Wright Left

by Peter Marks

  And as old as Wright soon would be.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  THE EMPIRE STRIKES BACK

  IT WAS BITTERLY COLD. The tarmac was a black mass of recent puddles and the wind shook gale force across the expanse of runways. It was a typically balmy London winter night. The aircraft, tucked into Bay 57, was now empty of every Wanker. Every Wanker but Wright. His rat pack executives hadn’t had the benefit of bed or sleepy sex so they’d fled the confines on touchdown. Gathering their bags and belongings, they’d cleared off to the Wanker owned Park Hotel to shower and sleep.

  ‘Nikkie. How goes it?’ Wright, the last to leave, grinned as Nicola, and three of the local Wankers bounded toward him up the metal steps, their footfall clanging an anvil strike welcome. Nicola gave The Boss a warm hug as she reached him, removing the black leather bag from his grasp and passing it to one the uniformed others’ who accompanied her.

  ‘It goes well BOSS,’ she laughed, emphasising Wright’s new role in her new life while barking orders to the two other uniforms to see to the rest of Nathan’s luggage. ‘Christ Nathan,’ she frowned, noticing Wright’s undignified attire, ‘I’m going to have to take you shopping. We can’t have Chairman Wanker wandering the streets of London dressed like a Chairless Wanker. You look poorer than the servants...’

  It was 3 in the morning and attire was not high on Wright’s list of priorities. He was too excited for jet lag and stood breathing in the frigid night air in triumphant return.

  ‘Leave me alone. I’m rich and eccentric..’

  ‘And the wearer of five week unwashed socks I’ll bet.’

  Throbbing dully in the dark, the engines of the Boeing still whirred smoothly. Michele, warm coat around chilled shoulders, appeared in the doorway to grasp Nathan's gloved hand in a touching show of bonk earned ownership.

  ‘Nicola, Michele. Michele, Nicola.’ Nicola glanced at Nathan and noticed the smile on his face.

  ‘You don’t need to introduce us Nathan. I hired this poor girl to wait on you remember? And from the stupid grin on you’re face I’m about to be hauled into the Old Bailey on charges of procuring,’ she giggled, leaning to shake Michele's outstretched hand.

  ‘Hi Michele, how was the flight? I’m sorry to have inflicted this degenerate on you, but he signs the cheques so I no choice.’ Michele shook Nicola’s gloved hand and smiled.

  ‘Okay Nik, do you have to apologise for me here? It’s freezing. Can we go inside and then you can explain my degeneracy to Michele in grim detail.’

  ________________

  Now important as THE Billionaire Chairman of Wanker Wright, customs and immigration was quick and painless. He kissed Michele goodbye, gave her a long grateful hug then thanked her for making the flight such a pleasure and made arrangements to meet her for dinner that night at Claridges.

  Michele was happy that Nathan wanted to see her again. The date proved she’d not been just a one flight stand.

  ________________

  It had been surprisingly simple over the last six months, and two further Doubledays, to stretch credibility and the bank balance beyond the $100 million mark. With judicious use of his extravagant resources, and clever refusal to utilise the services of any money management professionals whom he regarded as thieves and cutthroats, Nathan had brought companies, stock, shares and property and lifelong security in a meteoric rise to being the world’s fifth richest man.

  He’d learned that it did take money, didn’t take brains, to make more money. It was why most of the populace of the planet remained poor, too few had the resources to buy further resources.

  Having learned that it took no genius to do this, his respect for the wealthy deteriorated at the same rate he made easy money. With easy money.

  ________________

  Nestled comfortably next to Nicola in the back of the rail carriage long, polished grey Wanker limousine, Wright bent to turn on the small television that was fitted neatly into the black leather dash

  ‘Well, that’s one thing that hasn’t changed,’ Nicola said, removing a bottle of vintage French champagne from the small refrigerator installed below the array of dials and nobs of cockpit proportions that somehow controlled the state of the art stereo system. ‘You’re still an addict,’ she smiled, thinking she’d need a pilots license to work that lot, pouring the frothing bubbly into a long stemmed, W icon, crystal glass and sat back to enjoy the chauffeured luxury.

  ‘And you’re still an alcoholic,’ Wright argued, flipping channels. ‘Did you get me Kelly’s address?’

  Nicola put the glass down. Looking serious, she turned to Wright. ‘Are you sure about this?’

  ‘Of course I’m sure. It’s a matter of honour. Besides, I want to see if she’s as superficial ...as easily impressed by wealth as I think she was.’ The pitch dark memories of his lost love were still bitter and beyond reasonable. Wright had spent money on revenge of others who’d given him grief when he was poor so powerless, and now, with enough cash and influence, Kelly was about to be included in his gleeful vendetta.

  She was another wrong to be Wrighted.

  ________________

  Daniel P. Futa was short and dumpy. And so pale that he resembled an ice sculpture when stationary. About the only thing attractive to the untrained observer was his bank balance. Kelly was no fool and fell in love; with his vault not his veneer and now Futa had replaced Nathan - Kelly’s ex fertility Wright.

  Wright, busy buying things he didn’t need, was oblivious to all this for ages because no-one had dared tell him of her or her mating practices for fear he may froth. And fume. And start calling her wicked names again.

  To keep Wright balanced (and to make sure he didn’t start calling her a Kunt again) they had simply lied when he’d asked how Kelly was getting on.

  Or getting off.

  ________________

  Attached above massive plate glass front doors, a winged neon W shone luminous in the fog blanket morning. Wright had arrived at Wanker Corp. Headquarters and although he’d seen photographs of it, the property was even more impressive than he’d imagined. Wearing a warm long coat over an icon infested uniformed, the doorman dipped his cap respectfully to Nicola, not knowing who Wright was, and held the door open for them. It must be monotonous and cold Wright thought as he followed Nicola but he favoured the old style of doing business, employed people to do jobs machinery now seemed to monopolise. Even menial tasks like grovelling and holding a door open. At least another who wasn’t unemployed.

  ‘So this is home,’ Wright, wide-eyed, breathing deeply satisfied, admired, running a kid gloved hand over the imposing marble block just inside the doorway that identified this location as the Headquarters of the Wanker Corporation, and listed another fifty international off-shoots on the plane of chiselled black stone which vaulted from floor to ceiling in solid confirmation of the sheer size of Wright’s ever expanding empire. In another corner of the foyer, exhaling clear streams of dancing water, a grey marble fountain gushed in loud welcome. There were tall palms scattered amongst plush leather couches and a wall of video screens flickering energetically behind a steel framed, polished black, reception desk. The decor was Corporate black and greys, the carpet nimbus grey and interwoven with a subtle pattern of small, tone matched winged W’s.

  Nodding acknowledgment to the young, pretty, Wanker uniformed receptionist, Wright wandered about examining this, his prime piece of London, a tall black citadel overlooking the river Thames in the heart of the City - ten stories of sheet glass, modern in design, sleek in structure.

  ‘Impressive. You’ve done a fine job Nik. It must have cost an arm and a leg,’ Wright whistled, adjusting a $200 silk tie. Nathan was wearing an outfit which Nicola, knowing Wright’s catastrophic lack of appropriate attire, had brought weeks before his arrival. Wright wore a $2,000 Amani suit, a $300 Hermes white shirt, fresh socks and jocks and a pair of gleaming black $750 shoes. About to meet the Wankers who worked for him,
he was grateful for Nicola’s clothes peg initiative. Grateful to be in full battle dress knowing that people took him more seriously when he looked like the immature offspring of some fat merchant banker.

  ‘Your arm and your leg,’ Nicola reminded him watching Wright’s brow furrow in credit concern. ‘Actually, considering the state of your finances, this lot hardly amounted to a clipped fingernail,’ she grinned, waving at the ceiling, reassuring him then leading the oddly well groomed Wright toward the black polished doors of a chauffeured lift.

  ________________

  Wright had many enemies. Most of them were now doormen at one of Wright’s many Corporate offices worldwide. It was one of the peculiar ways he’d sought retribution on those he decided to persecute, thinking this was the ultimate in boring jobs. Gained revenge by paying them more money than they’d ever dreamed of to do less than an invalid

  Wright’s vengeance was often spectacularly unsuccessful.

  ________________

  ‘Hi dad, how’s it going?’ Nathan asked as the lift doors slid quietly shut.

  ‘Good son. Good morning Nicola. Top floor?’

  ‘Yes thanks.’

  ‘How’s London treating you? How’s your young girlfriend, still giving you a hard time?’ Nathan enquired, flicking through the paperback his father read between floors.

  ‘She’s good son. She’s working at Harrods...’

  ‘Why didn’t we find her a job?’ Nathan interrupted, turning to Nicola.

  ‘We did. Remember Harrods? You brought it two months ago,’ Nicola sighed, jolting Wright’s purchase packed memory.

  ‘Remember? We argued for hours when you threatened to drop the name Harrods and call the place Wanker and I said the Queen was hardly likely to continue shopping anywhere named after a habit of self abuse.’

  Nathan laughed. They were still in the lift even though they’d arrived minutes ago.

  ‘Ha. Now I remember. I was only joking but the more seriously you took it the more seriously I considered.’

  ‘Sometimes you're such a provocative bastard Nathan.’

  ‘That’s my boy,’ Wright senior beamed proudly.

  ________________

  Nathan owned so much that it was hard to keep track of his acquisitions. He’d also embraced nepotism but hadn’t taken it to ludicrous lengths by putting any of his family in senior positions where they could do any damage. Unlike what he’d witnessed in the companies he’d worked for before wealth came. Empires built by fathers and passed on to brain dead offspring. Who smartly stuffed up the years of their dad’s acumen involved effort.

  ________________

  Another thing Wright really enjoyed about being rich was that he could finally do something about rude waiters and inattentive shop assistants. His way of dealing with those he felt were ill-suited to employment and a weekly wage was to ensure they worked for him. Then didn’t. He’d brought about twenty restaurants, three department stores and assorted small shops just so he could fire the unfriendly.

  It was how he’d come to own Harrod’s.

  ________________

  A-Z open on his lap, Nathan checked the address typed in solid black letters on the white card then noticed that under the information, handwritten, there was red ink warning.

  ‘Abandon all hope ye who enter...’

  love Nicola.

  ________________

  Nathan smiled. He’d abandoned all hope at birth so ignored the scrawl. Satisfied he was in the correct street outside the correct place, he clambered out into the rain pouring down from the storm slit sky. Wright, holding firm to the wind wrenched umbrella, stood outside Number 29 wondering whether Kelly really could be brought back (literally, was going to buy her off and maybe purchase her hand).

  He didn’t warn her of his arrival. He’d deliberately kept his visit as a surprise although who was more surprised it was hard to say when he knocked at the door. Kelly certainly was, Mr. Futa surely was, only Nathan Wright wasn’t. He was more shocked than surprised.

  ‘Hi Kel, how are you.’ It wasn’t a question, merely a reintroduction. Kelly was as beautiful as he remembered, yet she also seemed a total stranger.

  ‘Nathan..’

  ‘Good guess.’

  ‘What.. how..’

  ‘Aren’t you going to invite me in? It’s Eskimo out here,’ he pleaded, his cheeks turning frost blue.

  ‘Oh, um ...of course ...come on in,’ she mumbled, holding the door open. It wasn’t the frenzy of passion Wright had hoped would welcome him. She didn’t seem thrilled at his arrival. The reason was soon to be revealed.

  Arms clasped across her chest to counteract the cold, she ushered him into the living room which was so small there was almost no room at all. For the living. There was barely enough room for three upright casks of the downright dead.

  Waiting for her, he stood at the doorway to the lounge. There was a small radiator, one orange bar glowing in the dank room, doing it’s best to warm the tiny space but from the chill inside, and the way Kelly was bundled up in doona layers of bulky clothing, it’s efforts were patently inadequate. Well at least it didn’t take much to furnish a place this size, there were just two armchairs, a coffee table and ....one short fat man. Wright’s jaw dropped.

  ‘Daniel,’ she motioned to the plump cushion in the tattered armchair, ‘this is Nathan. Nathan...’ The cushion leapt to it’s edges, rolled to the door and grasped Nathan’s hand in an iron handshake.

  ‘Futa. Daniel P. Futa. Pleased to meet you cobber.’ Dating Kelly, Daniel P. had picked up the annoying habit of calling all her friends cobber. Unfortunately, very few of them were Australian.

  ‘Wright. Wanker,’ Nathan corrected, handing him one of his finely embossed business cards, Wright was no friend of Daniel P. Futa and resented the implication.

  Must have a giant dick Wright thought, trying to break free from the palm vice attached to the toad competition. Intrigued but hostile, he silently hissed hell at the short fat American who was now standing by Kelly’s side in mocking confirmation that romantically, she was now his. Wright, not having been introduced to the man’s bank balance (which, although vast in comparison to almost any normal balance, but minuscule when rated with Wright’s) was sullenly convinced that the size of the toad’s appendage was the only reasonable explanation of this unlikely match. He wasn’t handsome, Kelly was stunning, so the only assumption Wright could reasonably draw was that Futa must be the proud processor of something truly awesome - some huge slab that stretched from there to Greenland. (while Wright’s would have been lucky to make it to the door).

  Wright neglected to realise there was only one thing women loved more than a big dick.

  The bloated bank balance.

  ________________

  This was utter, nasty nonsense. There were women who evidenced this bitter view but most women, even most Wright knew, were above being brought off. Being sensitive and civilised, most wouldn’t put wealth before love. Instead settled (moaning) on a big dick instead.

  ________________

  Futa farted. And red faced, smartly excused himself. Wright’s palm, agonisingly wrung, was grateful for the wind spent release. Kelly beaconed Nathan into the lounge, and offering to make him a warming coffee, closed the door to the hall, shutting Futa’s fart out but, much to Wright’s displeasure, letting the fartee in.

  As far as Kelly was concerned, this was the nightmare scene from a bad movie. She was utterly lost in a plot which demanded she share such an enclosed space with a wind driven current, and a wind assisted ex. Wright’s mouth was his problem, Futa’s bum was every-ones. Ushering both admirers into the cramped lounge, advising them to sit down, she crept past the cat who was asleep on one of the thick armrests, and went into the kitchen where she filled the kettle and placed it on a slow heating stove.

  In the lounge, bending to sit in the armchair where the cat rested, Futa’s bowels, collapsed by the posture, exploded
again. The cat rolled onto it’s back and played dead while Wright, seated, had pulled a fag from his pocket and thrown it casually, and with great accuracy between parted lips, sniffed the blast and decided it was too risky to continue. Didn’t dare light the cigarette in case he ignited Futa’s farts and blew them all to hell (ie back to Melbourne).

  Unable to smoke, hardly able breath from the stench, Wright escaped to the kitchen where Kelly was hunched over a teaming sink rinsing some cups. Nathan crept up behind her and wrapped two hands over her suddenly blind eyes.

  ‘Guess who?’

  ‘Nathan, please don’t..’ she pulled away, splashing water over Wright and the floor. ‘Now look what you’ve done,’ she huffed angrily, grabbing a dishcloth and wiping the floor then threw the wet rag at Nathan’s head. Christ, she seemed angrier with him than he was with her. And for the past six months he’d wanted to murder her. He hadn’t expected this. He knew from her absence that she was no longer his biggest fan but he’d thought she’d simply grown weary of him and his boundless poverty. He hadn’t thought that she also wanted to murder him.

  Throwing the damp cloth back in the sink, he watched her glide around the kitchen and felt the same dull ache return. He really did still love her. The way she moved, her frown, her presence. It was time to act. Nathan had rehearsed this moment month after lonely month. Practiced how he would be cool and casual, and behave as if he didn’t care. But Nathan’s emotions were not reliable allies.

  Wright was overwhelmed by her - gave his knees to the floor and his heart to his sleeve as he pleaded with her to give him a second chance. Floor bound, begging, he tried to convince her he’d changed, told her he was rich and that wealth could buy them happiness. Kelly choked, gazing guiltily over her left shoulder at a red faced Futa who had crept to the doorway of the kitchen in check of his delicious property. She knew Wright was right about one thing - Daniel was rich and they were happy.