O l i v e r B e n j a m i n
“Meester Schlechtmann, please to hold still—”
Gareth ignored her and continued barking into his cellular
phone. “So what you’re telling me, Cain, is that you can’t fulfill the
duties that I pay you so generously for. How grim. Where could he
have gone? The moon? The guy isn’t an astronaut, he’s just a
scientist. I strenuously suggest you make some progress on this, or
you may find yourself searching for something entirely different: a
job. Unfortunately, there aren’t many want-ads for hired goons.”
“Meester Schlechtmann, we have only few minute, and I must to
do something about this peemple. —”
“A pimple? You’re kidding. Shit,” he said angrily. “Listen, Cain.
Break into the DMV computer. Find out what Futterman’s license
plate number is, and then report the car involved in a robbery of
some sort. The cops will bring him back for us. Yes, I’m brilliant.
That’s the first thing you’ve gotten right today.” He hung up.
“Why you speak so angry?” asked the make-up artist, sweetly,
“Bad feelings make bad health, make bad skin.”
Normally, he would not have spoken so freely in front of a
stranger, but this one’s English was so poor and he had spoken so
quickly that he was sure she didn’t catch a thing. Plus, he had shared
some cocaine with her only minutes before, and he could threaten to
tell her employer if she got too nosy.
Her employer, Tom Brokaw, had been sitting behind one of the
desks in the production area, previewing the latest interactive
prototype for VTV Interactive when Gareth entered the room.
Various production staff members were gathered around, eager to
see the famous newsman’s reaction, but before he could respond
conclusively, Gareth strangled the atmosphere with his commanding
presence. Everyone turned to look, except for Brokaw, who was far
more interested in the latest innovation Violence Television was
about to perpetrate on their public.
“Tom!” shouted Gareth with pretend affection. “What do you
think about the future of entertainment?”
The newsman turned around slowly in the chair and scratched
his chin. “Entertainment is perhaps too broad a term,” he said
reproachfully.
“Ha ha ha,” laughed Gareth. “Well, that’s the beauty of subjective
experience. One man’s trash is another man’s treasure, as they say.”
“Yes. They also say you can’t make a silk purse out of a sow’s ear.”
This was followed by uneasy silence. Brokaw was clearly
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