Paint It, Red (Part I of II)
By J. A. Stapleton
- 647 reads
1
An hour later I was back in my cell, sweating again, plotting my own death. I missed my wife Katharine terribly. But, above all things circulating in my mind, I was wondering why I had done it. I loved Katharine and my father, but her more than anything, yet I couldn’t seem to control myself. I was a train wreck plain and simple. The word on Wall Street was that I would be dead within a few years, and to be honest, the way my trial was heading and the fact I was now on my fourth defence attorney, it wouldn’t have fucking surprised me.
At four that the morning I broke down and sobbed myself to sleep. At five that morning I woke up again but laughing. At six that morning I rose to my warning call. The prison guard rattled his truncheon on the bars as per. I blinked, vomited into the wastepaper bin, and fell out of my bed (if you count a blood-stained mattress as one). I looked for my trusted bowl of coke, like spinach to Popeye, only to find there was none so I took three times the daily dosage for my “headaches” and collapsed back onto my bed, praying for death.
2
Lucy shifted uncomfortably at the last question. She crossed her long legs and struggled to settle herself further back into the brightly lit armchair. Joan Rivers on the desk to the left of her seat leant forward in hers. She pursed her brown lips and rolled her head to the side in expectation of a straightforward response. Lucy looked away and into the lens of the camera trained on her. The big red eye blinked at her. She went over the question in her head and forced her Botox face into a gracious smile.
‘I did love him,’ she said, evoking a sense of melancholia in her voice. ‘He was a straight up kinda guy, he was always kind and loving toward to me. He actually cared for me. Yeah I know he had a wife and all but he was always there. He was the most intelligent person I know. I never expected to read about anything like this about him in the newspapers.’
‘What do you think was going through his mind at the time?’ Joan Rivers asked, taking a quick study of the studio audience behind her before returning her glance to the mistress of the most infamous investment banker of all time.
‘I honestly don’t know,’ she simply said.
Rivers looked at her, disheartened at her evasive response, and averted her gaze from the money grabbing whore. She looked back to the camera and at her audience. ‘Now we have a special guest on the show Mr. Donald Trump!’
The audience applauded as the man was welcomed onto the stage. Lucy, shell-shocked by the whole experience, stared bleakly into the beaming red eye of Camera B before breaking into a toothy smile. She sat back, lit a cigarette, ran a hand through her hair. Her agent wagered that a motion picture was on the cards once she finished writing her life story, Making Love to a Murderer.
3
- Good evening Carrol,’ was all that I said as I marched, Filofax and cigarette case in hand, cocksure of myself out through the glass double doors of the lobby and into the service elevator only to find myself an hour later three lines of coke deep, two Xanax, and six martinis gone on my knees buck-naked, begging, on the floor in my Manhattan apartment with my frizzy bleached-blond mistress riding me like a Texan thoroughbred on the final hurdle of a steeplechase (lapping coke out of a bowl like a dog).
At the touch of leather I quiver and gasp like a bitch. Why can’t Katharine be like this? She circles me again and again, trailing the leather riding crop along my back (see why I used the horse metaphor). I’ve popped some Xanax and can’t feel a goddamn fucking thing. Lucy suddenly flicks the crop and catches me between my legs. Maybe not as numb as I thought. I cough, convulse on the cream carpet and cry out in pain. She loves it when I do that. Well, she’s spoiled with enough money to make herself love it and me, but what the heck, who cares?
She’s got on that wonderful lace corset I bought for her, Macy’s I think, and those nylon roll-up stockings with matching stilettos. This is great. This is insane. This is the best fuck I’ve had today (and I’ve had four). Why can’t Katharine do this for me? Why can’t she bother with something else other than her nails and long walks along the beach? I’m sick of it. I’m sick of her. No. Ignore that. No you’re not -- --. You love your wife and don’t forget it. Any successful, no, super-duper successful, investment banker is allowed a mistress after a long day at the office right? Right. Damn straight.
There’s a loud crack and I buckle up. She’s whipping my ass again. Why there? Every goddamn time. It’s sure to leave a mark. As long as Katharine doesn’t see it’s fine. Yeah, it’ll be find. Come on -- -- you’re made of stronger stuff than that. You’re a fucking animal. Made from US motherfucking steel. Yeggghhh.
- Who’s been a naughty naughty boy -- --?
- Me, mistress.
- It’s time for your …
- Yes please!
She rolls me onto my back. I look into her big blue eyes. Admire the soft delicate features, wide mouth, her lip crushing between her teeth, her shoulder-length blonde hair. Unnnhh! I want to kiss her. She cracks me across the face. Ow! And mounts me. You’re a beast -- --. You’re a god! Fuck, not this shit again. Her face becomes a canvas and moulds into:
- Carrol?
- Trump?
- Paul?
- Katharine?
She slips into place and we make passionate love (lasting between twelve and thirteen seconds). Why do I always see Paul? I hate the bastard and as for Donald… I roll over and cry. Like a bitch. I won’t be a bitch no more. I dump a mound of cocaine onto the coffee table and bury my face in it. I’m not coming out till I’m numb and that’s final.
-- --? Are you OK?
What does the cunt want now?
- Yes honey?
- Why are you crying again?
- Tired eyes.You know how it is.
- Right.
I ignore her. She leaves the place looking like a fucking slum. She takes a glass of wine from the mantelpiece and drinks half of it..
-- --, do you love me?
- Don’t be pathetic.
She throws the glass headlong at the wall. Smash. Glass in her mink. Red wine on the floor. She’s stained the carpet. Unnnh! Why does it always look like blood to me? Meds? I hear a boy scream.
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interesting tale and the US
interesting tale and the US President elect segues in and out. Well, you couldn't make him up.
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