by Peter Marks
Poor Daniel wasn’t as happy as she was, at least not at this moment anyway, poor old Futa had problems with his bum whenever he was nervous, and meeting Kelly’s ex. was about as nerve racking as life got. And another hurricane swept through the house.
Wright turned and saw the wind maker flee again in odorous embarrassment so seizing the opportunity he began to try to convince her he was reformed and she should love him again. He argued his case brilliantly. Wright was eloquent, almost poetic as he cajoled and confided but she couldn’t be swayed, and worse, couldn’t be brought when he told her the magnitude of his recent success. She seemed totally unimpressed and ignored his overtures, became aloof and intractable.
Or so it seemed, actually she was awed and in shock.
Kelly was completely fazed by this sudden soliloquy, by Wright’s obviously rehearsed passion and stunned by Nathan’s sudden reappearance. And not unattractive appearance. Wealth obviously agreed with him, even his attire was not the fashion threat it once was.
________________
She thought she’d gotten over him. Quite honestly, before now, dodging his pleas in the cold kitchen, she’d genuinely thought he was history but now, seeing him again, fleeing him again, she wondered if she’d been kidding herself. Wondered if she’d exorcised Nathan from her emotions as thoroughly as she’d imagined she had. Wondered why she had a short fat yank and not a schizoid Nat. She was torn. Dormant feelings flooded unresolved, a small flame she’d thought doused still flickered surprisingly alight and the Nathan nostalgia was almost overwhelming. She looked at Nathan, smelt Daniel, couldn’t cope. So declined to act.
She refused to risk reconciliation and, totally confused by the emotions warring within, her face pale and drained of any glimmer of ancient emotion, softly asked Nathan to leave.
‘What, not even a coffee?’ Nathan whimpered. Futa, standing in the lounge, farting like some out of control bassoon, waited anxiously. It was obvious that this was serious, that Kelly was choosing between him and the interloper. The thought made him nervous enough to blow the cat off the chair and out an open window.
Almost in turmoil tears, leaning against the chill door of the almost empty fridge, she quietly told Nathan she didn’t love him any-more. Picking small balls of wool from her pink woollen pullover, staring at the floor, she whispered that maybe one day they could be friends, but never again would they be lovers. Drove the shaft deep into Nathan’s sick heart by saying she loved Daniel and not him.
Wright eyes welled in threatening tears. The reunion had not gone as long planned.
‘Please go Nathan. I’m sorry, but I can’t go through it again. You drained me and I simply don’t want to feel that emotionally exhausted ever again.’
Wright was devastated. Then fused. Spat sparks and started yelling and threatening, ranting and raving so Futa, hearing the racket, rushed white knight to Kelly’s rescue. Puffing from the five step sprint, he threw sausage arms around an upset Kelly and demanded Wright fuck off. Wright stood his ground, then the ground shifted. Grabbing the frothing lunatic by his expensive jacket, Futa hauled Wright shaking and stammering through the lounge, into the hallway, then showed Nathan the door. Wright told him it needed painting, then showed clenched teeth, hissing like a snake on hot coals. Leaving, he jabbed a crooked finger in the Futa flab.
‘Beware El Flabbo, vengeance is nigh,’ Wright warned and swept from the house to climb in the car. Twisted the keys and the Porsche sprang to life in idling threat. Wright thumbed the nob of the radio, tuned it to some music that was suitably Wagnerian and sang sworn vengeance on the both of them.
Beware the wealthy, he fumed, beware our power he sneered demonically, speeding onto the M1. What had been a skirmish was now war, she’d ruined his life and now she would pay. Futa had fornicated with Wright’s dreams so now he’d be neutered. This unco-operative link to his not so long past, and the missing link she slept with, was the only black spot on an otherwise clear complexion. It was one emotional monkey he couldn’t ply from his Porsche seated back.
Driving through the thick traffic Nathan, the odd tears now drifting down a sullen face, wondered what, if anything he could do to restore Kelly to her former position as his. Under, above or beside him.
________________
He was to spend two weeks in search of a bleeding obvious answer - The Harrod’s Ploy. It would be fourteen sad days before Wright hit on what to about the rejection.
But for the moment, he was lost again.
________________
It was 3 before he arrived back to the office. Not wanting to speak to any-one, he avoided Lift 2 and waited for the blind mute who controlled Lift 1 to appear. The chime rang and the trap doors opened. Wright was relieved to find the elevator empty aside from the handicapped Harry and strolled inside, wilting against the back wall. Five minutes later, still stationary, Wright remembered the drill. He walked to Harry and tapped him on a uniformed shoulder once to let him know he had a passenger. Then removed the cap and hit him on the bald dome equal to the floor required. Wright tapped his the skull floor indicator ten times, almost sending Harry unconscious but was duly delivered up anyway. Pleased that he’d avoided speaking to any-one, he crept to his office and locked the large black polished door behind him.
‘So how did it go?’ Nicola was waiting for him. Nathan jumped three foot in the air.
‘Jesus Nik, don’t do that! My heart’s already broken and surprising it like that will unglue it completely,’ he shrieked, drawing breath, hand on a pump crazy chest.
‘It didn’t go well?’
‘Went like the script of a bad horror movie,’ Nathan sighed, eyes red from distress, hands in pockets, staring from the window out over the Thames and the mist reaches of the far flung suburbs of a sprawling London. Nicola poured herself a gin and tonic from the expansively stocked bar in the far corner of the huge office then sat sipping, flicking through some magazines in search of something to spend Wright’s fortune on.
‘Well you were warned,’ she reminded him, glancing up from the page, examining a Lagerfield original that was black and skimpy and worth more than she’d previously ever considered spending on a house.
It was just like old times, she thought, wondering how she’d look in a dress worth more than a house in the suburbs. Wright was depressed again and refused to be baited. Nicola, knowing he’d have to sign the cheque, didn’t press the point.
‘Simon rang to say the family was having a marvellous time.’
‘Where is Shambles his offspring? And the witch wife?’
‘Disneyland.’
‘How appropriate. Simon can abandon her on the Magic Mountain and pray she disappears ...Where’s Alan?’
‘Geneva, having a holiday.’
‘Fionna?’
‘Paris, having a many men as she can handle.’
‘My mother?’
‘In Basle, Switzerland at the Kray Clinic having various parts of herself rearranged.’
Nathan turned from the window. ‘Who’s paying for all these people to swan around the world?’
‘You are.’
‘That’s okay then..’ If he couldn’t enjoy his money he was glad every-one else on the planet could.
________________
In the large black panelled, swivelling in the chair, Wright hit the intercom.
‘Shelley, will you come in here please.’
‘Yes sir,’ she replied, two words that summed Wright’s success. Nicola, who’d hired almost all the staff in London, knew Wright liked to be surrounded by people more attractive than he was, so most of her hiring’s were based on beauty AND brains. Contrary to popular belief, the two came in one package more frequently than propaganda would have the unduly ugly relax about.
The door opened and Shelley, pad in hand sat down opposite. This was another of the benefits of wealth - for the first time in his life he had a secretary. And a Tea Lady to make him tea, a Doorman to w
elcome, a chauffeur to drive him about, staff who were pleasant to him. And a wise father perched on a velvet seat in Lift 2 who still treated him like he was a twelve year old.
Drawing in the harsh smoke from a small cigar, Wright asked her to make some enquiries. His chest spasmed mildly at the onslaught. Usually he had his brand of cigarettes, Alpine Light’s, shipped to him wherever he went but some Wanker had stuffed up and sent him ten cartons of Marlboro Lights so Wright was forced to inhale cigars until the correct brand arrived to fuck his eager lungs.
‘Shelley, can you find me a decent detective. I’ve got a job for them, he asked between hack coughs.
‘Yes sir. What shall I file it under?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Everything has to be filed for Accounts. Tax deductions, Corporate that sort of thing.’ Wright was so wealthy he’d almost forgotten there was a real world out there that required a mountain of correspondence just to function. Still it kept people employed so he leaned back in the chair and considered the options.
‘Call it Brideschest Revisited.’
________________
Shelley, curious, but paid a fortune not to question, did as she was instructed. Sat at her large desk, surrounded by the most modern technology in an office with a panoramic views over West London, searching the Business Directory of the Yellow Pages until she found a detective agency with a name as peculiar as Wright’s file. Identifying herself as a Wanker, she told them to find out where a Mr. Daniel P. Futa worked, where he lived, what his hobbies and finances were asking them to find out everything about they could about him. (Everything apart from the length of his dick which Wright told her he didn’t want to know feeling less threatened if the fact remained secret. A secret weapon. Shelley asked them to find out anyway. She was interested even if the boss wasn’t).
Fortunately, the giggles and titters which had accompanied many of the calls she’d once made on company business, when she identified herself as representing Wanker, were now being replaced by grovelling sycophancy. Wanker was becoming famous and the word was gaining new meaning internationally. Instead of self abuse, it was self interest and every-one suddenly wanted to be a Wanker.
Instead of just behaving like one.
________________
Wright wasn’t finished yet. He had everything money could buy but he wanted the one thing it couldn’t - even though the one thing it couldn’t was the one thing he’d always presumed it could. Kelly. The days passed, the detectives went to work while Wright went to bed. As often as possible with as many women as possible as self-righteous and smug, he was intent on making the whole female race pay for the hurt inflicted upon him, convinced that Kelly’s morals had deserted her so his were entitled to follow. Who was he to argue so allowed his excesses to join the exodus and he set off on a carnal crusade through the nightclubs of London in a desperate attempt to root her from his system. By systematically rooting anything that moved - in stockings, or bursting bra or breathed heavily in anticipation when confronted by a wad of freshly minted fifty pound notes.
For the next few weeks he exhausted his morals as frivolously he did his sperm while awaiting the report from The Sherlock Gnomes Detective Agency. He screwed himself silly and fucked himself weary. And fertilised more sheets than a ghost at an orgy.
________________
‘Nathan, Mr. Rhee is here to see you.’
‘Alone?’
‘Yes Sir.’
‘What? No Doe, no Me? No so, lah or Tea?’
‘Sorry?’ There were times when Wright’s wit still escaped her. Just as it did any-one not addicted to some pharmaceutical substance.
‘So you should be Shelley. Haven’t you ever seen the Sound of Music? Never mind, send him in.’
The door opened and Shelley introduced the manager of The Sherlock Gnomes Detective Agency. He was a bowler hatted, four foot one inch dwarf. Well Shelley certainly had a sense of humour even if she didn’t display it - only hired it.
This guy had no sense of proportion Wright smirked shaking the tiny manicured hand, the smoke from Wright’s manure cigar hang uneasy and almost stationary above the head of Sherlock Midget, the stunted detective’s stubby fingers clutching a pink folder with WANKER: Futa. Daniel P. typed in large neat script in the left top corner. Nathan watched him settle on the too high seat, his little legs dangling six inches above the grey carpet. Moving back behind the desk, Wright listened intently while Rhee read the report aloud and on finishing, handed the file over. And almost became Humpty Dumpty and fall. Wright shot across the desk in an effort to stop him toppling but there was no need, the midget was used to furniture built for giants and casually righted himself.
Nathan relaxed back in his seat, holding victorious to the file. There was more than enough there for Wright’s sinister purpose and he smiled contentedly, carefully perusing the slander, knowing exactly what to do with the found facts.
Thanking his short eyes and ears, he shook the little man’s hand, buzzed Shelley and told her to give him a bonus and ushered him out.
________________
Night was starting to settle over the city. The car lights streamed out of London as every-one headed for home. Every-one except Nathan who was well on the way to Whisky heaven drinking his kidneys prematurely solid and pacing the floor of the palatial office.
What to do, how to do, who to do he wondered. How exactly do I avenge this outrage Wright considered coldly, finally rejecting murder. It was certainly an option, it would only cost him petty cash quids to hire a hit man but decided he was far to peculiar for such an unimaginative alternative. Anyway, he was already Godfather to three children back in Australia so had no intention of becoming one here, and settled on a more suitable alternate - the Harrod’s strategy.
Nathan had learned one thing over the years, he’d learned patience so that now was in no great hurry to avenge himself, wanted instead to allow the love between the Futa and his lost love to breed and bond. Before he stepped in and destroyed it. Vaporised them. He wanted it to hurt. Wanted Kelly to pay a price the equal of what his emotions had been forced to endure.
________________
Ego born of worth - real or imagined - was a pompous distraction. Ego born of grotesque wealth was just pathetic. But real. And too easy for Wright who’d always had to work extra hard to find peace with himself in the past. Now every-thing was different, now it was too easy to impress, too simple to whore or wrestle and buy new delights in ancient four poster beds of historical significance.
On the rare occasions his conscience was able to contact him, Wright found positively disconcerting how easy it was to get women when the wallet did the seducing. But his conscience couldn’t reason or restrain him - he didn’t debate, didn’t hesitate, let the exchequer do the talking as he collided with as many women as his fortune could proffer.
With grunting regularity, in asthmatic exhalation, he hunted and had his evil ways as often as improbable, slowly repairing the shattered confidence and fractured heart the recent fleeting brush with Kelly had caused.
Womanising was a superficial but sincere therapy, an inadequate and finally despairing vendetta, but it was a sure thing, Wright’s one warped way of dealing with his distress always arguing with Nicola that if he couldn’t have quality he’d have quantity. Such was the perverted consequence of love gone wrong. Some game. Monogamous Monopoly vs. Sexual Scramble.
Nicola told him he was fucked.
‘Often.’ Wright agreed.
________________
Wright went to the Continent for a while. Spent a couple of weeks skiing in St Moritz then went to the U.S.A. and screwed himself merrily, and luckily disease free, for a further couple of weeks before, for the want of something better to do, devoted h his flesh to another bout of Doubledaze. And became the wealthiest man he’d ever known.
Or the world had ever had to contend with.
Celebrating his ridiculous number one ra
nking, Wright binged again. Went to the Bahamas, brought most of the Bahamas and then drank and ate and relaxed and whored with women who were more beautiful than even Penthouse revealed. But he was still unhappy.
It really pissed him off. He had, indeed almost had had, every beautiful woman but the one he wanted. Suddenly his patience wore thin. He was angry that all this wealth hadn’t brought him the love or inner peace he’d so wanted so he stopped smiling, stopped plumping for grunt transmitted diseases and began to moan again. Then acted and flew to California and did some dealing which made him stop whining and start smiling again.
________________
He was still smirking when he flew Wanker into to Heathrow from Kennedy International three days later. Met at the gate, he was whisked straight to Futa’s office.
Wright’s office.
Futa had been summoned. Nervous and so farting as genteelly as his buns could clamp, he sat alone with his fumes in the ex - Chairman’s office awaiting the arrival of the new Chairman. Five minutes later he discovered there were was something worse than tension farting.
The new chairman was livid. And surrounded by Futa’s nervous fumes.
‘You have a choice,’ Wright said, staring at the man with the huge dick (Shelley had confessed), ‘as the new owner of Peters, Marks & Margin, and therefore your boss, I have certain responsibilities ...certain management decisions to make. You Mr. Futa are not a decision, you Mr. Futa are a dead man. But even the deceased have two choices. Heaven or hell Mr. Futa ? Home or welfare Mr. Futa ?’ Wright, settled on the edge of the cluttered desk, adding his own fuming to an already odious atmosphere, toyed with the keys of the ex-chairman’s white wrapped computer. ‘You can stay in London and get very poor, very quickly, or you can go to buggary and remain solvent. Better than solvent actually, I’m willing to assist in your lucrative escape.’ Nathan wandered from the desk and looked out the window. ‘Or you can grovel ....though that’s not really option, only a prerequisite. If you go back to your wife and your mortgage and the two children you callously orphaned, I’ll help you. If however, you choose suicide over salvation and remain in London having continuous carnal release with my property I’ll force your knees so far down your innards that the next time you see them will be via X-Ray,” Wright decided enjoying the outburst. “And I and my money will make it impossible for you to get another job in this business, or any other above sanitation retrieval here or anywhere else in the civilised world. Perhaps Bangladesh would suit you but I hardly think they’ll pay you enough to support your wife’s tastes or your children’s current infatuation with coke and credit”. Futa sat silent through-out.
