by Jackson, Gil
There had, of course been a need to tidy up. He couldn’t have people going round saying they had seen her. Yes, he smiled to himself, he still had it where State Governors were concerned. For the moment though, he would indulge and be indulged by this present company of admirers and enjoy the pleasures of humans.
He stepped from the onyx-green marble bath set in the floor of its neo-Romanesque style bathhouse. Walking naked into the white bathrobe being held out at arms length by his manservant.
‘Thank you, Tony.’
‘Very good, sir. Your clothes are laid out in the dressing room. His voice was quietly spoken and unhurried. ‘Will there be anything else?’
‘That’s all for the moment ... thank you. Oh, yes .. ’
Tony turned on his heels.
‘The car. Half an hour.’
‘Very good.’
Spannocs watched him salute his head in his familiar manner and walk with an ever so slight angle off the vertical towards the bathhouse and out between two columns. His shoes rang on the tiled floor echoed and quickly muffled on the sumptuous carpet, which covered one of the games rooms adjoining.
The house had forty rooms decorated in Italian, Greek, as well as Roman-influenced décor. There were five bathrooms, two swimming pools — one outside. Stables, an eighteen-hole golf course, a basement hall with a fully furnished auditorium modelled on his house from the 20s — complete with: Stage.
Spannocs watched him disappear before drying himself. He made his way into his dressing room where he opened a gold cigar box, removed a Havana, snipped the end and lit it. A decanter of absinthe was set on a gold tray before him; a single goblet — gold, naturally — sat next to it. Puffing several times on the cigar he started to dress himself.
***
Tony Di Sotto entered the dressing room to find his master still half dressed staring at the sculpture of David by Donatello, on loan from the Bargell Museum in Florence. His master was holding himself. Hearing him come in Spannocs turned towards Tony. The sight of Spannocs’s erect inhuman-sized penis brought a dryness to his mouth and lips. Dampening them with his tongue he said:
‘You shouldn’t be doing that yourself, sir. Let me help you.’ He walked over to where Spannocs was standing and went down on his knees to him. Spannocs pulled his dressing gown around Tony’s head, opened his mouth, closed his eyes and slowly tilted his head back.
* * *
Spannocs’ arrived at the Becland Diamond conference centre, home of the Cattlemen’s Association in Texas to a rapturous crowd. His chauffeur parked outside the main entrance as the door was opened by one of the centre’s ushers. A crowd lined the entrance each side of the red carpet that had been laid out especially for him. He couldn’t help smiling and nodding at this show of affectation from business colleagues and associates for this was one glittering array of the biggest mavericks, whores, perverts, and child abusers that had ever been assembled under one roof. And he was the man responsible for their wealth creation and them being there.
Shown to the centre of the top table he took his place and surveyed the gathering; and all the while smiling and nodding at their clapping and hooting that had become their trademark until called to order by the master of ceremonies for the evening who introduced one of the finest examples of shape-changers in the business: ‘May I introduce you all to the most delightful and effervescent artiste in the business, Miss Poppy Tupper, Trannie to the Stars.’
He stepped forward. ‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ he said. Pulling up a real leopard-skin dress above his crotch to reveal a full set of male accoutrements to a rapturous applause announced, ‘How’s that for a lustre cluster?’ To further acclaim he used his fingertips and pushed the whole lot up inside himself to a gasp, removed his matching leopard skin top hat, taking a bow as a full-blown looking woman. ‘Thank you very much ladies and gentlemen and I give you your guest of honour for the evening, Mr. Frederik Spannocs, founder of the Cattlemen: mine host.’ The ovation went for a full five minutes before he rose to his feet; held up his hand for silence. As the noise died down he began smiling.
‘Now that’s what I call all things to all men, Miss Poppy Tupper, ladies and gentlemen, the thinking man’s confusion.’
They clapped once more. Miss Poppy Tupper stood up, bowed and walked off into the wings.
He began. ‘Everyone of you have been given the opportunity to make money to a level that you could only have dreamed of before you came over to the dark side. He laughed. So did they. ‘Now we are to embark on the greatest show on earth. A show that will take us to a level of human endeavour that man has only ever dreamt of before; but which I have the power to grant to all of you that follow me. We will ascend into evil on a scale that has never before been seen. The total annihilation of all things attributed to the Master of the Universe and Creator. He has got it wrong, Satan is the only real power broker here, and do you know why, ladies and gentlemen?’ He looked round his audience, but was not expecting an answer. ‘Because, ladies and gentlemen, that is the only power that leaders’ of the world exert to control their people. Evil. Not the abhorrent word that we have all become accustomed to, but a word that we should take to our mouths and scream out with faith and sincerity. The new word for love. Love is the word that has become synonymous with evil. It is the other way round. And if any of you have any doubts, why do you think that the Creator; the one they call Messiah, does not object to what is going on in the control of His flock. He used his hands to exaggerate the word. ‘It’s because, ladies and gentlemen, He’s gone! He doesn’t care! It’s man that has driven him into the oblivion that he resides. He doesn’t care. He doesn’t exist for man anymore. Does that make sense to thinking people?
He did care, before Man put the Jew with the name of Jesus citing him, the Son of God. The same man that enjoyed parties, kept the company of whores and moneymen; was called a glutton and a drunkard; and a friend of sinners. What Father of Creation is going to want him for a Son? And what’s the difference between the so-called Son of God, an ordinary man, and any of us here? None at all. When man doesn’t care who they put up as example of goodliness and morality, why should He hang around to be affronted? He’s gone! You have no one to answer for. You can do, as you like. Now doesn’t that make you feel a whole lot better about yourselves, ladies and gentlemen? Think about it. No guilt. No conscience gnawing away at you. Does that not appeal, ladies and gentlemen? ... I give you ... God! Sod off, don’t come back!’
He held up a glass and the audience stood up from their tables as one with glasses full to take the adoration and with one word, SATAN!
Tony Di Sotto turned round to face his master from a table near the top, stood up and raised his glass: ‘Frederik Spannocs the new Prince of Darkness and Son of God.’
The whole audience repeated the mantra amid roaring and hooting; and Spannocs stood proud and grinning, to be the person responsible for maintaining the most successful paedophile ring in America; and that which, with the blessing of a government department known as administrative (annexe ii-38) section pen.gov, was beyond the reach of law.
He smiled to himself. A mortal on earth that couldn’t be touched. Only she could do that. And she buried until he was ready. The most important scientific breakthrough for mankind, and he had concealed it from the FBI, the CIA, and more importantly, The Order of the Most Divine Third Circle.
And here they were: his disciples. Wealthy — he’d made them that right enough, for a short time. They might be happy enough at the moment but the plans he had for them were about to be realised. For his part he was not worried that they controlled the country’s wealth by one means or another. All the assets and the connections. When the time came he would show them that they were nothing more than people of straw with short gene expectation. Connected one to another by the infection of evil it would drag them and their offspring into a pit of desperation for eternity. This gathering. These people. Were destined for a journey with no future. A journey of life that
will see none of their dna being passed on for processing into the next generation. And the only acceptable pact between good and evil: God and Satan. It would be none of his doing. Suicide, or at each other’s hand was all the same to him. He thought, He’d got that right when He said, To be carnally minded is death. But first he would break them.
It was remarkable that none of them could see their destiny — it was there for any with half an eye, except when you’re too close and involved. When the Internal Revenue comes calling in their unaccountable assets; when they would be in need of a hasty retreat to other ownerships’. The problem would be their secondary assets — they couldn’t or wouldn’t give those away so easily. The high school fees, the homes in Martha’s, the boats on the Keys — and their social standing, without which there would be no reconnection when the axe fell and he got back everything that they had so pleasurably worked for.
‘That’s it Spannocs, enjoy yourself. Great show. I bought three — they’ll make more than I could hope to make as a trader on Wall Street in five years, and it’s all down to my meeting you, thanks. Can I get you a drink?’
‘No thanks, I’m fine, you go along and enjoy your purchases before you sell them on.’ He smiled at him and nodded at his wife, without any guidance they are so corruptible.
Another approach. Damn he thought to himself.
‘Frederik!’ A voice called across to him. He recognised this one. Bernard Ritchie.
‘Rich! Nice to see you again,’ he said straight faced and bored.
Bernard Ritchie shook his hand. ‘Great do, Frederik, you could always lay on a bash. And the people. There must be everyone that’s anyone here,’ he said looking around the large ballroom.
Frederik smiled. ‘Well, not quite, but nice of you to say so, if you’ll excuse me....’
Bernard Ritchie never could take a hint and carried on. ‘How’s Mexico? Still got that gorgeous estate down there?’
‘Oh, yes.’
‘And your manservant, what was his name Tony? er ...’
‘Tony Di Sotto, yes he’s still with me. A long time now, and the only man that I can trust. Now, if you’ll excuse me, Rich—’
Putting his arm around his shoulders said. ‘Come on, Frederik, there’s no need for you to treat me like that, have a drink. Alfonse! Alfonse!’ An immaculately well-presented dinner-jacketed Brick shithouse of a man with shaven head and tattoos up to his ears, an earpiece; and a man with the attitude Attila the Hun would die for came to his service. ‘Alfonse, a drink for Mr. Spannocs, what was it now, oh! Yes, I remember ... absinthe, I believe. Alfonso-o-o, if you wouldn’t mind?’
The Brick gave him an air of disdain and looked to Spannocs for approval to drop him and throw him out down the stairs.
Spannocs touched him on the shoulder. ‘Thank you, Alfonse, absinthe will be fine, humour me ...’
‘And don’t forget the cigar, Al-fonso, babe.’
Spannocs nodded at the Brick. Whispering: It’s alright the man’s a wanker, I’ll deal with it, using an expression of combined hand and face movements.
Bernard put his arm round Spannocs’s shoulder. ‘We’ll be over there, Al-fonso!’ He directed Spannocs to a table in the corner sitting him down. ‘There’s been something I’ve been meaning to ask you for some time now; I’ve been having trouble getting through to your man, Tony Di Sotto....’
Spannocs got up to leave. ‘I’m afraid I haven’t the time to socialise any longer I’ve business to attend.’ Spannocs gave him a cold eye look, but Bernard Ritchie chose to ignore it.
‘... Yes, he could do with being taught some manners, does your Tony. But to the point. Now, let’s just say, that thanks to you I’ve made my fortune and want nothing more to do with you or this organisation. I have a new life and don’t want to be connected with this one any longer. Bad reputation when it comes to socialising and the children’s high school, know what I mean, Spannocs?’
He looked him in the eye. ‘Do you now. Well, Ritchie, it doesn’t quite work like that does it? When you came to me, and wanted into this I promised that I would make you what you have admittedly become — filthy rich. In return you promised a certain allegiance to the organisation; when I said there would be no leaving, did you, or did you not tell me that that wouldn’t be a problem?’
‘Yeh, well, things are different now, I’ve got the money and I know a lot more about you. You see, Spannocs I’ve enough on you to put you behind bars for a long time, so you see the boot is rather on the other foot now.’
‘What you see and what you perceive, Rich; and what I see, and what I perceive, are world’s apart. You can no more leave this organisation than I can. As for blackmail, forget it, or ...’ He pulled him to one side and whispered in his ear, ‘... It’ll be you that is reported to the authorities for child abuse. Where would your nice family television show be with that over your head if they were to get wind of you being a child molester, trafficker, and serial paedophile, um?’
‘Don’t threaten me, Spannocs, I’ve enough on you to wash you up first, you’ve more to lose than me.’
Spannocs flicked his fingers. ‘I don’t think so ... Alfonse.’
The Brick came over with Spannocs’s absinthe. ‘Ah, Alfonso, babe, while you’re there....’
Spannocs’s finger directed him.
Alfonse picked Bernard Ritchie up from the table manhandling him enthusiastically down the stairs and out into the street. There he gave him a kicking before returning to the party.
Charlie O’Hare giving the impression of a passer-by, waiting for all to clear kneeled down beside him.
‘Bernard Ritchie. You alright?’
‘Do I look it, you Irish twat?’
‘And is that Frederik Spannocs’s bash up there?’
‘Aren’t you interested in the help I’ve given you, twat? I’m injured. Get me to a hospital or something.’
‘You don’t want much do you, reverend? You’ve been a perverted piece of humanity all your life, now you want our help ... tell me, is Spannocs there or not?’
‘Yes!’
Charlie rose and kicked him in the stomach. ‘Thanks for the help. Officer! Take the reverend away, will you?’
* * *
Spannocs felt strangely ill at ease and couldn’t work out why? Something was amiss and it didn’t seem his conversation with Bernard Ritchie was the cause. He would be squashed like a fly — and soon — no man on earth could be a problem to him. Perhaps it was the remnants of Marco Giuseppi, trying to solve a problem in human terms that was coming to the fore that was troubling him. He had before. He would, of course, continue to enjoy the human pleasures as long as he was in this state, he might as well. He didn’t have to carry the rest of human baggage, though, and that was all it was he was sure.
The band was playing that infernal Shaft theme; the audience amply lubricated, were applying themselves enthusiastically to the occasion. But he was still at odds with himself and still they came to him. Congratulating. Shaking his hand. Patting him on the shoulders. Thanking him for their successes. Tight lipped and with the merest acknowledgements he walked out of their company towards a group of hostesses that were congregating at one of the bars. Surrounded by men, with personalities and manners that in an ordinary event wouldn’t pull virgins from a leper colony; he shoved them away one at a time. They laughingly protested until they saw his expression, and made their excuses.
Dressed in the scantiest of clothing: theatre costumes, thigh-length boots, they appealed to his sense of the dramatic. Another throwback to his host? Still it was fantasy that he could empathise and take pleasure in, which was as intended.
There was a redhead that he picked out standing in the middle of three others. She caught his attentions and smiled at him. He might be number one here, but he was good-looking for all that. Blonde slick-backed hair tied into a ponytail with a black ribbon, his half-tanned skin and well-cut grey suit. His lips were on the corpulent side, with a tongue that was long; but that would
be no bad thing when it came to cunnilingus.
‘Anything I can get you, Mr. Spannocs?’
She had the look of a Western Belle. A Southern paddle-ship’s card sharp’s good luck moll. Emerald green costume decked in baubles and fringes, her hair piled high on her head, a matching green choker with a pearl in the centre.
He smiled back. ‘I should say that you could all get me something before the nights’ through,’ he said looking around at the rest of the girls that had heard the conversation and were becoming interested.
‘Think you’re fit enough for all of us do you, Mr. Spannocs?’ The voice came from a girl with an Austrian accent.
‘Hilda. How are you? Haven’t seen you since Eva Bron’s bash — still sporting the plaited hair I see — shame the Fuhrer but he was getting into deep water for my ego.’
She smiled at him. Her waxed eyelashes gave her a permanent expression of surprise.
A handmaiden from the Roman period interrupted them. ‘Don’t listen to his prowess, girl’s, it’s been his same old cry up and down the centuries.’
Her hair was blonde and ringed. A toga dress cut to the waist revealed more than an ample bust.
‘All of that. Can you still raise it like you used to after all those year?’ she laughed with the others.
He struggled with himself again. They looked at each other with a mixture of anxiousness and embarrassment and thought that, perhaps, they had gone too far. Quite suddenly, he laughed.
He spoke slowly but was clearly not right. ‘You all come back to me.’ He snapped out of it. Repeated himself. Went onto say, ‘We’ll all play.’
Another redhead was the next to speak. The lover of Pablo Sauno, the infamous instrument of torture belonging to Pope Innocent I, an ally of the devil for his good works against Christians. ‘Sounds good to me, what do you all think?’ She looked from side to side at the others.