27 Mar 2012

'Alphabet' (working progress)

M.March was an abrasively unpleasant Frenchman, who was nicknamed (unbeknownst to him) 'Monsieur Sandpaper', grinding his thick, rough surface until he wore people away. Most of these nicknamers were not aware that Mr Sandpaper started life as a tender kitchen boy in the very hotel he resides, washing away at the rich people's foul leftovers, their sauces clinging to every plate, every knife, every fingernail in the great swill of sink water. For those who did know this secret, that the feared establishment, was once a kitchen boy, it was a wonderful morsel of a fact. They chewed upon it, blackmailed it, sold it to the newspapers, whispered it, laughed at it with colleagues after Monsieur March had long risen to his hotel suite. But M.March was not the kind of man to be blackmailed, and concordantly had relationships with men from every walk of newspaper and information. March was hiding another morsel, however; he did not have relationships with women. He had never needed them, other than for sex, and he soon grew out of that. Women were damp creatures, already smoothed down by a societal sandpaper, these functionless figures were not even worthy of M.March's ruminated bruises. So when a Miss Annabelle Atkinson received a box of Sandpaper's secrets on her editor's desk, and planned to write them up in a tell all about the man who had shunned and degraded her familial circle for years, how would March handle her? The only female editor in London, would she understand, no, respect, the assumed stench of power and fear that brewed in the air when they shared a confrontational space together? How could she capacitate such an understanding, a woman so stupid to run a story on the exploits of a man with a gun in every pie. Feeling that this woman was of truly no threat to his reputation, Monsieur Sandpaper sent an assistant, Robert Burk (but he preferred to be called Bobby) to present her with an alternative front page, and a promise of more to come if she gave up the story for good. March, tasting the crust of the political pie offered her Dudley Dainsworth a member of the Conservative Party who has a inkling towards asphyxiation, japanese prostitutes and illegal substances on his days off, making for a kinky piece of politician pinata. It was gold. Perfect for the front page, M.M. thought, marvellous, magnificent. She would taste his poisonous pudding, hungry enough for another piece until she was fat and gorged on his information, at which point the box of secrets would be a mere flutter in her shallow subconscious. But Annabelle was diabetic and was not allowed to eat sweet things, she enjoyed the sour of the lemon, sucking the fruit's bitter juices as her writers grabbed chocolate and fizzy cans. She called a trusted classmate into her office and sat her down. Penelope was perfectly formed, snappy little legs, tiny waist often enunciated by thin black belts with bows that met in the middle. Her two breasts perched like squawking parrots, leaving Annabelle wondering how gravity held Penelope up without a large mound mounted upon her back to balance things out. But the thought flicked in and out again as she explained to Penelope how she was to draw up Malcolm March's social death sentence, as if his life were sand and she the cruel kid standing by with a bucket of water. Penelope did not feel the same sadistic excitement as her long-term friend (but primarily her boss) did about the execution of Mr March. She did not know much about him , and felt even more out of touch than usual, with her "personal life" dragging along at her heels, popping up in Annabelle's office like rain clouds at a summer picnic. She knew the story was important, perhaps crucial, and a lifeline to bring her up out of her disinterested stink with the world of information, and virtual public executions to which she could not only have a front row seat, but cut the chord herself.

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