by Tim Vine
The following morning The Three Musketeers – hungover, stinking and slightly embarrassed – drank coffee together in near silence. Claude was already smoking. The UK contingent sheepishly said their goodbyes to Claude before setting off, and once they’d left Claude immediately had a plan. He needed his wife. Now, right now. One can only imagine the double shock that was to follow. He soon discovered in town that his wife was no longer living with her sister, but had recently moved in with Brigitte above her boulangerie (where over the years she had won several prizes for stunning Vienoisseries, and a very special mention for her delicious Paris Brest). Brigitte was a 50-something, slightly batty divorcee in fine physical form, who was now having a full-blown relationship with Claude’s wife of 30 years. His lover Sue was dead and his wife was now having a lesbian affair in his local town with an expert cake maker, and she didn’t even have a sweet tooth! The sorrow and the shame, what humiliation! That very afternoon, Claude entered his main barn for the last time, inchoate rage bursting through every neuron. The events that had come to pass were clear even through his hungover mind, or so he thought, and he kicked some mud then carefully smoothed his eyebrows with the knuckle of his index finger. Who would water and watch over Sue’s bonsai tree now? The sad farmer methodically loaded the shotgun, which once belonged to his father, sat on a bale of hay, sighed heavily and placed the end of the barrel in his mouth without hesitation. He looked upwards, and realised that he had emptied his brain of thoughts, perhaps due to some kind of involuntary auto-protect mechanism, a type of partial brain shutdown. This was good, and he felt momentarily at peace. A sudden bang sent nesting swallows off in all directions, somewhere in the distance a dog barked, and it was a few seconds before a disturbed silence resumed once more.
One thousand two hundred and thirty-six days later . . .
Peter sat in his office. A coffee, forgotten for a while, was getting cold and undrinkable on the desk. The inherited property in Croydon had sold swiftly for a mouth-watering price, and even after taxes and expenses Peter was now a wealthy man. A portion of his new-found wealth was invested in a business venture named The Peace of Meat Ltd. Peter’s immediate regret after what he considered to be his accident (the bombing of a train and murder of many innocents) was like that of a confused Brexiteer a couple of days after voting: bitter. He had a fresh mission, and it seemed to be working. Inspired by his family connections to the meat trade, Peter now invested all his energy in packaging supposedly halal meat to export to mainly European markets – Germany principally – but also France, Norway, Belgium, Italy, and even the Middle East. It was his glorious revenge. None of the meat was halal at all, so he took pleasure in the fact that he was essentially ‘poisoning’ hundreds of thousands of people. Just as with the bombing, he was so blasé that he somehow continued to get away with it, despite Council inspections and controls. The halal sticker was always the last process, in an area partly hidden towards the back of the processing plant. He loved coming to work, and had a list up on a board of the other possible names of the company, before he had decided on The Peace of Meat Ltd.
Halal Heaven Ltd.
Muslim Meats Ltd.
Muslim Mutton Ltd.
No More Pork Pies, Just Halal Lies! Ltd.
Hungry Halal Cuts Ltd.
Passionate Pure Meats Ltd.
Mostly Muslim Meatz Ltd.
Meet my Meat Ltd.
Massage my Meat Ltd.
Meat: A Love Story
Meat is my Murder Ltd.
The Peace of Meat Ltd. sits at the back of the nondescript industrial estate on the edge of Aldershot town, which had for a few years been spreading like a tumour across the surrounding countryside. It was a comfortable ten minutes away by car from RonJoyce, maybe fifteen on a bad day. Having taken out a twelve-year commercial lease on Units C47 and C48, Peter was governing an impressive space of several hundred draughty metres squared, which housed a kitchen and canteen room, the factory floor with all sorts of conveyor belts and hooks, hanging contraptions, clunky machinery, giant refrigeration units, and two spacious offices. It resembled a W. Heath Robinson drawing, but in real life. The icy toilets reminded him of school days, an impression strengthened by the incomprehensible writing scrawled on the back of the cubicle doors. On one side of the buildings Unit C46 housed a Perspex suppliers, and the smaller unit to the right appeared to be something to do with pharmaceuticals. The people who occasionally came in or out were strangely aloof and distinctly unfriendly. This, however, suited Peter down to the ground so he adopted a rather similar attitude towards the plastic guys of C46. Thus, privacy was maintained by all. Ample parking and satisfactory night time security – good lighting and a 24-hour team of two men and a dog – convinced Peter that he had found a great spot for his meaty activities. Business was brisk, and meat was selling in huge quantities. In fact, it was even proving difficult to keep up with the ever-growing demand as the company grew and orders increased. People around the world were hungry, and sought meat. Peter wasn’t just going to be a rich man, he was destined at this rate to become a very wealthy one. He had no qualms whatsoever about the scale of death involved, the animal blood on his hands, and actively relished the fact that he was poisoning so many populations with his pretend halal products. He really was a sicko.
Here in the office the coffee was now cold as Peter had dozed off in his Director’s chair. This was to be the moment for his last dream and message from mentor and friend, Rick Astley.
RA: Ah, Peter, what a pleasure. You appear serene in your new calling, but you must not work too hard. You seem tired, my friend. Sleeping on the job . . . it’s not a particularly professional approach, if you don’t mind me saying. Have you been eating properly, Peter? I have some organic pork chops, sourced from a very special place. I have also procured a pot of Bavarian sweet mustard, just delicious with this good meat.
Peter says silent, unable to reply. RA starts to turn the chops on his barbecue that is smoking more than usual today. He appears to be singing, gently gyrating his hips as he elegantly tends to the meat, deep in concentration. Life is fine, and the two men are content in each other’s company. Suddenly RA lifts skywards on his barbecue cloud, and a never-ending gilt staircase is somehow placed just behind him, at the same time as a white acoustic guitar floats down from above. RA caresses the strings, his complexion flawless, his face just radiant. No-one has ever heard ‘Stairway to Heaven’ played so delicately, so magically. A bearded figure stands on the staircase, and addresses RA gently over the music:
Bearded Figure: What is the query that you have come to put to me, my boy?
RA stops playing and looks up to the man, a tear in his eye. There is a slight pause before he replies, a false confidence almost cracking his velveteen speaking voice, like somebody saying their marriage vows, desperate to speak clearly and well.
RA: May I furnish you with mustard on your sausage, Jesus?
Bearded Figure: Congratulations! That is correct, my Son. Come, come. Enter the land of Celestial Virgins, of Good Meat and Plentiful Pork! Rise up.
RA: oh yes, there’s Good Meat there . . . Heavens Above! I never knew that there would be real Celestial Virgins available with you, Jesus. I thought that that particular package was only available with the other Operator.
Bearded Figure: My Virgins are cleaner and better-looking than those of the other Operator, although I will not speak ill of them. You will not be disappointed. Rise, my Child, come into the Light. I will wash your feet before nourishing you plentifully with pork. You need to eat well, in order to give you maximum strength for the Virgin Pool, so you can give of your best.
Jesus reaches out to RA, large hands outstretched – those perfect nails – eyes wide and welcoming. Colours all look filtered. RA mounts the staircase slowly, the cloud, barbecue, guitar are gone. The staircase and two faraway figures drift away.
Peter work up with a start.
No erection this time. He knew that RA had left him for good this time, and he welled up too, before wearily picking up his coffee mug and placing it in the microwave.
Over 4,000 miles away, Brian was sweating. A lot. He washed his face with cold water then splashed his neck liberally with a heroic aftershave. His canary (named Coalmine, or Minnie for short) was tweeting away in a cage in the corner of the immense marble and gold en-suite bathroom. He was hanging out in the white mansion that he’d bought for a perfectly reasonable 7,500,000 US Dollars from a world-renowned Afro-American boxer (who also sweats a lot). The A/C was on max, but Brian just couldn’t get used to the climate, and found the heat suppurating, oppressive. He had just ushered two hookers to a waiting taxi after a disgraceful cocaine-fuelled sex binge. Misty was a gorgeous brunette with a dynamite body, Candy a tall black girl who was barely 21 and rocking some crazy peroxide blond hair. She also rocked some serious Lois Lane glasses. The girls had been provided as a ‘duo package’ by Atlanta’s Angels Agency, and Misty performed ‘all services’ (at a price) . . . not so the case with Candy, who would not indulge in full sex. She had sucked him off fairly well with a condom while Misty hovered around in her stockings, but for Candy the games stopped there. Her explanation was that she ‘didn’t want to be unfaithful to her boyfriend’. This was a mildly warped reasoning given her choice of profession, thought Brian, yet he accepted her rules and looney logic, especially as Misty more than made up for her partner’s shortfalls. Misty was generous and very willing and he considered her to be built for comfort. They were in the opulent master bedroom, a fine example of hideous nouveau riche bad taste: all velvet, tassels, mirrors, gold and gigantic plasma TV. Bryan Adams’ ‘(Everything I Do) I Do It For You’ drifted out from invisible speakers somewhere. As the girls surveyed the room, Brian observed:
‘Well, you know he fucked Lady Di?’
‘Who?’ asked Candy with her squeaky voice.
‘This guy . . . Bryan Adams,’ Brian explained about his namesake.
‘Lucky Princess Di!’ quipped Misty. Then she suddenly looked serious. ‘Brian, these ugly mutts aren’t gonna stay here and watch, surely? It’s weirding me out already.’
She was referring to the horrible dogs that were sat on a dog bed in the corner, stinking and panting. Brian was attempting to assume his role as a bit of a nasty man – they were called Donald (Trump), Nigel (Farage) and Brian Jnr.
‘Oh yeah. Don’t worry, they’re fine, they don’t mind!’ he replied, completely missing her point. She decided to let it go and to try to ignore the ugly mutts. She forced a smile. Candy was in her own world, rubbing her long hands over the pile of cushions on the bed, admiring the soft furnishings.
‘Look at that piece!’ Brian was pointing at a hideous gold bust of Donald Trump, one of his heroes. ‘I can’t remember how much it cost me, but it was the best however-much-it-cost-me that I’ve ever spent!’ he laughed forcefully.
Candy really was in a world of her own. ‘Cushions are one of my three favourite things. Cushions, penguins and chips!’ Brian and Misty exchanged a glance.
‘O – kay!’ remarked Misty with sarcasm, kicking off her shoes.
Soon, Misty’s luscious thick tongue found its way deep into Brian’s left ear and she licked all around for a good minute. On pulling out, she whispered almost inaudibly into the wet cavity, ‘If I rub coke all over your bell-end, will you rub some on my pussy?’ Brian acquiesced like a well-behaved child as he considered this proposition a wonderful idea. He didn’t know it at the time, but this was certainly the defining moment that was to lead to a long-term and deep addiction to hookers and cocaine, generally together. In fact, he learnt to love them both in equal measure, and found the combination nothing short of glorious! The winning formula. Was this the ultimate Schadenfreude, his misuse of human beings in such a manner? Now on their way out, the girls both had large wads of cash in their tiny handbags, alongside condoms, make-up, mobiles and house keys. Candy sneezed suddenly; a cocaine sneeze – a massive unladylike blowout. Brian slowly made the sign of the cross as benediction, enjoying briefly reliving his time as head of The Section. ‘Bless you,’ he purred, the softly ironic smile revealing recently-polished gnashers. Then at once Misty gasped as she twisted somehow and fell on the sand-coloured chippings of the immaculate driveway.
‘Ow, my fucking Jimmy Choos!’ she squealed, picking up a broken heel, shoe in two pieces.
‘Here,’ purred Brian, ‘this should do it.’ He peeled off five or six hundred dollar bills from a roll he magically produced from somewhere on his person.
‘Thanks, doll,’ replied Misty a minute later through the taxi window as it pulled away. ‘Don’t do anything I wouldn’t!’
She grinned widely, eyes taught open, flashing that perfect American white smile, framed by those naughty full lips and brash pillar-box red recently-reapplied raucous lipstick. The Armenian cabbie drove off with end-of-shift weariness, tyres softly crunching on the stones as they made their way down to the iron gates which slid open automatically to let them through , back Downtown.
‘Jesus, they’re hot!’ gurned Brian through his tense jaw, as the taxi driver stole furtive glances of the working girls with his sparrow eyes in the rear-view mirror, thinking exactly the same thing.
‘Jesus, what a loser!’ Misty hissed to Candy after a minute.
‘Yeah, another sad case,’ agreed Candy, stifling a yawn. ‘Only thing he’s got going for him is all that money.’
‘I dunno,’ disagreed Misty. ‘He does get some really good coke and I still adore that cute British accent. You can’t trust a man with no vices, and he’s sure got a few. Yeah, but he’s an asshole!’ she concluded, as they both giggled girlishly.
Brian passed the faux Greek columns and breezed through the black, highly-glossed front door.
‘Thanks to you, The Section. I am the One Mighty and Great Prophet . . . give me all your cash, you pathetic losers!’ he cried out to nobody as he crossed the oak-floored hallway, grinning from ear to ear. Buzzing around the velvet-clad living zone, he mumbled, preparing another enormous line of top-grade coke with his black credit card.
‘What’s this we’ve got for breakfast then, eh? Full English, is it? Come to Daddy!’ At this he snorted massively up each nostril, hesitated, then leant back into the blue leather sofa before clicking on the over-sized plasma TV. He let rip an angry fart, then suddenly jumped up as if all was not well and strode into the kitchen to get a chilled bottle of French Champagne out of the French Champagne fridge. ‘It’s fine,’ he explained out loud to himself, returning to the sofa. ‘I only suffer from a hangover if I mix Champagne with whisky.’ Beads of cold sweat were forming on his brow, his eyes were like marbles and his heart pounded like a 1990’s techno track. He loved to watch the Bible preachers, crazed money-grabbers encouraging the weak to send in their hard-earned money, phone numbers flashing across the bottom of the screen as the kind man insists that viewers donate to his Pentecostal New Church of Hope.
‘Now that’s how to do it . . . go on, my son!’ encouraged Brian through gritted teeth, knee bouncing up and down in glee. He remembered the glory days of The Section and Polly’s face flashed in front of him. After Misty and Candy she seemed so frumpy and dull, and he briefly wondered how she was coping. Very briefly. He had managed, with her unwitting help, to expand The Section’s influence – along with its sudden revenue flow – to a degree that had shocked even himself. The online presence had helped enormously (Polly’s idea and mainly managed by her), and it had been very hard to know when to cut and run, before becoming too greedy. People had even sold their houses to give him cash; he must’ve had some kind of magic touch. Polly’s father Tony had died in some strange event . . . some kind of terrorist thing involving a train that had been blown up, and it had made him crash his car or something. When Polly received her inheritance, Brian only had to suggest that it came to The Section, and she arr
anged just that. She had received half as the rest was for her druggie brother Norman, who, at least for now, seemed to have disappeared off the radar . . . something about India, was it? Brian had jumped into overdrive mode at that point, aiding with the liquidation of Tony’s assets: three vintage cars, a sprawling estate in Surrey, lots (and lots) of shares, a mansion in the hills of Umbria, a business to sell and a fair packet of cash in the bank. Once this was done Brian realised that enough was enough and that the time had come. By the day on which Brian disappeared he had managed to stash away an unbelievable sum of money, hidden from authorities or any other prying eyes through a complex system of multiple companies and trusts, to the tune of millions of pounds. The Cayman Islands had never seemed so inviting, even if just for his shady business in the sunny îles. Hopes dashed, lives ruined, beliefs shattered . . . Brian didn’t care about all of that. The cult of The Section crumbled as its members and supporters came around to the realisation that they had been massively conned, duped and left hanging. Yet He, Their Glorious Leader, had triumphed and managed to live his dream (even if he had since become the classic example of the depressed millionaire), and that’s what this was all about, so there we are, it’s all good, that was the plan, and that’s it, all’s well that ends well, stick that in your pipe and smoke it, and why not, do I give a shit?
Ian, what do you Want?