The priest really earnt his $550 dollar marriage celebrant fee. Joe could never have fit his biography into a ten-minute speech as elegantly as Father Love, who had known him since he was an altar boy sneaking sips of the blood of Christ and secretly spitting in the holy water. Joe had transformed into a sensible young adult since then.
Father Brimstone, the man in charge of Candlevale Parish, was old school enough to insist on a pre-wedding counselling session. Somehow, the aptly named Father Love had managed to keep a straight face as he skimmed through the evils of pre-marital sex with Joe and Trish a few days before the marriage ceremony. The young couple took Satan and his lakes of fire very seriously, so seriously that one could have been forgiven for thinking they were actors in a comedy, not a twenty-one-year-old couple in 21st century Australia.
“Okay people, this won’t take long. Father Brimstone told me to stick to the script he gave me. If you have any questions it doesn’t cover, feel free to ask. I’ll do my best to answer them. You two have been each other’s favourite person for as long as either of you can remember, so I’ll skip the parts about the Vatican’s views on divorce. Obviously, you’re both strict Catholics, so you know that abortion, contraception, polyamory, adultery, pre-marital sex, masturbation and homosexuality aren’t acceptable. I wouldn’t normally discuss all those things in just one sentence, but you’re educated Catholics so there’s no need to elaborate.
No doubt, you’re aware that having sex is only okay for the purposes of procreation, that God hates it if you do it for fun, so if procreation isn’t possible for you two then the church frowns upon any bedroom shenanigans. You’re probably well aware of that, but it’s one of the core parts of Father Brimstone’s script, so I thought I better mention it. There’s a few other compulsory bits. Let me see, um… Everything else in the script is very obvious to scripture teachers and youth group leaders of your calibre actually. Unless you’ve got any questions, we’ll leave it there.”
“Is God okay with fancy underwear, you know, the kind with frills, lace and see through parts and all the rest of it?”
“I wouldn’t worry Trish. As long as the purpose of the fancy underwear is to help one to procreate, I’m sure God is fine with it. It’s no worse than colourful feathers on a bird.”
“What if it’s see through in the most intimate places, or crotchless?”
“Trish, Father Love doesn’t need that level of detail to advise you darling.”
“As long as only your husband sees the fancy underwear it really doesn’t matter Trish.”
“What about during medical appointments with my GP or gynaecologist and so on, does it matter what I wear then?”
“I don’t think the catechasm, I mean the catechism, has anything to say about that, but I recommend wearing something non-descript, something plain and purely functional for occasions when anyone besides your husband needs to examine your private parts. These days, that might be a good idea when travelling through airports too. We can’t have our customs officials getting distracted from conducting body searches in the proper manner can we. Fancy underwear can cause trouble anywhere. Some parishioners have let Father Brimstone and I know that their body is their temple by sitting in the front row, during mass, wearing miniskirts and panties reminiscent of stained-glass windows. We could do without that sort of mixed messaging. It’s just not on. They should keep Victoria’s secrets secret from everyone except their husbands and God.”
“You don’t have any more questions do you Trish?” Joe said with a pleading look in his eye. He breathed a deep sigh of relief when she shook her head.
Minutes later, in the hallway of the presbytery, Father Love and Father Brimstone leapt in the air and bumped chests as they uttered the words “It’s sin Sunday Mary fucka.” It was the one Sunday of the month when Father Pious and Father Innocent conducted both the morning and evening masses, so Father John Love and Father James Brimstone were free to run amok. Normally, they went to Fantasy Land, a brothel with a back entrance that was obscured by an overgrown garden. They always travelled there by train, to make sure their cars weren’t spotted in the vicinity.
Father Brimstone’s favourite Fantasy Land roleplay involved giving Mother Mary a good seeing to in Joseph’s carpentry workshop. The son of God and his Earthly stepfather were always collecting firewood at the time. Father Love’s favourite roleplay was largely the same, but he was more of a Joseph man, so in his fantasy it was Mary and Jesus who were out collecting firewood.
© Rodney Hunter, 2024
The Droob Shield
“Hi Devon, I’m Doctor Wilkinson, one of the psychiatrists in Candlevale Mental Health Unit, what brings you here?”
“Haven’t you read my file.”
“I haven’t actually. A computer glitch is preventing me from accessing the system. Our IT person is working on the problem as we speak. In the meantime, maybe you can enlighten me regarding how you came to be here.”
“Something that happened at my Uncle Albert’s eleventh wedding has been causing me some stress. The event just didn’t go according to plan.”
“What happened?”
“Let’s make this a guessing game. I find the facts more palatable that way. I’m not sure why, but I do.”
“Was there a problem with the catering?”
“No, that’s not it.”
“Did the wedding photographer fail to show up?”
“No, they got there early actually.”
“Did the bride fail to show up?”
“No, that’s not it, she arrived early too, everyone arrived early, except me and the DJ. He’s the one who firebombed the venue because several of the guests failed to pay him for services rendered earlier in the year, when he was working in a more controversial industry. Wandering amongst the charred remains of my family and friends is not how I wanted to spend my Saturday afternoon. I didn’t really feel like going to work the following Monday. The company counsellor sent me to you for a psychiatric evaluation. You don’t look well, are you okay doctor?”
“I think so. That’s a horrific weekend to say the least. According to Nurse Willis, you have a keen interest in reincarnation. Is it okay if we switch subjects and discuss that, or would you rather discuss the wedding disaster?”
“I’d prefer to switch subjects actually. I don’t feel like I have anything to gain by dwelling on such horrors right now. Where I’m from originally, the average person remembers their last eight lives in considerable detail. According to them and their hypnotherapists, some people can remember snippets of lifetimes from hundreds of thousands of years ago, long before the quantum computing age was conceivable. In some cases, some obscure and difficult to access historical records have helped to verify their stories. Where I come from originally, people’s memories of lives in what Earthlings like to call the spiritual realms tend to be just as vivid. People aren’t cynical about such things there, they’re much better at communicating with beings that reside entirely or partially in the hidden realms that overlap with this universe.
“I see.”
“I’m not sure that you do doctor, but that’s alright, it’s not unusual for Earthlings to be so enamoured with their five physical senses that they ignore the possibility of anything more. The time in the womb is somewhat hazy for most of my compatriots, but it’s unusual for someone not to remember fragments of it. On my home planet Droob, anyone who can’t remember anything before the first anniversary of their birth, in their current lifetime, is viewed in the same light as a human who can’t recall anything that happened more than a few minutes ago.”
“And here I was thinking that Droob was just a new age commune overseas somewhere. I’m more fascinated than ever now.”
“But you don’t believe a word of it though do you doctor.”
“I can’t honestly say that any of it sounds plausible to me, but it’s fascinating, nonetheless. If, for arguments sake, what you’re telling me is accurate, how did you travel to Earth?”
“Perhaps you’re wondering if I think I travelled here in a spacecraft, or if I believe I was beamed here Star Trek style. This so-called universe alone is far more multi-dimensional, so much more interconnected than most Earthlings imagine, so it is possible to travel between galaxies in a surprisingly short time, but I didn’t arrive here in a spaceship though.”
“You’re right, I did wonder if you think you travelled here in a spaceship. If you didn’t travel here in a ship and you weren’t beamed here, how did you get here?”
“I don’t deny that I was born on Earth Doctor.”
“So when you say that you’re from the planet Droob, you’re saying that you incarnated there in some of the past lives that you say you remember? Is that what you’re telling me?”
“As ludicrous as it sounds to a lot of Earthlings, that’s exactly what I’m saying.”
“Do you normally tell people about the planet Droob and your apparent memories of living there for several lifetimes?”
“Of course not. I’m a financial advisor. Do you think people would trust me with their money if they knew that I see myself as a citizen of the planet Droob first and an Australian citizen third? I’m a citizen of the Earth second, in case you’re wondering. I have a very cosmopolitan outlook.”
“You certainly do. These apparent memories of life on Droob that you speak of, how do they make you feel?”
“They’re a source of comfort most of the time. When you’re a Droobian you learn not to carry much emotional baggage. That’s important when you have a fairly comprehensive memory of the past millennium or two. One of the reasons we don’t remember a lot from further back is we tend not to relate to the person we were several millennia ago. Another is the constraints that a biological brain put on what Earthlings call the spirit. Between physical incarnations one can access so much more of their personal history.”
“Do you think that your apparent memories of past lives on the planet Droob have made this lifetime on Earth better or worse?”
“Being able to recall my past lives definitely makes this incarnation easier. Delving into fifteen centuries of memories, during a crisis, is more useful than reading self-help books. Does remembering lives on Droob get me some sort of label such as schizophrenic?”
“I haven’t come to any firm conclusions yet. Oh, and by the way, I avoid using words like schizophrenic. I prefer to say person with schizophrenia instead of schizophrenic, otherwise it’s too much like calling someone with leukaemia a cancer.”
“I haven’t really thought about it that way before doctor, but now I have I must say that I agree with you. I have noticed how mental illnesses such as schizophrenia are usually potrayed in a very sinister way in the movies and on the news. It seems like we rarely hear about people with schizophrenia until one of them stabs someone. I do have friends who suffer from the condition and none of them feel good about harming a cockroach let alone a member of their own species.”
“You’re better informed than the average person Devon. Trying to educate the general public about the matter can be a frustrating experience. I’ve met some cynical and ignorant people, who failed the mental health first aid course on their first and second attempts, that think they know more about mental health than the most highly regarded psychiatrists. Anyway, I digress.”
“I bet some of them were antivaxxers and flat Earthers Doc.”
“Some of them were. You might be surprised by how rational a some flat earthers and antivaxxers are in other areas of their lives though. As I was saying earlier, I haven’t reached any firm conclusions regarding your mental health yet. I don’t define mental health solely on the basis of how plausible I think a patient’s beliefs are. It’s really not my job to decide that someone is out of touch with reality simply because of how unlikely their story sounds. That might sound absurd, so I’ll explain further if you like.”
“Please do.”
“If, for example, you’d sincerely claimed that the hospital administration has been infiltrated by deceitful Droobians, who have disguised themselves as the nursing staff, my first thought would be that you’re suffering from some form of psychosis, such as schizophrenia, or schizophreniform disorder. You’ve told me about some memories that in my opinion aren’t real, memories that don’t seem to be harming anyone, memories that don’t appear to be adversely affecting your ability to function in day-to-day life. I’m much more concerned about the possible impact of the disaster that occurred on Saturday. I do have a couple more questions for you regarding the planet Droob though. When did you first develop memories of the place?”
“It all came flooding back to me yesterday in the form of a dream that lasted most of the night. I know how that sounds, but that’s what happened. I dreamt about the highlights and the lowlights of fifteen centuries of lives on Droob, and the lives in between that Earthlings call spiritual.”
“That doesn’t seem to fit in with the idea that Droobians have a fairly comprehensive memory of the last millennium or two of their existence.”
“Amnesia is extremely rare among Droobians, but not completely unheard of and it’s very common among Earthlings. You seem to have forgotten for a moment that I have incarnated as an Earthling this time around.”
“The timing of the return of these apparent Droobian memories concerns me. They could be a coping mechanism for the events that occurred on Saturday. The blase manner in which you spoke about a firebombing that killed most of your relatives and friends concerns me too. I think that you’re suppressing the true impact of the tragedy, that you’re still in a state of shock”
“And where are these views of yours leading Doctor Wilkinson?”
“I’d like to keep you in here for at least a few days to evaluate the impact of the crisis on you.”
“Would you like a game of chess doctor? Before you tell me that I’m using chess as a distraction from what ails me, I can report that I’m well aware of that.”
“If you are using chess as a form of diversional therapy, I don’t see anything wrong with that. I was just thinking about whether I can squeeze a game in. It is my lunch time, and it is a surprisingly slow day, we don’t normally have those, so why not.”
“Are you a good player Doctor Wilkinson?”
“With people like Gary Kasparov and Magnus Carlsson in the world, I don’t like to talk myself up.”
Devon pulled a marble chessboard and a chess clock from his suitcase. He pulled the crystal pieces from an ornate hand carved box that looked terribly expensive.
“Lightning, bullet, rapid or classical, the choice is yours?”
“I think we can fit in a game of rapid; ten minutes apiece probably isn’t too long.”
Devon used a crafty variation of the Sicilian opening that almost caught Doctor Wilkinson napping. The Doctor had been the best player in the local chess club for more than a decade, but Devon anticipated his tactics with consummate ease. Occasionally, he paused briefly, but they weren’t the pauses of a man who has no idea what to do next, they were the pauses of a chess warrior who hasn’t yet decided how he wishes to end proceedings. Doctor Wilkinson conceded five moves away from the inevitable.
“I wouldn’t dwell on it Doctor, there aren’t a lot of people on this planet who are competitive against me in a chess match. Not many years ago, I was rated in the 2600’s in all forms of the game. When I was thirty-eight, I was ranked 68th in the world in classical chess and in the top 100 in all the other forms of the game. I’m retired now, but I still coach grand masters. I’m still competitive against the best of the best. I’m a young fifty-five.”
“How do you find the time to be a financial advisor as well as coach elite chess players?”
“My brother runs a financial advising service and when I have time I work for him. Researching fortune 500 companies and up and comers is another passion of mine. How do you like my powers of concentration doctor, is the sort of laser focus I displayed in our chess match common in people suffering from psychosis?”
“I wouldn’t say it’s common, but it’s by no means unheard of, not everyone with psychotic delusions has difficulty focusing on the task at hand. Not everyone with a psychotic illness has disordered thinking on topics unrelated to their delusions. And it’s important to remember that I haven’t diagnosed you with anything Devon, we’re just having a casual chat to give me some indication of how you’re feeling and so you can get used to talking to me “
“Am I still a voluntary patient?”
“Yes, you are, but that could change. I’m hoping that you are willing to stay at least until you’re reassessed in three days’ time. If you choose not to stay, I’d like to refer you to one of the psychiatrists at the Candlevale District Mental Health Service for weekly appointments.”
“I’m happy to stay for a while. Maybe some of the patients who are in relatively good health would like some chess lessons.”
“There might be a few people who are interested, especially those who are due to be discharged soon. They’re more likely to be capable of focusing on something as mentally taxing as chess. Before I see some of my other patients, please tell me a little more about the star system where Droob is situated.”
“There are five habitable planets in the Droobian White Dwarf system. The differences in climate, gravity and the composition of the atmosphere etc on these five planets are subtle enough for most Droobian System species to survive somewhere on all five planets. It took many millennia for my species to develop immunity to the pathogens on the other Droob system planets though. Droob is the planet that’s right in the middle of the so-called Goldilocks zone. The equator isn’t too hot to survive and there are several major cities that are just a few hours’ drive from the poles. Droob has the most gravity of the five planets. Gravity on Droob at three thousand metres above sea level, on the equator, is virtually the same as gravity at sea level, at the poles on Quarb, the habitable planet with the least gravity. The difference between how far one can throw a ball and how fast they can run on each of the five planets isn’t blatantly obvious. Droobians have colonised all five planets but Quarb, Gorb, Lorb and Zarb don’t have any permanent residents, they’re used mostly for eco-tourism and the mining of metals and gemstones precious enough to justify the weight of the cargo.”
The more that Devon talked, the harder Doctor Wilkinson looked for contradictions in his story. At one point Devon thought that Doctor Wilkinson suspected him of using his remarkable memory to deliberately invent the Droobian White Dwarf star system and the planets Droob, Quarb, Gorb, Lorb and Zarb. Did he think Devon was a paid actor from an anti-pyschiatry association? Members of those organisations imagine that the ability of some professional actors to briefly fake psychotic illnesses is evidence that psychiatrists don’t have any real expertise.
The next day, Devon’s first words were “Doctor, I’ve had another dream that might explain why I seem to remember living on a planet called Droob.”
“Seem to remember? I haven’t heard you phrase it that way before Devon.”
“The memories still feel as real as my memories of our chess game yesterday, but I might have a reason to doubt them despite that. I dreamt about a series of ten epic fantasy novels, by a writer known as Charles Bentley the 3rd. They’re collectively known as the Droob Zone novels. I don’t know if Charles Bentley is real or not yet, because I don’t have internet access here. The shortest of those novels is over a quarter of a million words. I have a feeling that I’ve read these books several times. What I don’t understand is how I could possibly forget that. I remember chess matches in more detail than most sports historians can remember games of football so how could I forget reading a series of ten epic novels?
“Devon, there is something very comforting about the Droob Zone universe for you. It’s much more comforting when you think it’s real. Subconsciously, you know that it’s just a science fiction fantasy. Deep down, you remember reading those books, hence the dream. Maybe there’s something soothing about the sound of the word Droob too. You’ve been through a lot lately, to say the least. Something as adventurous, fascinating, and perhaps also Utopian as the Droob system is very therapeutic for you. I love a good novel myself. Reading can be a great way to relax.”
“Are you going to make me take some sort of anti-psychotic medication?”
“Personally, I don’t see the value in giving you medication to take away a world that is still a source of comfort to you, not when it isn’t interfering with your ability to function in day to day life. On the one hand, you know it’s not real, but it still feels real. You’re fortunate to have a delusion that is a source of comfort for you. Some patients feel like everyone on television is talking about them, joking and laughing about them and plotting against them. They don’t necessarily think that’s really happening, but they can’t escape the feeling that it is. It’s so much to feel like the Droob System is really out there than to think the news broadcaster and the weatherman are talking about killing you in code.”
“Doctor Wilkinson, is it a good idea to tell me about the frightening delusions that other people experience? What if those delusions are psychologically contagious?”
“Are you afraid of developing every delusion you hear about Devon?”
“No, not really, but a feeling of dread does wash over me when I hear about other peoples delusions. It seems weird to me that you brought them up.”
“It seems that I am in error, so I apologise.”
After three days in the mental health unit, Devon finally ran out of the food he’d brought with him. For the first time, he thought about how strange it was that the hospital hadn’t supplied him with meals or coffee etc. He’d had to drink from the taps in the bathrooms to stay hydrated. There hadn’t even been any sheets on his bed. He’d seen beds without mattresses and rooms without beds too. He’d wondered if he was having the opposite of a hallucination when he failed to see things that were surely there. Devon’s discussions with Doctor Wilkinson distracted him from dwelling on those details. While he was pondering the oddness of his situation, Devon was approached by a stranger in high visibility clothing.
“Sir, what are you doing here, how did you get in? There’s not supposed to be anyone in here, this building isn’t open to the public. Large parts of it are no longer structurally sound. It’s due to be demolished in a few weeks.”
“Who are you and what are you talking about? Look around you, there’s patients, nurses, occupational therapists, social workers, and psychiatrists all over the place and you’re telling me nobody is supposed to be here. What have you been smoking?”
“My name is Dave. It seems to me that you’re experiencing mental health problems sir.” the stranger in high vis clothing replied, choosing his words carefully.
“Well of course I am. I wouldn’t be here otherwise would I. This is a mental health unit you know.”
“Sir, this building hasn’t been used for that purpose for years. A lot of people think it’s haunted though so maybe you’re not as out of your mind as you seem, maybe you’ve been talking to ghosts and seeing apparitions.”
“There’s a difference?”
“Yes, ghosts have a mind attached to them and apparitions are just images of people that remain long after the actual people have gone. Apparitions might do all sorts of things, but you can’t interact with them because there’s nobody there anymore, just an imprint of who used to be there. Apparently, not everyone can see them.”
“That all sounds rather confusing. Do you really believe in such things?”
“Sir, the alternative is that you’re having hallucinations of Angel Trumpet overdose proportions.”
“You’ve made a believer out of me then. I don’t see how I could possibly hallucinate the entire staff and all the patients in a mental health unit. Has anyone ever had hallucinations of that magnitude?”
“I think some drug users do, but otherwise I don’t know. I’m not a medical doctor of any description. Would you like to come with me sir?”
“Where are we going?”
“I would like to drive you to the nearest operational mental health unit, if that is okay with you, just in case it’s not ghosts and apparitions you’re seeing.”
“Hopefully, at the next mental health unit there won’t be a member of a demolition crew tapping me on the shoulder to inform me that I’m in an abandoned building. I could do without life reminding me of a mirror image within a mirror image within a mirror image. Take me to reality please. I’m sure it wasn’t long ago that I was there, but it feels like it’s been years.”
Devon could still hear the hustle and bustle of a functioning mental health unit in the background but when he turned around both the images and the sounds morphed into thin air. Did that mean he’d been talking to ghosts? He’d recently played a game of chess. He would have noticed if he was playing against himself, wouldn’t he? Had he gone into some sort of fugue state while making an imaginary Doctor Wilkinson’s moves for him? How could Doctor Wilkinson’s words have been figments of his imagination? Hadn’t he told him things he didn’t know? Devon scoured the internet, trying to verify or debunk the doctor’s statements.
Dave found the chess board. The coffee cup Devon thought he’d seen Doctor Wilkinson drink from still sat behind it, but there was nothing in it besides dust and cobwebs. It was about lunch time. Devon hoped that the member of the demolition crew, who was kind enough to drive him to hospital, was a chess player.
© Rodney Hunter, 2024
Who Are the Terrorists?
The terrorists are the politically motivated murderers we don’t approve of. They’re not the ones killing children for the right reasons. Our boys aren’t responsible for the murders of those babies they shot. All they did was pull the trigger. The enemy made them do it by fighting back. What choice did our boys have? The alternative was to let the enemy’s children grow old enough to fight against drones with makeshift rockets, rifles, and stones. Make things harder for the next generation of our glorious warriors? Don’t be silly.
It was better in the old days when there weren’t any cameras around. The public relations budget never ballooned out of control back then. There weren’t any pesky journalists to tell the world about the enemy being driven from their houses at gunpoint or crushed to death in their demolished homes. In those days, nobody talked about the burning of their olive groves and the theft of their farms like it was some sort of crime. Rewriting history was so much easier then.
How dare those journalists wilfully misrepresent my words! Our boys were just driving vermin off valuable land, but the world wouldn’t have understood. If outsiders had of known what was really happening, they would have misinterpreted everything. They’re too naive to see how the ones doing most of the killing and the stealing could be the victims. If only they were prepared to acknowledge that the enemy doesn’t have any civilians. Then, they might be able to wrap their minds around the situation.
Yes, I know that two-year-old girl didn’t throw any grenades, but that’s what she was destined to do until a missile obliterated her home, killing her parents and siblings and turning her legs to a bloody pulp. Don’t worry, the medical team from Doctors Without Borders wasn’t able to get across the border, so there weren’t any IV drips to rehydrate her when her uncle pulled her from the rubble. Being the unduly merciful souls we are, we let them through the checkpoint eventually, but not too soon. With artificial limb technology being what it is, we couldn’t afford to take any risks.
© Rodney Hunter, 2024
No Respect
Spotted pardalotes
and pied currawongs calling.
Ambience fractured
by vandals music blaring.
Birdsong lost in pollution.
They scribble on rocks
like dogs pissing on saplings.
The only message
these people have for the world
is I am here, I am lost.
Spray paint marred boulders
hint at the concrete monster.
It threatens to eat
what remains of the forest.
Town cancer’s tendrils growing.
© Rodney Hunter, 2024
WordPress Frauds
From yoga to Mars, so many paragraphs.
Today’s epic upload is all about giraffes.
You don’t need to pass detective courses
to know they’ve never read their sources.
The Wikipedia cut and paste brigades
are in cold pursuit of writing accolades.
Their own lines are so clumsily worded.
Every last one of them looks murdered.
When those sad dopes steal verbatim,
zero stars is the only way to rate them.
© Rodney Hunter, 2024
The Altruistic Billionaire
Alicia Gray was only twenty-three years old, but she had already interviewed dozens of major celebrities. The subject of her next interview, best-selling novelist Jeremy Sorbonne, was renowned for making outrageous statements when people least expected it. Alicia was sure that the time she’d spent working on building sites, before she went to university, would render her immune to his most debauched remarks. She was barely nervous at all, as she rode the lift to Sorbonne’s modest sized unit.
Jeremy Sorbonne owned the penthouse. Its balcony was as broad as a suburban backyard, yet he chose to live on the floor below in a modest sized apartment. Sorbonne had never been one to flaunt his wealth. Unlike most billionaires, he didn’t have servants to answer the door for him. The security personnel in the apartment complex lobby were his only line of defence against overzealous fans and political enemies.
“Come in gorgeous, come in” Sorbonne gestured towards his lounge suite down the hallway. Alicia had heard that he called ugly people gorgeous to be playfully sarcastic, nice people gorgeous to pay homage to their inner light and pretty women gorgeous whether he wished to take them to bed, or he simply felt as cheeky as the palace fool. Sorbonne could act as well as he could write, so he was notoriously difficult to read. Alicia had the feeling that he had no intention of being opaque with her though.
The prize-winning author was dressed in jogging shorts and a singlet. The latest in running shoe technology hugged his feet. Apparently, he’d been working out on his treadmill. Its electricity supply was supplemented by an exercise bike. Some of the weights lining the walls of his spare bedroom gym looked like they might be difficult to roll across the floor, let alone lift. Sorbonne wasn’t bulky, but his physique was as chiselled as a comic book hero’s nonethless.
Unlike some of the celebrities Alicia had conducted hard hitting interviews with for the left leaning Waves Magazine, Sorbonne’s balcony wasn’t big enough to feature a swimming pool. Potted fruit trees lined the glass wall. Above them, was an awe-inspiring view of an azure sea. The loungeroom was his office. His ergonomic desk and chair dominated the centre of the room. An antique upright piano sat where one would expect to find a television cabinet. It all blended well with a bookcase old enough to have belonged to Lord Byron.
“Have a seat darling. You look like you’ve been out in the scorching heat for an eternity. What’s your cure for that, a towering glass of ice water or something sweeter?”
“On hot, steamy afternoons, like this one, soda water with slices of lemon and lime and crushed ice is my favourite drink.”
“You’re lucky I’ve got a slushy blender. Any sugar with that refreshing concoction?”
“No thanks”
“You’re sweet enough already, I’m sure.”
“Is it alright if we get started while you’re making that drink?” Alicia replied, ignoring Sorbonne’s brazen flirting. His phone was ringing, but he didn’t appear to hear it.
“A go-getter aye. Give it to me girl.” Alicia couldn’t help but giggle at the famous author’s unselfconscious, carefree banter. She had heard that he was normally a quiet and introspective man. That may have been so, but he certainly wasn’t shy. Sorbonne took his time slicing the lemon and lime. He looked lost in a wonderful daydream as he poured newly crushed ice from his blender into the mix.
“Before we get to the serious questions, what are you thinking right now?”
“The sight of this drink got me thinking about a swimming pool and you dressed in a floral bikini diving right in.”
“You don’t always have your filter switched on do you Mr Sorbonne?”
“No, not really, I’d much rather talk about your bikini top falling off and getting stuck in the filter of my fantastical swimming pool than switch my filter on. You did ask me what I was thinking, did you not? That can be a risky question girl.”
“Do you normally flirt so openly when being interviewed by young women?”
“Only the ones that can’t help but look at me like they’ve never seen a man before. Normally, I’m the quintessential gentleman, but for you I’m making an exception. How could I not? I’ve never been big on filters. Filters are for people with something to hide babe. By the way, I resent the idea that asking me what I’m thinking isn’t a serious question. All my thoughts are serious, whether we’re talking serious business or serious fun.”
“I’m going to shift to my idea of a serious question now Mr Sorbonne.
“You can call me Jeremy, if you like darling.”
“Jeremy, are you concerned about the link between excessive consumption and environmental degradation? It’s a two-part question. Would you agree that the worst offenders, as far as trashing the environment through excessive consumption is concerned, tend to acquire their wealth through the exploitation of the poor?
“Oh, I know where this is going. I’m not one of those evil billionaires sitting on their private island throne, stroking a prize peacock with priceless stolen jewels cloistered in its cloaca. I don’t make my money from paying malnourished people two dollars an hour to work sixteen-hour days. I’ve checked, all the Sorbonne merchandising is as fair trade as Oxfam. I bet you’ve checked too. I have a friend that underpays and over works his staff. Nobody ever mentions how he lets them have Sunday off once a month. Journalists always want to focus on the negatives. He’s as persecuted as Jesus.”
“Obviously, you’re joking. You are joking, aren’t you? You’re so good at looking deadly serious whether you are or not. One Sunday off per month doesn’t sound like much of a positive.”
“I’m much more generous than that miser. The people who work for me have every Sunday off. To tell the truth, the staff at Sorbonnecorp usually have their entire weekend free. And I’m as generous with my money as I am with their work/life balance. I’m much more philanthropical than Oprah ever will be.”
“That said, I’m not claiming to have taken a vow of poverty. My ocean view is magnificent, and masterpieces decorate my walls, but the dimensions of my home are humble enough. It’s just a three-bedroom apartment with two bathrooms. Admittedly, it wasn’t Davo the tiler that laid that elegant mosaic on the balcony. And that’s not department store carpet either. The carpet I walk is fit for a Pharoah. It’s as lush as a meadow beneath my feet. And my antique furniture is as pleasing to the eye as the sculpture gardens in heaven. It’s as comfortable as beautiful too; rather like you, I think.
Are you hitting on me?
“It’s just a compliment darling, don’t get carried away like a raft in white water. Are you a fan of white water Miss Grey? Do manly rapids get you going? It’s alright, you can answer, it’s strictly a canoeing question” Sorbonne assured her.
“Yes, I like canoeing. Moving on now, why should all these exquisite, extraordinarily expensive things around us be owned by you and you alone while there are people in the world who struggle to find a milk crate to sit on, or a battered second-hand mattrass to lie on?”
“First of all, I’ve bought plenty of mattrasses for the needy in my time and delivered hundreds of them myself. You ask how I justify owning these beautiful things? Most of what you see before you is wonderful art. Whether we’re talking about this lounge sweet, the bookcase or that painting of a molten clock I bought the other day, it’s vitally important to preserve it. How would the craftsman who made my bookcase feel if he learned it was no longer overladen with learning? How would the man who made my loungesuite feel if he found out that nobody sits in it anymore? Wouldn’t that render it as useless as a trail bike collecting dust in someone’s garage? If you disagree, feel free to sit on the floor baby.”
“Don’t call me baby.”
“You love it. You wish you didn’t, but you do.”
“Your Rolls Royce, isn’t that an unnecessary extravagance?”
“I sold it a month ago and gave the money to my favourite suicide prevention charity. That car appreciated in value just because my saintly arse was in the driver’s seat for a bit. The sedan I drive now isn’t as prestigious as reliable. I’m planning to get a new one as soon as the warranty runs out, but I’ve never had more than one car at a time. I’m not a shopping addict like my friend Elton. Don’t you have two cars darling?” Alicia would have said don’t call me darling, but she didn’t want to get bogged down in an interview etiquette debate.
“I drive two cars Jeremy, but I don’t own two, the one in the carpark beneath this building is owned by the magazine.”
“Does anyone else drive it? Your silence tells me no. Isn’t that like owning two cars?”
“I need my personal vehicle to take my younger sister to dancing lessons and my little brother to football practice etc. I’m not allowed to use the company vehicle for that.”
“Relax baby, I’m just teasing. Shall we continue? You keep being the hard-hitting socialist journalist. I’ll keep being the suave, sophisticated, billionaire author whose hobbies include, philanthropy, generosity and saving the world. Being the guy, whose best-selling novel outsold the entire Harry Potter series, feels a hell of a lot better than owning too many cars or houses. I’m no twenty first century Karl Marx, but I’m not Milton Friedman either.”
“You talk as though this apartment is your only home, but don’t you own literally hundreds of properties?”
“That is sort of true. Technically, I own one hundred and eighty-six properties with a combined value of approximately two point four billion American dollars. I’m not your typical landlord though. Some of the farms, apartments and houses in my property portfolio are lived in almost rent free by struggling writers, painters, musicians, sculptors, dancers, magicians, teachers, nurses and medical students. I never charge the market rate. Some say I’m guilty of being too much of a patron of the arts and not supporting education and healthcare enough. Maybe they’re right, but I do support a few public hospitals, schools and homeless shelters though.”
“Can you recall all of your major assets?”
“From my mansions, to the brand and colour of my spare toothbrushes, I can describe all of my belongings. It’s easier than recalling the details of my shortest book.”
“You would have me believe that you’re far more philanthropical than your lifestyle is extravagant and wasteful, but aren’t you a jetsetter between your various residences? How do you reconcile the burning of so much aviation fuel with your claims of being environmentally responsible?”
“You have an exaggerated idea of my travel schedule Miss Gray. I’m too busy writing to spend much time in planes. Perhaps you are unaware that, unlike some people in my financial position, I don’t have a private jet waiting for me at the nearest airport, with a pilot and a team of mechanics on retainer. I could if I wanted to. I’m one of the few people in the world that could choose to shower themselves in such opulence. Most people will never be burdened by that choice. I have travelled business class, on long haul flights, a few times, but I’ve never travelled first class, not once. I don’t need a hotel room at ten thousand metres to arrive on the tarmac refreshed.”
“Occasionally, I need to duck across the Tasman for book launches. Whenever I go to New Zealand, or somewhere else nearby, I always travel cattle class. It’s unusual to see me in a chauffeur driven limousine too, you’re more likely to find yourself seated next to me on the bus. One needs to speak with regular people to keep a grip on reality, I think.”
“Earlier, you mentioned the importance of wonderful art not going to waste. Wouldn’t the priceless paintings on your walls and your aristocratic furniture etc benefit society more if it was in a museum?”
“Yes, to some extent, but not as much so as you seem to believe. Although I spend eighty plus hours a week writing and researching, for fifty weeks a year, year in and year out, it’s not just me, a few celebrities and other close personal friends of mine that that bask in the wonders of my abode when this introvert puts on his party hat.”
“A lot of people say you’re an introvert, but how true is that?”
“How many extroverts, or ambiverts for that matter, do you know who spend eighty plus hours a week behind a desk writing with their phone on silent?”
“Don’t you have research assistants to help you give your stories their extraordinary realism?”
“Yes, but I don’t blindly accept their conclusions. My assistants don’t exactly do my research for me, it’s more accurate to say that they smooth the path. I still walk it. There are times when it’s important for me to communicate directly with historians, sociologists, anthropologists, ecologists, climatologists and all the other ologists whose academic papers my assistants expertly select and summarise for me.”
“What was I saying before I started going on about research? Oh, that’s right, I was talking about how a lot of people get to see this place. I hang out with some A Plus celebrities, it’s true, but I can guarantee you, that you’ve never heard of most of the creatives that enter my domain. Many of them are currently no names battling to escape the drudgery of meaningless nine to five jobs. I sponsor the brilliant ones. I give books about the creative process to the moderately talented ones. And I play billiards with most of them.”
“Marilyn Bolt from the Great Southern Land Gazette accused you of buying friends and influence in the arts world, do you have anything to say in response to that?”
“Not a lot besides mentioning that I’ve had the misfortune of hearing that guy sing karaoke once. Normally, when a journalist assaults my ears with that kind of caterwauling, I like to say stick to writing, but in the case of that hack a different retort is in order. Marilyn Bolt had a go did he? If I was wealthier than Elon Musk, Bill Gates, Jeff Bezos and Mark Zuckerberg combined, I wouldn’t dream of buying that skunk a beer to keep him on side. I shouldn’t insult skunks like that. He’s not a skunk, he’s not even a skunk’s arsehole. I wouldn’t waste dead fly infested dregs on that semi-literate loser. I am supportive of fellow creatives, who I believe deserve my help, but my writing speaks for itself, I don’t need to curry favour with anyone. Talk about a textbook case of projection Marilyn. His boss Sir Richard Mordor can go fuck himself too. Feel free to print that in full.”
“A little while ago, I was telling you about how I like to play billiards with up-and-coming creatives. I didn’t get around to mentioning how I commissioned a talented young carpenter to fashion a lid for my Victorian era billiards table so it can double as a dining table. Look how seamlessly the new blends with the old. Isn’t it wonderful. Despite my best efforts, I was unable to find an entirely original piece like that which predates Edwardian times.”
“I can’t say I’ve ever delved deeply into the history of furniture before, but it sounds fascinating.”
“It is.”
Are you able to play that beautiful upright piano that sits where a television would in a regular home?”
“You think I bought that beautiful instrument just so I don’t have to leave home to listen to Billy Joel and Elton John tinkling the ivories in search of their next recording?
“You make it sound as though they pop over most afternoons. How often do they visit you?”
“These days just a couple of times a year unfortunately. When I lived in London for half the year and New York for the other half, I saw them more often. You wanted to know if I can actually play the piano. I stumble my way through most classical pieces, except for the simplified versions, but I can learn to play pop tunes quicker than the average hack. There’s rhythm in these fingers baby. I don’t get too close to anything with strings attached, but I do alright when it comes to keys and drums. In most realms of my life, I’m good at finding the keys and drumming up support for just about anything. While I’m seated at the piano or the drums, I’m less persuasive. They’re not just there for decoration though Miss Gray.”
“How do you get away with playing the drums in an apartment?”
“I invested a lot of money in sound proofing for the second bedroom, more money than most people are willing to spend on a new car, but don’t tell anyone” Sorbonne said with a conspiratory wink. Once again, Alicia wasn’t sure if the poker faced author was joking or not.
“Earlier, we were discussing air travel. Can we return to that topic now please.”
“You don’t give up do you.”
“Don’t you think it would be better if people avoided air travel, whenever reasonably possible, until fully electric passenger planes are capable of long-haul flights?”
“Fully electric long haul passenger flights aye? They’re nearer to the horizon than laser beams concentrated enough to use as weapons, I suppose. I might still need to be cryogenically frozen like Austin Powers to shorten the wait for them though. Did you know that international man of mystery’s powers of seduction are nothing compared to mine? Have you stumbled upon that fact in your research? You don’t want to know about that though do you, you just want to talk about the responsible use of resources, carry on.”
Alicia couldn’t help but burst into laughter, but she was laughing with her interviewee, not at him like the dominant side of her personality wished to. After she’d finished wiping the mirthful tears from her eyes, she continued the interview.
“Some reviewers say that you have written surprisingly few books, that you’re too much of a perfectionist to write an epic novel every year, year in and year out for decades.”
“You make me sound so old when you say that. You know I’m closer to thirty than forty don’t you? This face is not a mountain range yet, it’s still the Nullarbor Plain. This my darling is the moment where you’re supposed to chime in and say ‘The Nullarbor Plain Jeremy, what do you mean? You’re anything but plain.”
“Shall we return to the topic of your books Mr Sorbonne?”
“As long as we can take the scenic route and hold hands along the way, I’m happy to put aside my good looks and talk about my books.”
“Where are we going exactly?”
“Just to the balcony and back. My GP advises against sitting still for too long. I’m just following his medical advice that’s all. Shall we oxygenate our brains together? Does that sound nerdy enough for you Miss Gray? You are coming with me aren’t you Alicia?” Sorbonne held out his hand as though it was more of a statement than a question.
Alicia gripped Sorbonne’s outstretched hand. It wasn’t a dinner plate mocking, earth moving equipment rivalling mechanism, reminiscent of the hands the heavyweight UFC fighter Alicia once interviewed. Sorbonne’s hands, it seemed, had been designed for a standard sized QWERTY keyboard. They weren’t much bigger than hers, but despite their modest size, they looked just as capable of crushing a stone as cradling a butterfly. Although she didn’t normally hold hands with the subjects of her interviews, Alicia kept reminding herself that there was nothing untoward happening. This situation is no more intimate than a line dancing class, she silently repeated to herself.
As they stood gazing at the ocean, Sorbonne casually interlaced his fingers with hers and caressed her hand soothingly. It felt far too good for her to think about objecting. Thoughts of his hands migrating to her thighs and beyond bubbled to the surface. Banishing them proved to be impossible. Sorbonne’s phone was ringing again, and once again he ignored it. Alicia wondered why he didn’t just switch it off.
“Shall we continue the interview.” Sorbonne finally said.
Alicia was glad that the recording app on her phone was still running. Her concentration was as broken as an egg dropped from the roof of the Empire State Building. She composed herself and asked another question.
“Jeremy, there is no doubt that some of your novels and short story collections have been read and re-read by literally hundreds of millions of people, yet every eighteen months of so tens of millions of readers still find the the money and the time to read your latest masterpiece. There are literally millions of in depth amateur reviews online to prove it. The novella you wrote during the school holidays, when you were only sixteen years old, has been turned into a Broadway musical. Several of your other books have been adapted to the silver screen.”
“Why do I have the feeling that your speech isn’t going to conclude in the fan girl manner it started?”
Suddenly, Alicia badly needed another lemon and lime soda water.
“I’ll get you another drink” Sorbonne promised. How did he know she was thirsty? What gave that away? And how could he be so sure that her next question wasn’t a flattering one, despite the lead up? He was right of course. Alicia was beginning to feel like her mind was as transparent as a glass box. She found it impossible not to stare at Sorbonne’s athletic form while his head was turned. Jeremy Sorbonne wasn’t a noted sportsman, yet he looked like an Olympic middle-distance runner. He pulled out his phone and hastily checked his messages. He replied to one of them. His fingers danced over the electronic keyboard with impossible speed.
Before Alicia could avert her gaze, the cheeky author was looking right at her, responding to her dilated pupils with an impish grin. Thoughts of his lips upon hers and his strong hands taking all sorts of liberties flooded her mind. She had checked in the mirror before she left home to make sure her purple lace bra was invisible beneath her lilac silk blouse, she’d checked several times, but to no avail. Despite her elegant, businesslike outfit she was starting to feel as naked as a burlesque performer in the final moments of their act. For the first time, Alicia stammered as she continued her line of questioning.
“There-there is an extraordinary amount of merchandising associated with your stories, everything from toys to t-shirts to colouring in books to 3D printed garden gnomes.” she said between sips of icy lemon and lime soda water. Alicia continued “you’ve written everything from award winning children’s stories to epic novels more popular than Steven King’s most famous work and more beautifully crafted than Hemmingway’s finest efforts. Do you see yourself as an advocate of fast fashion and the billions of dollars’ worth of other unnecessary peripheral products that your writing has inspired?”
“To be honest, I do think that the merchandising dragon is out of control, but that monster can’t be slain now. It treats spears like splinters. I believe I am influencing it for the better though. I’m not simply letting it run rampant. Having said that, as influential as I am, it’s not like the merchandising dragon is prepared to sit and roll over upon my say so. I won’t say I’m just the writer, but I can’t be the marketing people, the accountants, the entire board and all the investors too. The situation isn’t perfect, but at least I’m not shutting my eyes to it all and letting other people represent my work however they like. There are more than enough third rate book reviewers out there wilfully misrepresenting my work, so I do the best I can to stop merchandisers from doing it too.”
“As important as the accurate representation of your characters is, the focus of my question is the tonnes of plastic etc that goes into manufacturing more toys than the children in wealthier nations could possibly ever need. Unfortunately, the bulk of it ends up in landfill, instead of being passed to the next generation, because there is a new range of toys and ornaments etc coming out every year.”
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to distort your question Miss Gray. I’m a passionate advocate of upcycling and recycling. I’ve invested a considerable amount of money in scaling up the manufacture of biodegradable plastic. Sorbonnecorp is doing better with the transition to environmentally friendly products than most companies that sell affordable toys and ornaments. There is still a long way to go of course. I am among those who are increasing their wealth through excessive consumption, but at least I’m diverting literally billions of dollars of that wealth into worthy causes, including recycling. There is only so much I can do though Miss Gray. I can’t be the puppet master of the millions who are too thoughtless to take their preloved goods to their local opportunity shop instead of putting them in the trash.”
“Moving away from waste management issues now. Do you think it was a mistake to allow so many of your books to be converted into movies?”
“Yes and no. I am not just a fan of the written word. I celebrate all the arts, books, movies, live theatre, the lot.”
“There was one question regarding merchandising that I forgot to put to you earlier. I must warn you, it is rather provocative. Isn’t excessive consumerism a drug of sorts, a psychological drug and aren’t those most responsible for building a culture of consumerism somewhat analogous to dealers of illegal illicit substances?”
“Whoa, that question sure is a little more provocative than the earlier ones darling. You forgot to ask it did you. Are you sure you weren’t just trying to lull me into a false sense of security before firing that one at me? You were trying to set me up for a sucker punch, I bet. I have a question for you Miss Gray. Do you think that everyone who buys a printed copy of that monthly magazine you work for has time to even skim through it? No doubt, some potential readers get their dopamine hit when they first see the cover of Waves Magazines. Then it sits on their coffee table for a while, slowly getting buried beneath the magazines they actually get around to reading, before being flung into the recycling bin, or the trash.”
“Just one more question sir.”
“It’s sir now is it. You don’t know whether to berate me or fellate me.” Alicia was dumbstruck. A heady concoction of outrage and desire left her reeling. She didn’t know whether to storm out in protest or grab one of the velvet cushions from Sorbonne’s lounge sweet and get on her knees.
“Don’t get too worked up darling. I’m still in my interviewee chair. I haven’t exactly tucked you under my arm and carried you to the bedroom or the kitchen bench, at least not yet anyway.” If virtually anyone else had spoken to her like that, Alicia would have immediately stood and briskly headed for the door, but instead she was battling to avoid squirming in excitement.
“What was your question darling? Most of the people who interview me ask me how much tax I pay. Is that it?” It was a predictable question, but not everyone Alicia interviewed was sharp enough to see it coming. She didn’t say anything she just let Sorbonne continue.
“I’m not going to tell you precisely how much tax I pay, but I’m prepared to reveal that it’s always tens of millions of dollars more than Donald Trump has ever paid in one financial year. I’m not into tax avoidance. I love contributing to public roads, hospitals, schools, libraries and sporting complexes etc without cutting ribbons and handing over novelty cheques. Paying enough tax means contributing to society without being dragged away from my word processor. Giving a speech at a charity dinner was cool the first few times times. Usually, I’d rather just pay enough tax and donate online than do all that self promotional bullshit though. Over the past decade, I’ve paid more tax than the amount of revenue that globally renowned magazine you work for has generated. Is the ballpark I’ve sketched for you small enough?”
“Alicia was out of words; all she could think about was Jeremy Sorbonne tucking her petite form under his arm or over his shoulder and carrying her to wherever he wished to undress her. Presumably, he would do so agonisingly slowly. She couldn’t imagine him rushing under any circumstances, not unless he was fighting a fire or tackling a terrorist.”
“Would you like another lemon and lime soda water? You’re trembling, so perhaps you would like a splash of vodka and a little sugar in it this time? You pour, I can’t have you thinking I’m trying to get you drunk. Perhaps it’s a massage and not a beverage that your frazzled nerves are pining after.”
Alicia found herself leaning towards Jeremy Sorbonne without consciously deciding to. His touch felt more expert than that of any massage therapist she could recall. He kneaded the tension from her back as easily as a lesser mortal could’ve squeezed the excess water from a sponge. Then he worked on her scalp, face and arms.
“While I was studying for my doctorate in creative writing and my masters in English literature at Oxford, I worked part time as a massage therapist. I started as the secretary and was trained on the job” Sorbonne explained. “How about I get some massage oil and a towel so I can do this properly? Would, you like to remove your trousers and your blouse so that I can access your legs and stomach? I want you walking out of here feeling like you’ve just returned from the most peaceful meditation retreat in the known universe. Nothing less is good enough for my favourite Waves Magazine journalist” Sorbonne crooned.
His fingers glided from Alicia’s feet to her thighs with the aid of a liberal splash of lavendar oil. He went tantalisingly close to brushing against the edges of her purple lace panties. Sorbonne was just as disciplined in his soothing of Alicia’s pectoral muscles, which ached from too much swimming and driving. What had happened to the man who mentioned wild sex as casually as one might speak of the weather? She waited in vain for him to slide his hands beneath the cups of her brassiere.
Alicia’s heavenly gaze turned to a miserable frown when her interviewee turned massage therapist informed her that it was time for her to get dressed. She was a storm of ambivalence. She hadn’t known it was possible to simultaneously feel so humiliated by the disintegration of her professionalism and so thrilled by her capitulation. How had she succumbed to the wiles of such a rude and arrogant man? How did he manage to talk to her the way he did and leave her silently pleading for more? Why hadn’t he made wild, passionate love to her yet? Sorbonne’s shifting of gears from bombastic Casanova to a genteel massage therapist was the definition of inexplicable. It was all so bewildering.
“Your interview seems unfinished. Feel free to come back tomorrow with more questions. Any time after six in the evening is fine. I’ll have packed away my laptop and my old-fashioned notepads by then.”
Less than twenty-four hours later, Alicia found herself knocking on Jeremy Sorbonne’s door once more. This time, her hair wasn’t tied into a businesslike bun. Neither was she dressed in a lavender silk blouse, tailored navy-blue slacks and sensible office shoes. Part of her still wanted to look like editor in chief material, but the yearning to be ravished by the world’s best-selling author trumped every other consideration. As Churchill might say, Alicia’s black velvet dress was like a good article, short enough to create interest and long enough to cover the subject. Normally, a hint of cleavage was enough to make Alicia feel like a naked woman in a crowded church. That night she wasn’t remotely uncomfortable about her creamy breasts peeking out of her shy floral silk brassiere. Her legs trembled from anticipation as she heard Sorbonne’s footsteps in the hallway.
“You look frightened. Tell me what it is you wish to say. There is no judgment here” Sorbonne soothed as they sat beside each other on his exquisite antique lounge suite.
“I was wondering who was on the throne when your bed was born from a tree in a royal forest.”
“I see, you’re here to continue our discussion about the history of furniture, of course you are. Come, explore history with me in the master bedroom. Maybe, while we’re there, I can teach you to talk like a bad girl. You won’t go to hell for it, I promise. If you overdo it, you might get a good spanking though.”
“Oh God.” Alicia muttered as Sorbonne tucked her under his arm and carried her to his king size bed.
“Never mind God, since when has that prude been dedicated to giving you pleasure? How about we forget that puritanical kill joy for a while” Sorbonne teased as he dumped his student of Earthly delights on to freshly laundered silk sheets. His trail of kisses was more epic than Magellan’s journey.
“Did I say you can take that off yet?” Sorbonne chided playfully as a frustrated Alicia began to slide her black velvet dress over her head. Sorbonne gave her the spanking he’d spoken of earlier, but not for uttering anything he would’ve refrained from writing in an erotic novel. He disciplined Alicia for her impatience. Fear and excitement intermingled as Alicia felt the sting of Sorbonne’s stern hand. Finally, he removed her dress. By the time she lay breathless beside him, he’d introduced her to acts she hadn’t even read about, every one of them more thrilling than the last. As Alicia lay in her favourite writer’s embrace, his phone began to vibrate on the bedside table, but he didn’t answer it.
As they stood on Sorbonne’s balcony, gazing at the sunset glazed Pacific, Alicia had never felt more relaxed and vibrant. They sipped absurdly expensive wine as mindfully as monks.
“You chardonnay socialist, you” the quality craving, best-selling author teased.
“I might have too many interview questions left to get through tonight. I haven’t asked you anything about the characters in your novels, or how you crafted the plots, yet.”
“Don’t worry, we can finalise the interview after breakfast tomorrow” Sorbonne said with a wink. “Oh, and by the way, that call that came through when we were recovering from our bedroom adventures, that was my accountant ringing to let me know that my purchase of Waves Magazine has been finalised. I found out via voice mail, while I was getting our drinks.”
© Rodney Hunter, 2024
Rise of the Machines
“The day that Dionysus the Elder of Syracuse invented the catapult was the day that the world stopped caring about shot putters hurling cannon balls the length of tennis courts. All of a sudden, those King Kongs of track and field looked remarkably puny. They were banished from Mount Olympus forever. And as soon as muskets were more accurate than inebriated stone throwers, archery ceased to be a sport. That’s how it works people, every time machines do something better than humans, yet another talent is consigned to the rubbish dump of history.”
“You want a more recent example? I’ll give you one. In 1949, the American propellor driven bomber, Lucky Lady 2, circumnavigated the globe. It went up to six thousand kilometres at a stretch without quenching its thirst for aviation fuel in midair. That’s a lot less drink stations than you use in a marathon Eliud Kipchoge, you loser. If you had of taken up running before the first transatlantic flight in 1919, maybe a sportswear company would have been impressed enough by your feats of endurance to sponsor you, but not anymore.”
“The Lucky Lady 2 flew at speeds of up to three hundred miles per hour and reached altitudes higher than Mount Everest. This momentous voyage was the last nail in the coffin for the sport of athletics. Nobody cared about pole vaulting after that Sergey Bubke. The equivalent of leaping on to the roof of a double storey house just didn’t mean anything anymore. And when Javier Sotomayor did the equivalent of jumping over the tallest NBA players head, by a big enough margin for a crow to fly through the space between them, nobody noticed. Javier Sotomayor, your high jump world record wouldn’t have been enough to leap over the grassy knoll and tackle the second gunman let alone clear Mount Everest. You never did get your act together did you.”
“Thanks to planes soaring higher than the Himalayas and racing across the sky like shooting stars, Carl Lewis couldn’t make a name for himself either. Winning every long jump gold medal at the Olympics from Lose Angeles in 1984 until Atlanta in 1996 didn’t help. Even the Wright Brothers early experiments achieved a more sustained flight than Carl. With those magnificent men in their flying machines making falcons look as pedestrian as heroine snorting slugs, Carl’s athletics career was over before it began Amelia Earhart.”
“Thanks to the Lucky Lady 2’s circumnavigation of the globe and Chuck Yeager’s shattering of the sound barrier in a jet plane, hardly anyone knows Usain Bolt’s name. A salt lake dragster obliterated the sound barrier before his career even started. No lucrative sponsorship deals awaited him. A measly thirty miles an hour is all he could manage in top gear. That’s nowhere near the sound barrier Usain. A Toyota Corolla hatchback travels faster than that within a couple of seconds of the lights going green man. Foot speed just isn’t trending anymore, it’s just so preindustrial revolution. Why be a runner? Unless you want to be as forgotten as the Tour De France, what’s the point Pheidippides?”
“Nobody remembers you Pheidippides. You thought that running all the way from Marathon to Athens, to let people know the Persians had been defeated, was a sure way to be famous forever, but those magnificent men in their flying machines went heaps further. Pheidippides, you’ve plunged into the pit of obscurity. You’re as unknown as those crazy people who brave the cold, choppy, waters of the English Channel, to swim to continental Europe. None of them can get an inch of column space in their local rag anymore, not unless they’re Brexit refugees, not with all those planes, trains and automobiles making such incredible journeys.”
“When eleven-year-old Tom Gregory said, ‘hey dad, I just swam from Britain to France,’ his father wasn’t interested.”
“He said ‘take a long walk off a short pier son.’
“But dad, I already have, that’s what I’ve been trying to tell you” Tom replied.
“Then his father said ‘go away son, I’m busy watching a documentary about submarines. They can stay the height of a skyscraper beneath the waves. They can do it for weeks at a time too, so why would I care about you swimming across the surface of the ocean for less than twelve hours? Boats have been doing better than that for thousands of years. Not even the school newsletter will want your story son.’ It’s true, that’s exactly what Tom Gregory’s dad said. I didn’t just make that up. I’m a professor of history at the University of Atlantis you know.”
“It’s not just all those fancy motor vehicles that have rendered old school excellence obsolete. Thanks to electronic computers, nobody pays attention when primary school children multiply twelve-digit numbers, without the aid of a pencil and paper, let alone an electronic calculator. Daryl, from Mr Smith’s remedial maths class, can add up faster with the help of an app on his i-phone. Never mind that he has no concept of what a million is. It was Daryl ‘how many fingers do I have again’ Dallas who had the Guinness Book of Records people knocking on his door. That boy knows how to push buttons in a hurry. Faster is better than slower, bigger is better than smaller and higher is better than lower. Marvelling over brain power is so 1950’s.”
“Computers are taking over man. Any day now, Chat GPT will compose wittier and more original pieces than William Shakespeare, Charles Dickens and Mary Shelley possibly could have written with the aid of a word processor. Eventually, AI will use our social media data to tailor epic novels to our individual taste. Don’t wait for the evidence; the AI salespeople, I.T gurus and the science fiction obsessed psychiatric patients know what they’re talking about. No doubt, when the IT prophets are proven correct, the literary flair of homo sapiens will be obsolete.”
“Nobody will care if they never read another piece of writing woven from authentic creativity, profound personal experiences and months of skilful research ever again. The complete absence of emotion behind creative writing algorithms will be irrelevant to even the most ardent fans of authors. Literature buffs won’t merely embrace AI novels, plays and scripts as one option among many. AI tomes will be infinitely more popular than cameras as an alternative to portraitists. That’s what the IT people keep saying, and everyone knows that they are the experts on what makes bibliophiles tick. What would literature professors and psychologists know?”
“The evolution of chess tells us where human creatives are headed. In 1997, when the supercomputer Deep Blue defeated world champion Gary Kasparov, human tournaments were no more. You failed to keep chess alive Gary. And you didn’t even go to its funeral did you. Thanks to you, chess has been dead for decades Gary. That’s how it all went down.”
“Multimillionaire and five times world chess champion Magnus Carlson begs to differ? What an intriguing figment of people’s imagination Magnus is. Obviously, all those videos of him on YouTube are just CGI. And whenever you think you see him live, it’s just a hologram. He’s a mass hallucination too, just like that Netflix series the Queen’s Gambit. Human chess is dead and human literature is on the brink. Any day now and human creatives of all descriptions will be redundant. Computers will leave people with nothing to do besides sit on the couch and worship them.”
“Writers, musicians, punk rockers, dancers, comedians, magicians, sculptors and painters will be as outmoded as fighting sabre tooth tigers with wooden clubs Captain Cave Man. If you’re one of those fossils who still flocks to art galleries to admire Rembrandt, Renoir, Van Gogh, Dali, Cassat, Kahlo and Picasso your ocean is about to be the Dead Sea. It’s not just the algorithms that will make human creatives redundant, it’s the robots too of course. Who will want to see human performers once robots can match their hand eye co-ordination, speed, agility, rhythm, tone, timbre and interpretation?”
“Soon, being inspired by human striving, courage, discipline, playfulness, spontaneity, humour, creativity, grace and athleticism will all be in the past. There will be robots as unconscious as marble finding everything in the marble Michelangelo. All the ladies will want those walking, talking substitutes for 3D printers for soul mates. Their plastic abs will feel so real that women will never want to take biological men to bed again. What’s that you say? Women are worried that the robots won’t be emotionally available enough? Don’t be silly. The obsolescence of human partners is inevitable. Modern automatons will learn to feel soon enough Pinocchio. Once the oblivious mimicry of artificial intelligence has been sufficiently refined, human charisma and compassion will be as obsolete as creativity Jesus.”
“Like every other claim I’ve made, that one is as plausible as my academic hero status at the University of Atlantis. Don’t you go calling me a name dropper, I really do know Jesus, Pinocchio, Usain Bolt and all the other celebrities I mentioned. They were all in the room the first time I delivered this speech. They don’t like to be left out of things, so I mention them every time I give this talk now. Every one of them is among my five hundred closest friends.”
“Do you often talk to the statues sir? Is it a good way to prepare for a live audience?”
“What do you mean statues, they’re my students. The appearance of stone is just an illusion.”
“This is a sculpture garden sir, not an auditorium in a conference centre, or wherever it is you think you are. Would you be willing to come with me to a nice shiny, disinfected place where they have lots of coffee and vending machines full of chocolate bars? There are some nice people there, who I am sure would love to talk to you. They will want to ask you some questions to see if you are okay. They’ll even take your pulse for you, to make sure that you’re nice and relaxed.”
“They won’t sneak up on me and inject me with tranquilisers will they?”
“No, of course not, why would they do that?”
“How do I know I can trust you?”
“I’m a police officer, so of course you can trust me. It’s my job to serve the community, so why would I lie to you?”
“What’s your name?”
“Roger Rogerson.”
“That sounds like an honest name.”
© Rodney Hunter, 2024
What’s the Story God?
What kind of bread is it today Jesus? I’ve seen too many loaves like granite with a forest of mould dancing on top. It’s not the proverbial savannah in the wind JC, it’s bacteria making the mould dance. That mould isn’t having any fun son. It’s a ballet dancer told not to stop when her slippers overflow with blood. I hear blood blisters bursting like bubble wrap. There’s audible pops when those blister cushions go. And bullets in the spine if she starts to slow.
She wasn’t always mould on rocky bread. She used to be Godly fairy floss boss. The sugar free, vitamin rich, candy fluff. One man after another changed that. T’was horizontal dancing they craved. Your dad watched and did nothing JC. He watched like a dark web ghoul fool. He watched his creations treat her like a life support system for a hole.
They played eighteen holes afterwards and valued every one more than her. There wasn’t enough guilt between them to slice a single drive into the drink. After snooker, darts, trivia and steak they returned to the local presbytery. Eleven hours of peaceful sleep later they donned their hallowed robes and absolved each other of their sins.
Later, it was their lawyers who attacked. Fake journos covered the front from afar. “Look, she’s in the psychiatric ward now. Didn’t we tell you that she’s a crazy bitch” the prophets at the local pub proclaimed, with copies of the Daily Rumour in hand.
© Rodney Hunter, 2024
Captain Controversy
It was a long time since the patrons of Cloakman Gallery had seen anything more controversial than an oil painting of a bowl of fruit, a water colour of a sun caressed bay, or a bronze statue of an affable sporting hero in their beloved cultural oasis. Croydon Clayderman was about to change that. As he unveiled his grandest masterpiece, the collective gasp of horror was even louder than he’d anticipated. It was so loud that it echoed off the dome ceiling like a bomb blast.
Clayderman’s tallest offering was a statue of Poseidon, just like he’d told the administrators to expect. He’d given them enough photos of his work in progress to keep them happy. The sketches of the sculpture to be didn’t include any fictitious details. It was the missing details that sparked controversy. Some conservative art lovers shouted angrily and gesticulated wildly at the sight of Clayderman’s God of the Sea. Others wept in anguish. A few gazed at the exhibit in stunned silence.
The trident that Clayderman’s Poseidon held was different, very different. It was so different that the entire Cloakman Gallery Board feared being ended by an aneurysm if they gazed at it for too long. The tips of the trident’s prongs were suspiciously reminiscent of Darth Vader’s helmet. The shafts were suspiciously veiny. And the mermaid balanced on one of them looked suspiciously ecstatic. It couldn’t have been more obvious what the mermaid perched on Poseidon’s personal appendage was doing.
If the Cloakman Gallery Board had known all of the details of the most prominent sculpture in Clayderman’s exhibition, he wouldn’t have been permitted to set foot in the gallery let alone exhibit his work there. Clayderman had also painted a bowl of fruit, a bowl of fruit in which a mermaid was doing something it shouldn’t have been with a cucumber. Poseidon cradled this painting in his other hand like it was a priceless heirloom.
“That’s the best evidence yet that cucumbers don’t belong in fruit salad” Royce Mercedes, the flabbergasted president of the gallery roared. Mercedes was about to put the kibosh on Clayderman’s exhibition before the rest of his sculptures had been unveiled, but a tsunami like surge of online ticket sales stopped him. The Cloakman Gallery was teetering on the edge of bankruptcy, so Mercedes and his colleagues had to make a choice between respectability and existence.
Fortunately, no children were present on the opening night. The website administrators scrambled to edit the promotional material, to make it clear that the exhibition was strictly for adults only. By the time Croydon Clayderman’s other works had been unveiled the hasty alterations to the exhibition’s advertisements had been made.
Clayderman’s sculpture of Osiris, Horus and Anubis, in a game of strip poker, was chaste in comparison to his rendering of Poseidon, but extreme enough to make the regular patrons of Cloakman Gallery blush. The solid silver dioramas depicting the destruction of Carthage and the sacking of Rome were as brutal as the mermaid obsessed version of Poseidon was pornographic.
Some critics claimed that Clayderman had merged several exhibitions into one, in a haphazard fashion. Others were convinced that he was portraying the link between established empires taking military conquests for granted and the increasingly hedonistic lifestyles of the major players. In Clayderman’s universe, even the Gods dropped the proverbial ball sometimes. It wasn’t just Poseidon taking hedonism to a whole new level. Zeus was too busy getting it on with a harem of harpies with herpes to notice that he was no longer the King of the Gods. Apparently, Clayderman was stressing the importance of safe sex, among other things.
While Royce Mercedes contemplated convincing his fellow board members to cut the exhibition time from a month to a week, ticket sales doubled and doubled again. Unrealistically, Mercedes hoped that Croydon Clayderman would restrict his opening night speech to little more than “thanks for coming” but the artist had a story to tell about every sculpture. For the entire time that he was discussing his Poseidon and Zeus sculptures, Clayderman was thrusting his hips back and forth in the direction of his twenty-two-year-old girlfriend Elvira Washington, who was dressed as a mermaid. At first, she timed the blowing of a kiss with each thrust. Then she seemed to imitate the vocalisations of a dolphin.
“I’m talking in a mermaid tongue” Elvira finally explained. According to tabloid journalist Marilyn Bolt, “it was arguably one of the top one hundred strangest incidents of the evening.”
“What did Zeus do wrong when he fucked a harem of harpies with herpes, anyone? Will someone have a go at answering the question please?” Clayderman pressed.
“Shouldn’t the question be what did he do right?” Royce Mercedes ventured.
“Did nobody notice the unopened packet of condoms, sculpted in bronze, on Zeus’ bedside table? I’m glad we’re not here for a game of Cluedo people. With you lot working on the case it would never get solved.
“For your information, we’re all bona fide member of MENSA, our intelligent quotients are in the one hundred and forties” Jacqueline Mercedes the secretary of the Cloakman Gallery Board spoke up in defence of her family, whom she presumed were the targets of Clayderman’s stinging words.
“I don’t have time to discuss that glorified brain teaser club bub. I’m a magician on a mission. Before the effervescent refreshments arrive, lets talk about Ares, the Greek God of War over there. That guy isn’t noted for his bubbly personality is he. Look at him drooling at all those modern weapons he sees in his crystal ball? Like the crystal ball, his drool is fashioned from glass. In the dim light it’s hard to tell the difference between it and real saliva isn’t it Magyver. That’s right, Richard Dean Anderson, the Mr Fix It TV detective of the 1980’s, is here in the flesh. Although, he is standing so still that one could be forgiven for thinking he’s one of my waxworks figures. Returning to the topic of Ares spit, if you look closely enough you can see little demons in it. Would someone like to guess how I created that effect? Anyone? Come on…”
Ticket sales for Clayderman’s exhibition, which was titled The Takeover, continued to rise. By the fourth day it was necessary to usher gallery patrons in and out of the main exhibition room once every two hours, to avoid being in breach of fire safety regulations. After only five days the merchandise storeroom was nearly empty. The Cloakman Gallery’s procurement officer scrambled to purchase more books, posters, t-shirts and cups by the van full.
Royce Mercedes wondered why Clayderman’s exhibition was titled The Takeover. His reinterpretation of Syrian, Egyptian, Greek and Roman mythology/history had a lot to say about the rise and fall of bronze and iron age empires. Maybe it was just a reference to ancient power struggles in general.
It wasn’t until Clayderman made an appearance at the Cloakman Gallery’s Annual General Meeting that Mercedes understood what the artist had in mind when he labelled his lewd, yet brilliant, exhibition “The Takeover.” By his standards, Clayderman was dressed in sober business attire. A floral tuxedo, irridescent purple platform boots and a matching top hat was his idea of orthodox. And so was the bejewelled disco stick that he refused to stop twirling until the meeting was called to order. To Royce Mercedes utter dismay, Croydon Clayderman was duly elected president of the board. Mercedes hadn’t even realized Clayderman was a member of the gallery until moments before he’d witnessed him striding into the conference room in his ridiculous outfit.
“So, what should you expect from me as president? Yours truly is inviting the Cloakman Gallery down a more liberal path” Clayderman began his inaugural speech. After a brief pause, he continued. “From angelic to obscene, abstract to hyperreal and everywhere in between, art is for exploring not ignoring. The world has changed since the invention of photography people. Not everyone wants to acknowledge it, but it has. In our time, the post-impressionist gems of Van Gogh, which were once thought to be absurd, are as mainstream as Rembrandt. Yes, it’s true, despite the denial, they’re as mainstream as the Nile. I tell a lie, those treasures are the fucken Amazon baby. And yet for the art psychonauts among us, their consciousness altering properties are a spoonful of LSD Mary Poppins.”
A confused looking, Royce Mercedes looked around the room for a woman in Georgian era garb, with an allegedly gravity defying umbrella, but he didn’t see anyone who matched the description of Mary Poppins.
“I was being poetic Poindexter” Clayderman mocked. As he continued his speech, he drew a cartoon of Mercedes confusing a zebra with a horse and a yak with a giraffe. It was as though Clayderman had two brains. As he sketched with his left hand, he gestured theatrically with his right.
© Rodney Hunter, 2024
Revival
No original bands
have set foot in Blandvale Pub this century.
Only hobbyists work
hangs in the cottage gallery on Main Street.
No printed books remain
in the Municipal Library three doors down.
Goats graze on the greens
where the best lawn bowlers on Earth played.
The ten pin bowling centre’s
only visitors these days are awfully large rats.
Those who cannot move out
wander Blandvale’s streets in a morbid daze.
Nothing far from the station
has survived the closure of the shoe factory.
In this metropolitan desert
‘The Tip of the Iceberg’ is a thriving Oasis.
It began as a karaoke bar
with no liquor license and milk crates for seats.
Hip hop dancing jugglers
open the show in this burgeoning island of bliss.
‘The Tip of the Iceberg’
has everything from bellydancers to mime artists.
Its yodelling magicians
compete with percussion quartets for cash prizes.
On Anything Goes night,
pole dancers vye for first place with opera singers.
It is the heart of a burb
emerging from a Rip Van Winkle scale coma.
© Rodney Hunter, 2024
The Surreal Art Psychonaut 