Turning
Amateur
As
hits on downwritefiction finally pass 10k, the proprietor summons his
front of house staff. They assemble at a conference suite on the
seventeenth floor of Sock Puppet House, expecting Lee to make an
historic announcement. Peeled-back necks of vintage Champagne bottles
stand erect in ice buckets. Sideboards belly dance with trays of
canapés, fancy cakes & Belgian liqueur chocolates. Hundreds of
coloured balloons, tied in rude bouquets, waft gently in the breeze.
Several windows have been left open. As the crowd of employees roll
in, faint honks of traffic from the boulevard below can be heard
above loud whispers and excited giggles. Suddenly Philip Lee appears
in person, raises his hand and opens his gob,
Now
hear this. Yr ironies be darned, I'm sick to death of the lot of you,
bloody shower of frauds, pseudos & time wasters. You're all
sacked. Pack yr shit & leave.
Gasps,
sobs, shrieks & bellows rebound from his words. A bevvy of St
John's Ambulance men ferry out the faint of heart. Staff members
queueing to leap from the windows are ignored by snotty security
guards too busy helping themselves from the buffet. Hardened Ehacks,
huddled in corners, give head to vapour fags & gabble into Moby
Dicks. Champagne is passed hand-to-mouth by stack-heeled receptionists
and lowdown office pros, swigging straight from the bottle.
Balloons burst spontaneously. The sweet sickly pong of high end vomit
mingles with a sharp stench of acetone as bewildered executives neck
vials of pink nail varnish remover.
Meanwhile
Lee has left the building. Exiting via service lift and back door,
the former CEO and proprietor is disguised as a municipal dog
catcher. In green cap and overalls he carries lasso pole and gunny
sack slung over his shoulder. The streets are hot tho' not bothered,
lazy sirens of ambulance, fire & police have converged too late
to offer much succour to the dead or shocked onlookers. Lee ducks
into an underpass that takes him to the far side of Punchnose Lane.
He disappears into the district of all night wedding parlours and
oldman early morning diners.
What's
it to be, fella?
Two
hash brownies, scoup of beans and eggs over easy. Gimme a coffee,
there, too, matey. Oh, and a hunk of apple pie with molten cheese
food.
Coming
right up, sir. Sit yourself down & take the weight off.
This is the Cafe of
Horlicks Wind Attempt stuck in the year 1974, patronised by homeless
schmucks that nurse empty tea mugs, smoke Old Holborn butts and
scratch. Radio cackles, too faint to make out tune or word, just the
hiss & fry of distant galaxies. Yesterday's newspapers are marked
& folded, phelgm chawed, yawns let out raw. Unemployment is kept
alive here & flaunted like leprosy, women who enter abandon all
hope, naked lunch boys shiver in long white trench coats, the letters
FBI stencilled on their backs.
Incessant
whirrs of Horlicks machines emanate from behind the steaming counter.
Lee swills coffee and wipes his mouth with the back of a filthy
glove. He eats slow with fork & spoon, paying with luncheon
vouchers and tipping the waiter with fake chocolate money. As he
makes his move for the door, a rent boy, old before his time, rises
in unison. The blue skinned boy opens his jaw but before speaking,
drops to the floor like a broken scarecrow. Purple smoke emits from
the pockets and cuffs of his trousers. Somewhere out of shot, a
cinema audience writhes in toothache boredom.
Back on the street the
chase proceeds. A huntman's horn blares out as Lee hails a passing
taxi,
Follow
that hearse!
His yellow cab, lasso
pole sticking from passenger window and followed by a pack of
red-tailed vixens, pulls into the grim afternoon traffic.
Tallyho!
