LONDON CALLING

Chapter Three

The city is very bleak this time of year (winter) and the sky is a strange dull grey and it looms over me like the axe of an executioner. My Armani overcoat is buttoned up to keep out the cold although not all the way as I like to flaunt my Bill Blass tie, just to show people what they're missing out on.

I count one, two, three homeless girls living in the gutters in just one street- all of them fucking hideous. All of them were curled up, their knees to theirs chests, and wore these disgusting wool hats and fingerless gloves. There's a stupid idea—fingerless gloves. The point of gloves is to keep your fingers warm! Some English faggot smiles at me and it makes me tense up and clench. There is no sight worse than the city of London. Generally, I can recognise the beauty of a place, the subtle colours, the tiny details, the important factors and anything that makes something look good; but London… London is a shithole. Every street— no matter what district you're in— is an eclectic collection of dull buildings, some different colours than others and some old and some new. None of them look good though; just old and dying, like the city and most of its inhabitants.

The sight of the city seems to be dampening my mood so I stop and look around. As I'm trying to find something positive about the place a black cab nearly runs me down because I've forgotten that the fucking British faggots drive on the left. The cab driver halts and winds down his window. After giving me the finger with a hand in desperate need of a manicure he says:-

"Outta the way, you yuppie wanker!"

I take a step forward and push my face up to the open window; our faces almost touching… though I'd never let my clean and smooth skin come into contact with his, no doubt, diseased skin. I'm so close I can see the grey stubble forming on one of several chins and I can smell smoke on his breath—cigarette smoke, for Christ sakes.

"If I spot you near me again," I say with gritted teeth and a plastered smile, "I'll rip out your motherfucking heart." He gulps. "Is that understood?"

Without actually giving me a definitive answer, the cunt drives away muttering something to himself in the most inelegant cockney accent I've ever had the misfortune to experience. I tug gently on my coat sleeves and take a deep breath before I power forward to a restaurant called The Marlborough. It sounds like a decent place and, if I'm not mistaken, Craig Van Patten once recommended it to me years ago. Or maybe it was Tim Price.

Inside is more elegant and much hipper than I thought it might be. The floors are hardwood and practically gleaming with the amount of varnishing it has been subjected to and the walls are painted a pleasant forest green. I like the place based on its looks and furnishing but I have yet to peruse the menu or wine list.

The Marlborough turned out to be a fairly enjoyable experience. The food was fine, although I only had a light lunch—duck soup with an artistically placed leaf floating in it and some bread and Evian water. My throat tastes strange and my stomach is gurgling with the mixture of the soup, the water, and the J&B I had earlier at the hotel's bar. As I was leaving The Marlborough I asked several staff members about Paul Owen but nobody knew him or remembered him.

The futile lunch and the long flight has left me weary and on the verge of suicidal thoughts so I head back to the hotel to sleep. All I can think of as I lie in my king-sized bed is about picking up that Irish hardbody at the bar, taking her to my room and… and… slicing her wrists and… slipping some… battery acid… face and eyes and… and…