by Peter Marks
Sadly, this morning, Kelly-less, not even the great cash crusade managed to cheer him. Getting up, he switched channels again deciding this was no time for sermons, hoping that if Kelly chose today to capitulate then she’d at least resist the temptation to lecture him. He wanted her back (and her front... her lips, her heat. And to screw her stupid) but he was in no mood for a scolding for pride held him prisoner. Wright, stubbornly self righteous, wasn’t about to volunteer to be the first to crack. Kelly was incommunicado (instead of being in his bed where she belonged) and Nathan, instead of doing anything productive to redress the situation, like begging her to come back, did what any red blooded dodo would do. He waited. Frustrated. For her to write or ring. To beg him to pardon her, or plead with him on bended knees to forgive her, but she refused to budge.
And Wright stoutly refused to be the budgee. (What a bird brain!)
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With his taste buds on leave, lunch consisted of two burnt sausages that bore an uncanny resemblance to a couple of aging dog turds. Sitting back, he switched the TV to Sports Sunday to catch up on the cricket which he’d watched ‘til two last night when his eyelids had shut for the night. Australia had won. At Lords. They’d beaten the old foe at their own game and being as surrounded as he was by so many ex-English, this was a particularly satisfying result.
‘Australia, Australia, Australia,’ he chanted between dog bites, feeling overly patriotic for Nathan could be relied upon to support any Australian Team, be it soccer, hockey, netball or dwarf throwing. Any of them. Any-one or any team wearing the fabled Green & Gold. So long as they won.
When they lost, Wright claimed he was Zambian.
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Nathan was sport obsessive. The mutant would watch almost anything - hurling, bocce, boomerang throwing, hang gliding, skate boarding, windsurfing, all those new sports that were combinations of old pursuits. What progress. Man had evolved so fatuously that all the recent innovations seemed to be combinations of older activities. Or merely derivative. Except for dwarf throwing. Here was a true original. No other mortal had thought of that one before (perhaps because no other mortal ever sniffed such a volume of illegal substances before.
Nathan thought it was a great sport though. He wanted it included in the next Olympics but when he suggested the idea to the International Olympic Committee they rejected the dwarf to take up Nathan throwing instead. And hurled him out the door.
Nathan watched everything. Gold Medal Lawn Bowls, Intercontinental Frisbee Throwing, World Championship Linen Folding, Superstar Crocodile Wrestling, Under Twelve Kick Boxing, Under The Table Sherry Swilling - the most obscure, the most asinine, anything so long as there was a winner.
Never having been one, Wright gained his victories vicariously.
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Lounging in the chair, now eating marmalade smothered toast, he was trapped in an ad break too indolent to move or censor by changing channels. Chewing loudly, Nathan wondered why any client in their right mind would pay good money for this shit. He was aghast at the truly majestic waste of money he was witnessing as bad followed appalling. Sure, there was the odd piece of excellence, the occasional gem, but most of the ads. were about as entertaining as a baby’s Baptism (and about as original as Wright’s sin).
Most of them seemed to have been written by some-one not of this world. A Martian, or Venusian. Or an Illiterate. Certainly not anyone that cared for the welfare, or sanity, of the damned human race.
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In glow attack neon, fixed to the brickwork by two tubular steel framed doors, there was a sign that read: ‘Hang On To Your Wallets Inc., Advertisers to the Elite’.
With sweeping views of bay and city, Anthony stood waiting in a plush office twenty floors above teaming streets. Sorting through a rainbow stack of typed notes in an office the size of his ego (which was the size of his overdraft, which was the size of a minor planet) he was seated at a huge teak boardroom table (that was large enough to accommodate the entire Sioux Nation).
The door opened.
‘Anthony is our Creative Head,’ said a short rotund man wearing a white suit with a crimson rose thrust in a wide lapel, introducing Anthony to THE CLIENT.
‘Does this mean you have a Creative Knee. Or Ankle?’ THE CLIENT asked. Curious.
The short rotund man wearing the white suit with the crimson rose in the wide lapel laughed in stunned amusement at the question. THE CLIENT however seemed unappreciative of such a sycophantic response to his humour so the white man stopped laughing and sat THE CLIENT in a chrome leather chair at the edge of the reservation.
There was an uncomfortable silence until the fat man realised that apparently THE CLIENT was still awaiting a reply to his joke question.
‘No, have a Creative Knee or Ankle,’ he apologised.
‘Why not?’
‘Exactly. Why not? Sounds good to me, make a note Michele to have our people retitled.’
Michele sighed. She’d just finished painting her lips and ensuring that the hem of her dress was sufficiently near her navel to reveal that she was wearing no knickers, so nodding vacantly, she picked up the pad before her then scribbled something into a spirex note pad.
She didn’t know a shred of shorthand but she could draw wavy lines with the best of them, besides, providing a readable history of these moronic meetings wasn’t her job. Her job was to wear cling wrap dresses two sizes too small so that her tits were always seen to be present whenever an important client was being briefed. Then debriefed by her in a hotel room on company expenses.
Michele actually liked her job. And the clients liked her to scream. And the company kept doing business with the clients who liked Michelle to scream so things were just peachy. (Or melon if Michelle’s chest was any indication).
There was a knock at the gate oak doors and in strode a well groomed young woman wearing a black Chanel suit.
‘Ah Daphne, come in, come in.’ Daphne was already in. The Boss was always telling people to do what they were already doing.
‘Daphne here is our Senior Copywriter.’
‘She doesn’t look that old,’ THE CLIENT remarked dryly.
‘I’m not, your worship,’ she said bowing before taking her seat at the vast table, disdainfully glancing at the woman with the note pad and tits who was always putting her job on the linen.
‘This is a sure fire winner,’ THE CLIENT chortled apparently making a joke.
‘Note that Daphne,’ Daphne was already noting it.
‘And just what is this revolutionary product?’ The Boss asked, white suit wobbling over beer girth.
From the breast pocket of an Armani suit, wrapped in crimson velvet, THE CLIENT withdrew an irregular shaped object which he then gently, carefully, laid on the table before flipped the cloth aside to reveal the cold contents.
Daphne gasped in horror. Henry, old white suit that wobbled, knew Daphne. He knew that she was about to grow morals on him so, excusing them both, he instantly grabbed her by her arm and wrenched her from leather seat, hauling her to the far corner of the boardroom.
‘Daphne, calm down.’ Daphne was calm.
‘It’s a gun Henry.’
‘I know what it is Daphne.’
‘Guns kill Henry.’
‘People kill, not guns Daphne.’
‘People kill WITH guns Henry.’
‘People kill without guns.’
‘They kill quicker WITH guns.’
‘Good, we can use that. Guns, for quick relief. Good. Smart thinking Daphne.’
‘You’re kidding aren’t you? You can’t advertise guns!’
‘Why not?’
‘It’s blood money.’
‘It’s cash money.’
Satisfied with this explanation and telling her to behave or become immediately redundant, Henry swept Daphne back to the table, whispering in her ear that there was no need for her to worry. Or hol
d archaic principles, reminding her that she was in advertising so there was no call for them.
‘Sorry about that,’ Henry said, wedging a pork bum between desk and chair. ‘Now where were we?’
‘We were staring down the barrel,’ Daphne said, wishing that bloody woman with the pad would close her legs. Or buy some underwear. Or at least shave the damn thing so that it smiled instead of looking like a bearded grin.
‘Over to you Anthony,’ Henry said, reviewing the budget, sitting there wringing plump hands in greedy anticipation of the many millions to be made from this campaign. And decided to buy a fresh wife on these pistol profits.
‘Yes well, it’s an interesting concept,’ Anthony replied, wondering if it was okay to murder someone in an ad.
‘It’s a gun Anthony! It is not a damn concept. Hold it to your head, pull the bloody trigger, then we’ll see a concept that’ll blow your tiny mind.’ Daphne screamed.
‘Into mash!’ she added, throwing the metal at him.
‘I know what it is Daphne but do the people? Do they know what it is? That’s our job. To convince them of its benefits. To inform....’
‘To sell!’ Thomas, Account Executive, wailed, his presence completely unnoticed until now so conspicuously silent had he been.
‘Shut-up Thomas.’ Daphne said.
‘Shut-up Thomas.’ Henry said.
‘Shut-up Thomas.’ Thomas said and shut-up.
‘Benefits, what benefits?’
‘Daphne.’
‘Henry...,’ Daphne rose to her feet, ‘Every-one. This.....,’ she hiked across the vast table to recover the item in question, ‘is a gun. It is used to threaten, to frighten, to kill. It murders, it maims. It has no practical use apart from bloodshed. You can’t shave with it, you can’t use it to cook the evening meal...’
‘You can use it to kill the evening meal,’ Andrew interrupted smugly. Daphne pointed the gun at him.
‘You can scatter bone and flesh with it. Turn a man into a thousand quivering jelly fish. It’ll certainly help you remove an unwanted relative or explosively amputate a few limbs but it won’t do anything conversation can’t do with less drama, less noise and less unsanitary carnage.’
THE CLIENT was, by this stage, looking decidedly dubious about his choice of Agency, while, sinking ever lower in the chair, Henry was looking decidedly dubious about his choice of staff.
‘We are not in the business of morals,’ Henry said, jumping to his feet, terrified that she was about to lose him any chance of acquiring a twenty year young wife with blonde hair and tits bigger than Michelle’s (apparently, the man wanted to marry a cow).
‘You’re right Henry. I’m sorry, I forgot,’ Daphne said, turning to Andrew who was trying to slide under the table and away from the gun Daphne was pointing squarely toward his precious testicles. ‘It’s a concept. And we sell concepts. We research markets, advertise products.’
‘Right Daphne,’ Henry chimed reassuringly. ‘Who are we to judge? We’re simply doing our job. An extremely valuable job. We inform. We persuade. We help sell wonderful products to grateful masses,’ Henry said grinning rabidly at THE CLIENT who was now convinced they were all quite mad.
Andrew, hands raised, agreed. ‘Yeah, so point that fuckin’ thing elsewhere Daphne, you know its dangerous,’ he pleaded, hands down now covering balls. Then in the air.
Then covering again as the barrel of the gun followed each up/down movement.
‘Oh for Christ sake, stop waving!’ Daphne ordered. ‘You look like a defective drawbridge. Anyway Andrew, I thought you said this THING was merely a concept,’ she sneered. ‘So now you think it’s a dangerous concept do you?’ she pointed.
‘Anything you say,’ Andrew said shaking, bowing, grovelling. Before making a run for it clutching the family jewels. Hand ball. Daphne wasn’t entirely convinced that he quite understood yet so she pistol persuaded him. Shot him just to be sure. Pandemonium.
Michele screamed. So Daphne shot her (THE CLIENT smiled).
Thomas didn’t do anything so she blew him away for being such an timid little shit (THE CLIENT smiled).
Henry dove for cover to hide under the table pleading for mercy, hurriedly reaching into his coat pocket and grabbing his cheque book and scribbling the sum of $500,000 on one of the blank notes before offering it to Deringer Daphne in a desperate attempt to bribe her into sparing him.
‘Henry, I promise I won’t shoot you,’ Daphne assured him.
And good to her word she didn’t when he wouldn’t come out despite her assurances. So she sandwiched him instead, delicately blasted the legs from the huge teak desk and crushed the cringing fat little bastard (THE CLIENT kept smiling, pleased that his product was, at last, being taken seriously), .
‘See, see,’ THE CLIENT yelled excitedly, leaping up and down like a turkey with haemorrhoids, ‘its BRILLIANT!’
‘It’s good-bye.’
A waft of grey death smoke jumped from the warm barrel as she blew a hole in THE CLIENT large enough to bury him in then, placing the work done gun in an expensive gold handbag, she left the room. Left for lunch tucking the fat one’s fat cheque into her lace bra laughing that indeed it did pay to advertise. She also realised at that moment that THE CLIENT was quite correct, guns were brilliant.
Simply BRILLIANT for pest control”.
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Nathan stopped die-dreaming. Wriggling in the chair until he was couch comfortable, he watched the Test highlights until they were replaced by an in-depth (well what the fuck else could it be? Wright sneered) story on synchronised swimming. Which he found about as riveting as gardening. Nathan wasn’t in the mood for such underwater antics so he left the lounge to wander upstairs and with nothing better to do, Kelly remaining so mysteriously absent, he sat at the desk nursing a large mug that was filled to its brim with clear gin. Placing it cautiously by the side of the typewriter, he waited impatiently for his brain to ignite.
Suddenly, tragically for those he’d later force to read the rambling monologue, inspiration appeared and Wright started typing:
‘....allow me to introduce myself. The name is Wright. Nathan Wright, only son of Joy and Sidney Wright (and brother of two sisters. Both carnivores). Nathan N. A. Wright. What a name. What a burden!
My full name is Nathan Never Again Wright. See what I mean? My middle names, the dopey ones, were a prophetic gift bequeathed to me by my mother who, spent and exhausted after twenty-six hours of hard labour, uttered these immortal words to an equally exhausted husband; whispered ‘Never again’ just as Pa was enquiring of her what they should call me (though they still, to this very day, seem undecided for they continue calling me names more horrible than the moron one I was christened with).
What was so wrong with a normal name? Jesus Wright for instance. Or Betty Wright for inanity. Anything but Never! Never mind, I’m stuck with it now and I know it suits me even though most I know accuse me of behaving as if I am Always Wright. Personally I have no such illusions. I am Never Wright - just ask them!
A devout Arian, the product of my parents primal passions and infantile humour, I was manufactured one balmy summer night when the electricity failed and dad’s ergs didn’t. My parents, having nothing better to do so having to find an alternative to sitting listening to programs on an ancient radio as they normally did, they did what came unnaturally. Sex. Me. They made a mistake, they created a summer embryo that made mum grow to a quite outrageous size.
I got her fat in Autumn and I made mum thin by leaving her insides in the Spring (and the winter of my parents discontent). That was 1953. It was April and I was late. (I was also a stupendously efficient diet. When my mum expelled me, she lost an amount of excess flab your normal everyday 22 stone fatso can only dream of).
The Birth of a Nathan.
The Mercy Maternity (named thus because that was what those mother’s hatching within screamed during their agony invaded labour) Hospital was,
as most hospitals are, huge and impersonal.
It was a tall cream brick building nestled amongst other less tall, equally archaic cream brick buildings in Carlton, a quiet suburb a short tram ride from the centre of Melbourne.
In a sunless room on the third floor of the West Wing, a short bus hipped women wearing a vampire red cross embroidered on her crisp white cap, busily adjusted the linen that currently contained my mum as she lay preparing for the worse in the cardboard sheeted bed.
Strutting like a peacock with piles, a snotty young doctor arrived to threaten her from a victim clipboard. He told my poor pregnant mother some ominous news. Said I’d be born tomorrow, reminding her grim voiced that tomorrow was Friday; Friday the Thirteenth then sniggered into the collar of his starched white coat. (Apparently this turd thought my birth was some sort of joke, a view which others now seem to share unfortunately). By gesture, he inferred my proposed birthing day was an ill-omen. I was about to be socially outcast rather than born it seemed but mum, as ever, had the situation well under control (and dad had the doctor well under fist sedation when he caught up to the laughing coat later that day). Obviously the doctor didn’t know my mother. She was a determined woman used to getting her own way so she immediately rang father and arranged to have her knees super-glued. Shut.
She kneen’t have ...”
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Years later, curious about such a frightening experience as birth, an event women have that men can’t thank God (which was about the only reason Wright had originally presumed that God was male. Which she isn’t) Nathan asked his mum what the sensation was like.
Like wrestling alligators son, she said.
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“…she shouldn’t have bothered with the glue for the worm in the womb had no intention of making it’s debut on such an inauspicious date. I was that worm and I also had the situation well under control.
