Chapter 4: The beginning of death cont.
I am Rikki.
Rikki, of course, knew nothing about such things as self-destructive momentums. No, all he did was live his life. But his life was self-destructive. We have already analysed how goodness and badness can be alive.
I am Rikki. I am the man. F**k everyone.
But it was he who was being compromised. He continued with his life. The stress about losing popularity making him more perverse. Here is a scenario where he is intoxicated by cocaine:
The euphoria. The bliss. I feel, I feel I am god. There is no one. I am here. No one but me. Rikki! Rikki! Rikki! You hear them. They are joyful. I give them what they want. Yes I make humans more joyful than god. God failed and I succeeded. I am god of all humans.
Then the question that went too deep.
Then who is god?
And he could not decide whether it was he who was asking the question or not.
I am god.
He answers. And the asker is pleased. Very pleased.
Yes. You, Rikki, are a god. Now worship me. The Voice said testing him.
Little does he know that gods do not worship, for they are gods themselves.
I will worship if thee gives me fame and money.
And he worships and is on the road to self-destruction.
I have money.
He is still high on cocaine. He is in love with the cocaine.
But, if I am god. Who is it that they worshiped before?
The question which paves the way to his death.
Who is it? Tell me. Dammit, tell me. Cocaine!
He screams at ‘Cocaine’ for the answer. But it comes not easily.
Who was god Rikki?
And he does not know if he is the one who asked the question.
Then if I am god, who is the devil?
Those trying to oppose you Rikki. The badness replies and Rikki is satisfied and high on cocaine.
Those who preach, those who pray. With me, I am god, and all that the immortals need do is have f**k, drink, smoke and all such.
And he speaks in full words.
But, the question still lingers on, if I am god, then which god was before me? Was this god more intelligent, wiser, better in all ways? But I am Rikki. Rikki! Rikki! Rikki! Yes you hear my worshipers rejoice at me. Yes you do.
But the question is persistent.
If I am god now, who was there before me? F**k it, I’m tired of thinking and he let the cocaine high get the rest of his mind.
And he lay there. In his smoky, hazy room, naked women full in the bed and the house. Bed-spreads stained with alcohol. He lay there on the bedspread and with the high, with the drunkenness, with the women working on him. It was total bliss.
The sun shone through the bedroom in the morning. Small specks of dust fused with cocaine floated in the sunlight. He woke up and reached for his sun-glasses.
What a life, he thought, no wonder they don't like me. I could do this every day.
“Wake up,” he shouted at the prostitutes. “Wake up, get your shit, and leave.”
“What about our cash?” The whore next to him asked seductively, “we can still stay and you can have your way with us again.”
He stood from the bed, reached under the mattress effort-fully what with the weight of the women and his hangover. He gave up lifting and inserted his hand searching for the money with the mattress compressing it. During this exercise he uttered expletive comments about how everyone was trying to take his money and how he would kill anyone who tried.
“Take it.” He threw an excessive amount of money at the whores without counting it. “I have had all of you. Now leave,” he said diabolically.
To say that he had become more sinister, viler, more aggressive and more misogynistic would be an understatement. A void had been there within him, but now it had grown too much depth. Cocaine and prostitutes were not enough anymore.
Bad bitches is the only thing that I like, he thought.
The phone rang while he while he was on the couch, ‘drawing lines’.
It rang three times and he lacked the desire to stand, head to the kitchen and pick up the phone. He went on the fifth ring.
“Hello, Rikki,” the voice on the other end of the line said.
“What’s up? It’s eleven o’clock in the morning and it’s a day of rest.”
“Yes. It’s early and it’s Sunday,” Abigail replied, “but to cut things short. The vp has setup an emergency meeting this afternoon at two. The vp says it is urgent that you come.” She did not know what to say of the situation either. “Honestly Rikki, I don’t like the sound of this ‘urgency’ thing.” She did not like it simply because it also threatened her employ- she cared not at all about Rikki.
“Yeah. Well, don’t be like that. These fools need me. They probably want me to go on tour and make more public appearances. That’s probably all there is to it,” he said confidently.
“Can I ask?” she asked
“Sure. Shoot,” he replied.
Her sigh was audible over the phone. It was a deep sigh. A sigh foretelling an uncertainty of how the question would be answered.
“What is wrong with you Rikki?” She asked really just for the sake of her job.
“What’d you mean what’s wrong with me. Nothing can be wrong with me. Asking questions like…I don’t know. You miss me?”
No. I don’t, she said honestly and I am relieved I am seeing your egotistic face fewer these days. But he was the boss, still, and you had to say anything to please the boss. So:
“Yes, I miss you Rikki. I haven’t heard from you since the trial and it’s eating me inside. When will I see you again? No, don’t tell me this afternoon at the meeting. I mean. Since the trial. When will I see you Rikki?”
She tried to express some false emotion. Only if they could get her closer to him.
“You’s sounding like a puppy. Grow some balls. With us t’was just a passing thing. Thought we agreed about it. So don’t go caring too much.”
Believe me, I don’t, she said to herself. I just want the benefits. She thought about, next time, defecting the condom and letting him impregnate her so she could sue. I wouldn’t let him that easily as that bitch of his.
“Okay, then, see you at the meeting.”
She waited for his reply, but he just dropped the phone.
He smoked his ‘lines’. Took a shower. Smoked some more cocaine and at one o’clock he left for the record label.
The day was cloudy, however, the clouds saturated the entire sky but left only a most appropriate space that showed the afternoon sun, which made the nearest surrounding clouds glitter and shine golden and this golden light went on from the sky on the road and the grass at the sides of the road, as well as the distant mountains which on them, the goldenness took on a hue of purple. The traffic was not much and it decreased much more, on that Sunday afternoon, as Rikki entered the road which terminated at the Galactic Studios building. As he drove closer to the building, questions started pouring in his mind.
Why on a Sunday, when half the staff is off?
What could it be that is so urgent?
Will the president be there? Did I f**k up? Is it about the trial?
Yes, these people were the only ones who could even come close to scaring him. Just close.
Whatever, I have made them more money than any of their other pathetic artists. They aren’t gonna do anything they might regret. They need me, he consolingly thought.
His car came closer to the gate, and the security guard, having recognized his car and confirming the identity of the driver, waved his hand, slid the large steel gate open and closed it after the car had passed inside. Rikki parked the car, went straight to the sliding glass doors which opened automatically and entered into the reception area, passed it and the receptionist who tried to speak but thought otherwise after looking at him and went to the bathroom behind the reception area to the left. Inside, he felt for the packet in the right poc
ket of his pants, took it out and commenced making cocaine lines on the sink, rolled a bank note into a straw and inhaled two lines. He did not even check the bathroom stall for occupancy. He looked up into the mirror and checked for ‘tell-tales’ on his nose and mouth. He looked again to check his apparel. He was wearing his usual style. Bright green shirt reaching far below to his thighs. Short denim pants ending at his knees and high white socks and sneakers of green and yellow. As well as a flat cap. He looked at his face, and knew, even though bright in clothing, he was dull and sluggish. A dirty looking face, even though he had basically scrubbed himself that morning. He took out his sunglasses from the left pocket of his pants and hid behind them.
“They are waiting for you in the president’s office,” the receptionist said as he walked out to the reception area after leaving the bathroom.
So, the president is here as well.
“I would escort you, Mr. Rikki, but I am a bit kept right now. I believe you won’t get lost,” she said with some subtle sarcasm.
He ignored her and went to the elevator and to the top-most floor of the building.
On seventh floor, there were only two offices: That of the president and the vice president. And the seventh floor looked as every bit as presidential as one would expect. There was nothing to tell that is was a record label, no, it looked like a hotel, with sculptures of Greek art lined on the wall up the president’s office and, beneath his feet, a Silk Isfahan Rug. The most expensive. Large windows on one side meant to bring in only the morning light and in the afternoon, lighting from the ceiling meant to simulate morning light. He wondered why they would not just have used the conference room on the floor beneath. He passed the first door, which was closed and headed down to the last door on the floor.
He entered and found them waiting. The president, sitting behind his African Blackwood desk comfortably on his leather chair. He held a cigar between his thick index and middle fingers both of which were adorned with large gold-rings, and some of the ash from it had fallen onto his grey business suit jacket. He had a wrinkled dry face: tell tales of alcohol and substance abuse. The vice president, on the other hand, was the complete antipodean of his superior. He had a smooth, clean-shaven and hydrated face. His suit, black, fitted both comfortably and appealingly. He was a man of style and fitness. Wearing his diamond encrusted digital sports watch, with no rings on his perfectly manicured fingers, and his easy going pose and composure; his was not only to give an impression of wealth but also of style and exquisiteness, much unlike the people whom he worked with.
Abigail sat on the chair next to the vice president.
“Rikki, my boy, unlike you to be early,” the president said in the sort of tone of pretended joviality but which, when paid closer attention to, held something condescending in nature.
“Hello, Mr. President Johnston. Mr. Vice President.” He refrained from greeting Abigail.
“Don’t worry, Rik, this is not going to be long. Actually, it’s just the boss who wants you,” the VP said charmingly and boyishly “No, I’m not gonna be here to have your back. I best be leaving and-” he looked at Abigail, she flushed, “- well darling, for a creature of your delicateness, it would be awfully sinful of me to leave you with these two bull-dogs. Shall you come with thee? Mr. President, seeing as there is no need for me, I shall be leaving.” The president nodded. He had tried to make it sound charming and unexpected, but he and the president had already discussed before that the meeting was to take place privately between Rikki and the president. The best way to let off a person is the private way. He stood first, then Abigail and they both left, Abigail walking behind the vice president.
“Close the door Rikki and please take a seat.” The president opened his drawer and took out his leather cigar case. “They are Cuban,” he said and took one and handed it to Rikki.
“Thanks,” he said biting the cigar.
“I understand, your being uncomfortable at being summoned on a Sunday afternoon. But we need to talk.”
“Talk then,” Rikki said, striking a match and lighting the cigar. The smoke went into his mouth and out of his nose and through the room, radiating out suspense as if in a movie. This was not his intention and he decided to halt smoking until the business of why he was ‘summoned’ was cleared up. He held it between his thumb and index finger. He realised, by the sound of the air-conditioner humming, that it had been quite a while since either of them spoke. He sighed away the intrigue.
“Rikki, what’s wrong?” the president asked, finally.
“Nothing is wrong,” he said.
“Don’t come with that. Take off your glasses, there’s no sun in here. Now you’ve been off the radar this past month. Abigail-”
“Abigail knows nothings,” he said, by chance holding back from roaring but angrily. “She knows nothing,” he repeated more calmly. He did not take off his sun-glasses.
“I don’t care what you think- if she knows or not. Abigail says you look horrible. That you getting messed on cocaine and hookers. Listen eh-,” he paused, smoked his cigar and let out the smoke with a sigh. Then with, his elbows resting on the desk, the hand not holding the cigar rubbing his temples he said “Your sales have dropped boy. No you ain’t selling no more.”
Oh I see this. Rikki thought. He’s trying to let me off in the way where I am the bad guy.
He dunked the cigar into the ashtray on the table, leaned back into the chair and asked curtly “How much money did I make this label?”
“You made us a lot. But,” he removed his hand from his temples and pointed his index finger at Rikki, “but, old boy Rikki, we made a lot of money for you too. I’d say we are about equal, home-boy. Wouldn’t you say?”
“I see where this is goin’. I don’t need you, I don’t need any of ya’ll. You think there ain’t no other record labels out there who’d take me?”
“Tone down,” The president said calmly. “Honestly Rikki, yes, there is no reputable label out there that’d take you. My advice – quit making music; you’re an old dog, your days are gone. You had your fun, but, didn’t you right?”
“Yeah well what-ever- I ain’t over. This is not done,” he replied indignantly not sure if he could suppress his anger much more.
“With us, the label, you are done. But because we like you, how about a compilation of the greatest hits?” The president said mockingly to add salt to a wound.
“Just so you can make more money off me huh?” he asked not expecting an answer. He did not get one. “If there’s gonna be a compilation of that sort, it ain’t gonna be by you.” He stood, looked the president straight in the face and said “I should have seen this coming. The contract. I thought you were just being nice, but you had me. But it’s not the end of me. No it isn’t-“
“Rikki,” The president interrupted “Rikki, Rikki, Rikki. You signed it. There was no defined time for the duration of the contract. You should have read it. And now, I terminate it. Legally, that is, without any cost to me.”
During that sentence, the president saw how tense Rikki seemed and he pressed the panic switch underneath his desk for security to come up.
Rikki sighed and rested his hands on the table, he reached for the ashtray, took it and sent it whirling away to the window behind the president, cracking it-the window- and then plunged over the table onto the president, with his knees on the president’s shoulders. The cigar flew into the air, hit the window too, and landed on the carpet. With one hand he held both of the president’s hands and with the other he held him by the collar and rattled him shouting:
“I ain’t of over! This ain’t over! I am Rikki! I am the best!” And at that moment two security guards came rushing into the room, went around the desk and seized Rikki by the armpits. He was still proclaiming his immortality when they forcefully removed him from the president.
“Take this piece of shit out of here!” the president shouted as loud as to be above Rikki’s proclamations and with that Rikki was escorte
d out of the building by the security guards. They let him go then. He looked up at the sky, thought about the mistake the president had done. F**k him. He walked back to his car, entered and then left the premises with assurance in his head and mind that they would regret letting him go.
The Keepers (or The Momentum). Page 7
