the Terminal building, each at attention as if Generalisimo Wright had just conquered half the known world. Nodding as he went, he greeted the Chairmen, Managing Director’s and various other senior representatives of Hong Kong’s most prestigious banks and businesses thinking that, doubtless, they expect me to invest in upgrading their lifestyles. Or giving them the where-with-all to afford another cock siphoning mistress Wright decided on noticing how low each in turn bowed to him.
The mumbled exchanges of introduction complete, cards exchanged, it was onto the real show.
Within moments a herd of local and international media were packed shoulder to shoulder around him. Before he could speak or find a bazooka to disperse them, a gaggle of microphones and miniature tape recorders were thrust up his nose. Where are my fuckin’ bodyguards when I need them? He scowled, searching the heads clamouring about him, hoping to find one of his thug protectors.
Who weren’t there.
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They weren’t there because they were too busy inside the terminal to worry about Wright’s welfare.
Outside the Pharmacy on the concourse, Gus was chatting up a cardboard cut-out of Christy Brinkley while Bruno was inside trying to find some new and exotic drug to try .
Gus, the more steroid soaked of the two of them, grew agitated when Ms. Brinkley refused to answer his generous offer of the best fuck she’d ever had. Primordial, he picked her up and carried her off to give her one in the Gents. (Obviously steroids weren’t the only drug Gus was on. And if Bruno wasn’t on steroids - it’d be the only drug Bruno wasn’t on).
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Left to defend himself, every-one screaming questions at him, Wright wished he could flee. But he knew he couldn’t. They were yelling at him, jostling for position and there was no-where to run.
Elbowing each othe
r out of the way, the banality of their queries was staggering as they asked him a flood of stupendously asinine questions like: What were his cats were called? (Called breakfast here, he thought). Shithead and Fart he told them just to piss them off. And how did he tie his tie? Oxford or otherwise? Chinese noose, he said.
They asked what he’d had for breakfast? Cat he reiterated. (Adding he’d have preferred a blonde nymphomaniac).
Did he have a favourite cup he drank from? Red china he replied (ever the diplomat).
They asked him if he liked Hong Kong. Asked him how long he was here for. Would he be interested in investing here?
Worse though, considering what he knew about life and love wasn’t worth asking, they ignored sanity and asked anyway.
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It was another of those crazy things about wealth. Or fame. Total strangers began to take notice of his opinions.
Why? Christ, when he’d been poor, not even the walls had ears. But now that he was rich? God, the entire world was tuned in and his already low opinion of the human race was being further eroded sheep by following flock, by idiot adherence to his every dumb utterance.
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Fifteen minutes later and a brief statement about how he’d save the world by promising to have nothing to do with it, Nathan finally managed to escape.
Gus, smiling like an imbecile, Christy tucked firmly under his left arm, Bruno, eyes aglaze and rolling madly in their red pocket sockets, drove a wedge through the crowd. Grabbing Nathan by his expensive lapels, they hauled him overhead and carried the Wanker away, finally tossing him into the back seat of a massive black Mercedes that had miraculously appeared on the tarmac behind him.
