by Peter Marks
And I’m almost as crazy as he is.
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‘You can call me Nathan, no-one else does,’ Nathan suggested, by now almost clinically pissed. So overly friendly.
Stooping forward in the leather cradle, he accepted another glass of the clear chill liquid that was assisting his stupor. (A glass which also bore the indelible W imprint. Christ, the Wanker Logo was on everything. Was this a mark of ownership or just another incarnation of an unfettered ego?)
‘Thank-you sir. I’d like that.’ Michelle smiled.
‘Nathan.’
‘Yes, Sir.’
‘No... Nathan.’
‘Yes, Sir Nathan.’ God, this is like some Marx Brothers routine she thought, grinning.
‘No. Simply Nathan.’ Nathan corrected. Just as I thought, Michele thought, her grin exploding as she handed him an afternoon snack. Nathan, gazing at her, decided to kick start his brain and make a move. He’d given up on the computer half an hour ago and started drinking glass after glass of Champagne served to him by this walking wonderful. Pissed, the alcohol was now overpowering any innate lack of self-confidence. Unfortunately for Michelle.
‘I’m sorry if I’ve seemed a little abrupt,’ Nathan apologised, staring at her. ‘I’m not used to respect ...or people being so nice to me,’ he said, her vivacious blue eyes responding. ‘I suspect that every-one around me only likes me because their future, their mortgages and their kid’s expensive education depend on it. This is all new to me and it makes me uneasy,’ he said uneasily. Michele, bending over him, laughed the soft laugh of his every passion drenched dream. Nathan was a gonna.
She wondered what she should say. ‘That’s okay. I’m too young to worry about the future, I don’t have a mortgage or children and... ‘ She hesitated, tossing up whether she should test his sense of humour. ‘....I don’t like you,’ she reassured him, giggling, having visions of standing in the unemployment cue for her insolence. Nathan didn’t flinch. Instead he laughed.
‘Good, then we’ve got something in common,’ he said. With an outstretched arm, he beckoned her. ‘Take a seat,’ he asked, almost begging. ‘Please,’ he added, pointing to the nearest chair and hoping manners would sway her if job security and the Turbo Porsche couldn’t.
Accepting the offer, she sat elegantly opposite, smiling so genuinely that for one fleeting moment Nathan actually believed she may not mind baby sitting him.
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While he’s getting his jollies, let me tell you something. If you think I’m unusual - a freak, a throwback, an oddity, something peculiar to the peculiar Wright, guess again! You’ve all got me. Every-one has.
I am the skull voices. I am the counsel of conflicting emotions who sits in judgement of your every move, your every action; every activity in which you, the host human, indulges.
We’re the senses, the accumulation of experience, the psyche, the id, the jigsaw of personality. The very quick, the essence. THE VOICE!
(Then again, I could be wrong. Maybe I’m just a gift bequeathed from some erring genes).
Chapter Four
HIS MASTERS VOICE
CLEARLY, INSANITY WAS the second best thing that ever happened to him. Or so Wright believed
considering recent events, his head back, eyes closed, day-dreaming. Dream dumb, he was thunking about airhostesses. Why the usually beautiful but brain on permanent holiday seem to have a such particularly exotic reputation. Hell, every male he knew had wanted one. For Christmas. Or Easter. But mainly for sex.
Judging from Wright’s experiences over the past few years, such a reputation was no longer viable. Some of the hostesses on some of the airlines he’d flown, prior to buying his own, had been older than he was (and he was older than the Sphinx and decaying more rapidly).
Obviously the managements of some airlines don’t fully comprehend the baser instincts of the male traveller. They’ve neglected the immutable truth that one of the major reasons men fly (rather than take a bus, which is slower but cheaper and gives you a better choice of menus served on chipped plates at petrol reeking roadhouses) is the secret longing to seduce an airhostess. Or, worth even more points on the RootHer Scale, be seduced by one.
It’s a fantasy all males have enjoyed sometime. But times are grim.
In Wright’s fetid opinion, whoever legislates to allow the old chooks who now wander the aisles of aircraft equal rights with the young and attractive - whoever hires these beings from the We Were Last Propositioned When The Wright Brothers Still Sucked Oxygen Retirement Village, should be immediately excommunicated. And forced to fly with them.
Let them dream of seducing the recently dead he’d wail. Let them be served by some doddering damsel in a pair of two metre thick support hose valiantly trying to contain the flood of varicose veins within. Let them get excited over some-one resembling their mother. Or Grandmother at the rate the situation is deteriorating.
They’ll take the bus.
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Sexist pig! THE Wright is way too ancient to be so violently opposed the company of women his own age (and disposition i.e. senile).
Believe me, I’ve tried to reform him. But he won’t be budged. He says if you can’t imagine sleeping with them, then they aren’t worth the paper their birth certificates, which are the root (or in this case, rootless) of the problem, are written on.
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Giggling like an ether'd hyena, sitting on Wright’s knee as drunk as he was, she seemed happily resigned to her fate. The plane was five hours out of Hong Kong and Michele seemed to have modified her opinion of him. Maybe miracles do happen, maybe she actually liked him? Certainly he was an acquired taste and she didn’t seem too distressed by his attentions.
Then again, maybe she still disliked him. Perhaps she was simply as clever and ambitious as way too many of Wright’s previous girlfriends had been. Perhaps she just realised that bonking the boss wasn’t a bad career move. Maybe she’d not have done what she was about too had there been a more genetically advanced alternative.
Basically, sadly, Nathan believed she did what she did for the exact same reason most of the other women in his life had. He got her drunk. Then he’d gotten her paralytic.
Then perpendicular against the wall of the cloak closet.
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By Rome, the letch had joined the mile high club and another of the wanker’s long held fantasies became a pleasing reality. I didn’t approve. Poor girl, she should have more sense than to let Wright invade her.
As for Wright, I told him he should feel guilty. That this woman worked for him so he had no right to seduce her. But he claimed I was wrong. That he was Wright and who could argue?
More to the point, who’d bother?
Admittedly times had changed. Altered. Got better. Where once only debt collection agencies and the odd chemically imbalanced friend knew his name, now he was famous. He’d made the cover of Fortune, Time, Forbes. And Mad magazine. He’d even made the list of Australia’s 50 most eligible bachelors. Unfortunately this was not the thrill he’d anticipated it to be.
It was no contest. It was no contest because the general prerequisite for inclusion amongst these stud luminaries was this: you had to be a Wanker. Which he was. One only needs refer to his business card for confirmation.
Or worse - spend five minutes talking to him.
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Each time Wright shifted in the seat, the soft leather growled as if the animal culled for this sad purpose still lived and loudly resented being ridden by such a cow-arsed cowboy.
Wright, his lap now empty of girl or computer, she having retired to the bed in the back to recover her senses, the computer asleep in its case, gazed out the window searching for any snow capped mountains.
Haunting the slopes was one of Wright’s favourite pastimes and he was looking forward to the two weeks in St. Moritz booked for him. By some-one els
e. It was one of the infantile things about being inordinately rich - you didn’t need to do anything. Everything was taken care of by others paid to please. Childish really, there was a team of people all running about catering to his every whim like some vast extended family.
Wright, more aware than ever of how money manipulated, knew he could hire people to do anything he chose. So long as the money was right. He could hire some-one to cook, another to do the laundry and iron his shirts. Some-one to clean his shoes and do the shopping. Some-one to fetch and carry. (And some-one to wipe his bum for him Wright didn’t doubt).
Really, it was appalling what could be brought. Criminal that almost nothing couldn’t be. Although Wright had always considered that there wasn’t a person or item on the planet that was beyond the wallet, recent experiences had certainly done nothing to dispel the view.
Certainly love wasn’t. It explained why beautiful women were so often seen seated in growling black Porsches or massive Mercedes adjusting their coiffured hair, or dark sunglasses, stuck next to some hideous bloated toad; grotesque men with a body and face only a bank could love.
That his wallet may prove more attractive than he was, now that he actually owned one worth stealing, caused Nathan not a moment’s disquiet. Wright had quite happily joined the ranks of the once despised - those terrible toads with expensive autos. He readily accepted that the wallet was now as much a part of him as his eyes, smile or character. He saw no distinction or dishonour. Poverty may be character building. But wealth was building’s building and Wright preferred a penthouse to personality any day.
From bitter experience, it was apparent that poor; good eyes, bright smile or charming character were of minimal use to any male if they couldn’t afford to pay a girl to appreciate them. It was why he was so thrilled that, now rich, his money, instead of being mute, talked. In fact serenaded women in operatic tones.
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Before you read on, there’s something you should know.
This is all my fault, I wrote most of this trash. Wright is too dull to appreciate, or even begin to understand the intricacies of his existence. Or what actually transpired. So I’ve decided to do the job for him. Record the events.
There’s no choice, I am THE VOICE and I was there when IT happened, so I’m as reliable a witness as he’ll ever find. Or you’ll ever get. Truth is a particularly elastic concept and reality is what you believe it to be and believe you me, the truth of his recent reality is as weird as it gets.
Or so Wright claims. Actually, when one doesn’t exist, as I don’t, anything is easy to swallow.
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In the en suite, the taps were gilt gold. In the bed, the naked Michele, lying sensuous and stripped amongst strangled grey sheets, was a golden guilt.
Wedged in a corner of the small but sumptuously appointed room, the large bed occupied most of the available space. The grey carpeted floor was littered with empty champagne bottles and discarded day wear.
Wiping stray streaks of dark make-up from leaden eyes, Michele manoeuvred herself to the side table to sip quietly from a tall crystal glass of still bubbling Moet, her senses obviously not regained sufficiently to avoid Wright’s continuing 1.812cm. overtures.
She was living, heavy breathing proof that anyone who claimed money couldn’t buy love had never experienced the delights of a girl on a waterbed at 30,000 feet.
Sure, maybe it wasn’t the soggy Barbara Cartland, Mills & Boon type love. But it was certainly of the variety Wright loved - lust. Love of the uncomplicated and unlikely to injure variety. Hauling herself partially upright, taking care not to spill the contents of the glass, she turned to Nathan.
‘Do you like me Nathan?’ she enquired sleepily, brushing a gathering of stray hair from a serene face.
‘Why don’t you ask me if I love you?’
‘I’m not that dumb,’ she replied, knowingly.
‘You’re blonde...’ He observed, as if this explained everything.
‘And you are the result of some hairdresser’s worst nightmare. So what?’
‘I knew you wouldn’t respect me in the morning,’ Nathan grinned, chasing her left breast as it slid lazily across a xylophone rib cage, amazed at how quickly she’d learned to verbally joust with him without worrying what she said. Or that he could fire her at any minute if she was wittier than he was. Or so he threatened. Michele just laughed, advising him he was only a half wit so there was no point for, given this, by definition, every-one was wittier than he was. Wright surrendered.
‘Do you sleep with all your staff?’ She enquired curiously, casually avoiding another frenzied grope.
‘Only the females.’
‘That’s reassuring.’
‘No. That’s a sexual preference.’ He assured her, left eye-brow raised in carnal confirmation. Eyes fixed on the nipple bulls-eyes of her breasts, Wright drew breath then, springing from the sheets, leaped at the floating orbs. But she was too quick for him. Deftly, grabbing the nearest shield, she protected her twin chests behind a pervert proof cushion.
‘Besides. I’ve trained diligently my entire life to become a dirty old man....’ Wright leered, the assault unsuccessful. Disappointed, he retreated between the sheets to anxiously await the next unveiling.
Michele laughed at his admission. ‘And you’ve succeeded admirably,’ she smirked, still holding tight to the padded bra. ‘Any chance of a debilitating disease arresting your primal urges before the women of Europe suffer my fate?’ She giggled as Nathan chased her out of bed, tumbling about the tiny room after her in hot pursuit of the even faster fleeing, bouncing as they fled, objects of interest.
The room he chased her about appeared to have been hit by a force ten hurricane. It was a disaster area. There were empty bottles, discarded snacks, ejected clothing and orphan underwear everywhere, including several unidentified items draped over the light fittings. (Had there been a chandelier, no doubt Wright would have found something to drape over that too. Michelle hanging nude and nubile Wright fantasised).
Five minutes later, after trying to talk some sense into her about letting him into her, his mouth was occupied with a more important matter.
‘Nnnoort bwudy likely,’ he replied to the question put to him minutes ago, his tongue busy erecting a nipple monument to his prowess of pursuit. Michele didn’t look too displeased at being caught. Or cornered. One leg was splayed over the dresser, the other sensuously extended to the floor.
Between them now, Nathan sat poised. Seemingly, his pit pupils were in search of some smuggled contraband hidden within. Then several customs fingers got involved in the hunt. Then all hell broke loose. There was banging and thumping, moaning and groaning. Energy expended, bodies writhed.
Michele was on top, Nathan was fucked.
Ten minutes after his attempt at another heaving liaison (and following a bribe of two thousand dollars) she’d decided to release him. From the sleeper hold she’d been restraining him with for nine of the previous ten minutes. Apparently, this sudden defence of her honour was the result of him trying to jump her bones again without first offering her his hand in marriage. Lying prone, propped on two elbows, still panting from this unexpected wrestle with the wench, Michele standing triumphantly naked over him, Nathan thought about offering her his hand. And inserting it between her thighs.
‘Do you dye your hair?’ Wright enquired, gazing at the curled, moist foliage.
‘No, oh peroxided one.’ She giggled, a light sweat bubbled on her brow. She’d sure gotten familiar over the last few hours Nathan thought.
‘I don’t mean there,’ he said, pointing to a region near her left ear. ‘I mean there.’ He qualified, touching, not pointing, to a lower region, curling the short golden strands about a gathering index finger.
‘If they weren’t dyed before, they’re certainly dead now,’ she sighed languorously, soft hands drawing an upturned face to the silken strands spread delicately t
rimmed between again inviting thighs.
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‘I think it’s time I returned to work,’ she said softly, standing to shower, shedding a ghost grey silhouette over the tunnel interior.
‘I thought you were working,’ Nathan grinned stupidly, lying there contentedly, adjusting a flock of finely embossed pillows until he was more comfortable with the arrangement.
‘Just a little light exercise,’ she replied dismissively, walking casually naked toward the en suite bathroom. Adjusting the taps until the temperature was insufficient to boil an egg, Michele launched herself at the refreshing wetness.
On celebrating the fifth anniversary of her entry, or so Wright said, when the hot water finally ran cold, she later argued, she stepped lightly onto lake tiles.
As the mist cleared, after drying herself on a towel the size of a Bedouin tent, Michelle gathered her make-up. Revitalised by the cleansing downpour, she moved to the mirror to rebuild herself. Strange. The vapour clad surfaces were caked in a mass of thick white goo.
‘What have you done in here?’ She asked concerned, suddenly wondering if Nathan was as crazy as he claimed he was for Wright had sprayed shaving foam over every mirror of the mirror lined bathroom. He’d done this in an effort to stop his reflection taunting him every time he visited the place.
His explanation to her was simpler. He said that he needed walls. Not insults.
‘You need a lobotomy. You’ve covered every inch of every mirror. How am I supposed to see what I’m doing?’
‘Try the lake on the floor.’