Frank's existential nausea is swept away by a chance encounter with a bit of decorative pottery
The Demi-Monde
The bar was situated at the periphery of the newly fashionable docks area. Property developers had bought up the decayed warehouses and tenements along the quays over the preceding dozen or so years and converted them into loft spaces, third generation offices and coffee shops. The school in which the rotten meat that had been intended as Frank VII was a this moment melting, stood like a slightly bewildered dinosaur amongst the raging gentrification because it belonged to a trust the unravelling of which was already occupying a second century of lawyers. Unfortunately for the developers, but happily for Frank, the disused wharf was at the edge of the area farthest from the city centre and the property boom had crashed magnificently only six months ago. The result was an immaculate bar in a superb industrial concrete finish, housing the finest beers, wines and coffees and boasting comfortingly warm jazzy muzak. The only customers were increasingly desperate real estate agents, temporary office workers and four or five characters who thought of themselves as bohemians during the few hours between eleven and two when they were only partially inebriated.
Frank had no such delusions. He had been many things in his several lifetimes, and drunk was nowhere near the worst. He enjoyed the sordid thirst with its utter lack of discernment in satisfying itself as a more pure version of the lusts he had exploited in his victims over his preceding lives. Today, as had become his habit, breakfast was a glass of tempranillo accompanied by chick peas and chorizo. Old habits die hard, and although it cost him the equivalent of a small bottle of Polish over-proof spirits, he still had some standards.
The German sculptor, working on procuring her third husband, a tired American who believed he was using her for sex, approached the bar. Frank was slightly afraid that she would attempt conversation, but fortunately she had forgotten his terse rudeness of the previous night and could think only of wine. He returned to the excellent tapas and then became dimly aware that the sculptor, having received her glass of chardonnay, was engaging the barmaid in conversation about a small model figurine.
“…in Listowel.”
“What were you doing down in Kerry?” asked the barmaid with little interest.
“I was hoping to get some of my pieces into a gallery down there. It’s run by a collective so I went to meet a committee.”
“And did they take anything?”
“Yes, they are showing some children’s furniture, a couple of chairs in ash. While I was there I bought this elf from the artist. Quaint isn’t it?”
Frank looked at the figure, a rotund elf about 15 centimetres in height. It was made with great attention to detail; even the glasses had silver painted frames and real lenses. The face was enigmatic and somehow familiar. He felt cold sweat run behind his right ear. It was more than familiar; it was an accurate image of someone he knew well, someone who was involved in the disaster that was Frank VI. Douglas Hudson was presently serving a life sentence for his part in the cannibal ring that had also included Kevin McNamara and the dwarf known only as Wibz. Now his image, made more disturbing by the fairytale costume, was smiling coldly at the customers in the bar. Frank only enjoyed abstract art and certainly detested this kind of decorative nonsense, but he attempted as much enthusiasm as possible in addressing the sculptor.
“What a charming piece. I have some friends with children who would love one. Do you know how I can get hold of the artist?”
“Just a moment,” she replied, searching in her handbag. “Yes, here’s her card.” Frank took it and one glance confirmed his suspicions: Kay McNamara, Artist, Blue Gamp Gallery, Chapel Street, Listowel, County Kerry. The door was firmly closed on his short career as an alcoholic. Self preservation and the desire for revenge energised him utterly, sweeter than any wine. He gave the card back to the sculptor with a genuine smile. He knew he would never see her or any of the other sad members of the Demi Monde again. Tomorrow he would leave his disgusting bed-sit, but tonight he must plan. It is rare that a man gets the chance to avenge his own murder, and Frank’s genius demanded that his vengeance be beautiful, elegant and magnificently violent.
The bar was situated at the periphery of the newly fashionable docks area. Property developers had bought up the decayed warehouses and tenements along the quays over the preceding dozen or so years and converted them into loft spaces, third generation offices and coffee shops. The school in which the rotten meat that had been intended as Frank VII was a this moment melting, stood like a slightly bewildered dinosaur amongst the raging gentrification because it belonged to a trust the unravelling of which was already occupying a second century of lawyers. Unfortunately for the developers, but happily for Frank, the disused wharf was at the edge of the area farthest from the city centre and the property boom had crashed magnificently only six months ago. The result was an immaculate bar in a superb industrial concrete finish, housing the finest beers, wines and coffees and boasting comfortingly warm jazzy muzak. The only customers were increasingly desperate real estate agents, temporary office workers and four or five characters who thought of themselves as bohemians during the few hours between eleven and two when they were only partially inebriated.
Frank had no such delusions. He had been many things in his several lifetimes, and drunk was nowhere near the worst. He enjoyed the sordid thirst with its utter lack of discernment in satisfying itself as a more pure version of the lusts he had exploited in his victims over his preceding lives. Today, as had become his habit, breakfast was a glass of tempranillo accompanied by chick peas and chorizo. Old habits die hard, and although it cost him the equivalent of a small bottle of Polish over-proof spirits, he still had some standards.
The German sculptor, working on procuring her third husband, a tired American who believed he was using her for sex, approached the bar. Frank was slightly afraid that she would attempt conversation, but fortunately she had forgotten his terse rudeness of the previous night and could think only of wine. He returned to the excellent tapas and then became dimly aware that the sculptor, having received her glass of chardonnay, was engaging the barmaid in conversation about a small model figurine.
“…in Listowel.”
“What were you doing down in Kerry?” asked the barmaid with little interest.
“I was hoping to get some of my pieces into a gallery down there. It’s run by a collective so I went to meet a committee.”
“And did they take anything?”
“Yes, they are showing some children’s furniture, a couple of chairs in ash. While I was there I bought this elf from the artist. Quaint isn’t it?”
Frank looked at the figure, a rotund elf about 15 centimetres in height. It was made with great attention to detail; even the glasses had silver painted frames and real lenses. The face was enigmatic and somehow familiar. He felt cold sweat run behind his right ear. It was more than familiar; it was an accurate image of someone he knew well, someone who was involved in the disaster that was Frank VI. Douglas Hudson was presently serving a life sentence for his part in the cannibal ring that had also included Kevin McNamara and the dwarf known only as Wibz. Now his image, made more disturbing by the fairytale costume, was smiling coldly at the customers in the bar. Frank only enjoyed abstract art and certainly detested this kind of decorative nonsense, but he attempted as much enthusiasm as possible in addressing the sculptor.
“What a charming piece. I have some friends with children who would love one. Do you know how I can get hold of the artist?”
“Just a moment,” she replied, searching in her handbag. “Yes, here’s her card.” Frank took it and one glance confirmed his suspicions: Kay McNamara, Artist, Blue Gamp Gallery, Chapel Street, Listowel, County Kerry. The door was firmly closed on his short career as an alcoholic. Self preservation and the desire for revenge energised him utterly, sweeter than any wine. He gave the card back to the sculptor with a genuine smile. He knew he would never see her or any of the other sad members of the Demi Monde again. Tomorrow he would leave his disgusting bed-sit, but tonight he must plan. It is rare that a man gets the chance to avenge his own murder, and Frank’s genius demanded that his vengeance be beautiful, elegant and magnificently violent.
1 comment:
Tasteful and full bodied like Rioja but also intriguing like the white mutant counterpart of the noble Spanish grape used to conger the above.
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