Continued...


The long-nosed orator unclasped his hands; scratching above thin, permanently-tattooed, taupe eyebrows, somehow, momentarily, distanced him from his totalitarian enunciation. For an instant, Max guessed he may have misheard this compelling host, but Vas Deferens ejaculated further, unmistakably spouting more of the same fluid credo; outlined in steady, somber, assured, patronising tones.

"The responsibility incumbent upon you, Mr. Sinclair, is to fraternize, explain, promote, &- let's face it- sell the benefits to be gained, by those friable hobos who agree to participate in cleansing programs, presided over by our re-branded British Eugenics Society. Naturally, I'll detail exactly our departmental expectations, furnishing you with a plenitude of explanatory leaflets, in large type, with easy-to-follow pictures. It's straight-forward enough, nothing to worry about, or anything to injudiciously endanger the overarching health of unwashed bodies, processed through our elementary, fool-proof, shovel-ready, two-step system."

He paused, brooding, noticeably fingering his pointed chin; appropriately sporting subcutaneous, five-o-clock shadow. Max, by this juncture, wildly wired with pure adrenaline (coming up sharply on the lukewarm draught of ayahuasca he'd manically quaffed, moments before sprinting off from Russell Square to make that Goodsway public telephone-box rendezvous), became more or less convinced he'd been set up for Game for a Laugh, when Mr. Deferens added "Castration, if preferable, may be executed, privately, but only if explicitly desired: a function administered tactfully, by you Max, using, say, two half bricks- any questions?"

"Yeah …err, doyareckon it'll hurt?'
"Well, only if you catch your fingertips."

Max cracked up: skittishly blurting out: "Narr! You're thingamajig intya, that geezer off Candid Camera."

"Pardon!?" Vas, the breathing embodiment of deathly officialdom, deep-state apparatus, winced, at this demented gamin's idiotically deranged accusation.

''It wuz you, oo 'eld up that Cecil Alexstein chap, at Ramsgate Hoverport last week, I saw ya! You said ee-ad rabies, or summing. Remember? He was locked up in quarantine, with some dodgy East German camel smuggler. You- are an absolute leg-end- squire.''

It had been a long day. The intimately lubricated interviewer removed delicately manicured hands with care, from his earnest, lined face, to reveal scarlet, moistened eyes; enquiring politely: ''Are you quite finished, sir?''

Contrary to his austere, sharp, illuminati appearance, Mr. Vas Deferens was in a particularly good spirits this autumnal evening. He'd enjoyed a zesty afternoon with Tisiphone; opportunely two floors below (a gender-neutral, third-person singular, sex-worker, recommended via Gay-to-Zed). Tis cross-dressed; théâtrically deployed futile corrective training, more in jest than in vain, pretending to iron out Vas's multifarious peccadilloes (a Pre-Tiffin farce ham-acted around vespers, intermittently, yet at least once per calendar month). An entire Eton Mess caper, designed to conjure a temporary surrendered subservience, aping, & acting out the actual emotional helplessness suffered permanently by innumerable, feral street-rats, faced by the insuperable might of Blighty's established Ancien Régime: a cyclical system built for profit, run by sociopaths, based on manipulative lizard brained impulses, reset intermittently over the ages, periodically ending up as race to the bottom (its current manifestation, unfettered financialised capitalism, offering the worst solutions to the greater population's needs, at the highest price- with an overwhelming percentage of resultant surpluses, conspicuously horded by a 1% which needs them least). Provoked by intolerable feline urges, & an attack of retrospective, state-sponsored malevolence, Vas unilaterally elected to make Max squirm; enough to test him, so as to re-focus his wayward attention. Vas' crosshairs were fixed set on his mission, a vision unceremoniously dumped upon his office's desk by his boss's big boss: its specified targets, identified by right-wing, disciplinary think-tanks, were earmarked for annihilation. Unlike leonine superiors, Vas wasn't so committed to torturous, drawn-out, sacramental subjugations, or addicted to leaving nominated culprits pleading for physical death, aching beyond measure from their very core, in a fruitless, frantic search for any shards of hope, beneath a bottomless pit of despair. Neither soft, nor empathetic, instead Vas preferred colourful continental amusements. Cavalier Vassily Pretorius Deferens Esq. was incurably louche; an inveterate Francophile, desirous to be promptly waited upon by a decrepit wrinkled retainer, who along with a goat-herding family tree, including increasingly coquettish great-grand-daughters, combined to conjoin an idyllic intergenerational Gallic peasantry, attending to Vas's abundant topiaried acres, festooned around a hereditary, signature Provençal barn conversion (a ministerial jet, unaccountably booked, well-stocked, taxied on stand-by, to waft Vas away to Marseille come the wee hours, in a style befitting his Mandarin rank).

'I'd rather our prospective employees were keener to learn their terms of employment, as opposed to blithely issuing forth misconstrued, blinkered,  diarrhetic assumptions, quite so incontinently. And most incorrectly, I assure you. Still, I'm reliably advised such practices are common among the hoi polloi. Such buffoonery notwithstanding, I believe you'll act as an excellent communicator during our forthcoming campaign. However, you must learn to curb that unbridled streak of yours my lad, lest it lead you into hot water.''

Panicked into a breathless funk, Max's forehead storm-tossed, as he stared starkly back in palpable fear. Graphically recalling BRd'A (a geezer as bent as a nine-bob note, & as hard as the Blakey's on a skinheads' boots), what a fearful ogre! Communicating via a series of guttural grunts, Max pictured him in his middle-income grammar school's balloon debating society, stun punching everyone overboard, a prelude to inhaling helium, & thus disguised, making successive, increasingly obscene telephone calls, to his headmaster's estranged, substance abusing wife. This was the type of raw, two-fisted terror at VD's disposal. This nutter meant business, & demonstrably possessed disposable wherewithal, to achieve innumerable, uninvestigated, black-op decimations. Max's cards were marked; clenching his buttocks- deciding to do precisely what he was told. Eyes, somewhere, were winking.

"Past methods, lamentably, have failed Max. We've proffered free advice, complimentary condoms, run adult education courses, patiently taught safe sex at state schools to the congenitally poisoned for Christ's sake! Don't appear so traumatised Max; your bracket should be grateful. This is Britain, not merciless, minging China; there you'd be subjected to mass surveillance, arbitrary detention, torture, forced labour. Born British; thank those lucky occidental stars! But, UK taxpayers bear too much. Now we're going to put Humpty Dumpty back into working order. Your remit's hands-on PR- travel out amongst homeless acquaintances; popularise our innovative scheme. It shouldn't be difficult: we aren't convincing cranky women- ladies are forbidden; it's a club exclusively pitched at gentlemen of diminished means. Volunteers get wedge, £500- an entire monkey, Max- & we've premiere furnished office space at Canary Wharf, pre-booked. Once the minimum number of signatures for our course is satisfactorily reached, they'll be washed, shaved, relocated to purpose-fitted offices, with private, incensed dormitories teed up. They'll be gainfully employed in pan-global telesales operations directed at touting British manufactured product abroad. How bad's that Max? What's more- veracious sheep farmers will echo my words; within days of ritual chastisement, any ram born loses all recollection of rutting. Inform your tatty mates from me Max: they'll be decontaminated, safely housed, earning rock-solid rates of commission; what's more, without a pair of didgeridoos, more relaxed than ever! What do you say, Max? Are you up for it?"

"I surely am Mr. Deferens. Now, may I nosh those spicy vol-au-vents?"

Irretrievably compromised, in furor poeticus, acting as a fatidic agent of oppression, Max cantered out amid filthy, insufferable paraffin lamps around olde London, duplicitously presenting himself as one of their own; heralding 'good news' from untrustworthy parliamentary sources, vending seeds of hope amidst foul matter, beastly mud & oomska (whence untouchables weltered). Manifest destiny smiled upon his state-sponsored undertaking. As spring geared-up, weather fared from clement to warm, trickles of desperate guinea pigs burgeoned into torrents, as initial misgivings thawed. Max's abraded recruits were psychometrically tested & SPIN-trained by VD's fluffer's in two-hourly sessions; including enjoyable stints of audience participation, plus lashings of intense filtered coffee. Volunteer's scrutinized fabricator's factories, role-played, fought paintball wars at weekends, & genuinely felt valued. Canary Wharf beamed bigger, brighter, as a new model army of streetwise, high-pitched voices, closed contracts the world over. Whatever it was, wherever it was needed, a maximalist VD assured his ludic constrato-boyz, Great Britain would supply it, in full, on time, on budget (batteries not included). Most vagrants were crudely neutered, others, including a few miraculously able to conclusively prove historical vasectomies, irreversibly fired blanks, but either-or, after each shift, when assorted eunuchs assembled naked, pumped-up in their sound-proofed dormitory, an acetylene flame of erotic tension flared hot, albeit non-flammable. Once a month, after arduous hours of non-stop soft-selling, to neutralise unavoidable negative energies, stemming from client rejections, or cancelled orders, they'd re-weld esprit de corps by hiring sex dwarves (competitively priced people of restricted growth), & callously devise outrageous wizard wheezes, to 'Humiliate the Gnome' during a two hour window of open opportunity (deeds restrained solely by a lack of team invention, or those pesky Geneva Convention boundaries). Normally, routine vamping & bonding was limited to midnight snippets of risqué conversation, parlour games- 'Are you there Moriarty?' & daring body massages; greased group-goosing, getting salty, or acting together as a cult, devoting their alchemically altered souls to various mythic, anthropomorphic Elementals. In any event, they slept soundly in a comfy, purpose-built E14 complex; happy-go-lucky in the knowledge they shipped genuine, quality products, at competitive, international spot market prices.

Vas Deferens burst the jam-jar for Max. Vas was a brotherfucker worth knowing. His Tavistock Square pied-à-terre swiftly became Bloomsbury's swinging hot spot; the place to discuss perspectives in post-structuralist criticism, impulsively have one's nipples pierced, indulge in heroin overdoses, or play a cocoa futures market. Swaggeroos & mountebanks from five continents perched there. Arbitrageurs, faith healers, nihilistic young rock stars, depraved heiresses with £1000 orchids in their hair, & several smiling faces of Satan tattooed along their pink inner thighs; all were nothing more than local colour, background noise, to VD's glaring, blaring bray. The Evening Standard acclaimed him as a new messiah, & Max, his brilliant proletarian prodigy. Between them, they'd spruced up London's streets, triumphantly killing off its begging industry to boot.

Passers-by would snipe at residual malingerers: ''Get off your fat arse! Put your bollocks into some work, you lazy beggar.''

By the end of a muggy Indian summer, Max hosted a cable-television game show, where capricious contestants, lacking grace, elegance, & being contemptuously disposed toward humane actions each pretended to admire, importunately vied for tasteless prizes. Over the moon to have met the correct person, in the right place, at the optimal time; Max looked forwards with enthusiasm. Revenge wasn't an idea Max inclined toward, it being a niggardly, stultifying concept, for which he neither cared, nor had interest. His star ascended- at his peak, accredited by countless leading institutions, from the Royal College of Veterinary Surgeons, to the Bilderberg Group. Panorama projected Max, as a man's man, who'd turned back from the brink, to stand firmly beyond either good or evil. As Y2K loomed, Max toyed with consolidatory ideas of castrating himself (finally settling upon circumcision, under general anesthetic).

I remember the last time I saw Max Sinclair: live on ITV evening news, barrelling through Heathrow's Terminal Three; reporters armed with the sacred light of truth cowered before bodyguards, licensed to kill, armed with electric cattle goads. It was a week after the Crash I recall- he wasn't the sort of Johnny to hang around waiting for women or children. He'd become sedulous, & self-perpetuating. ''Everything created has a sell-by date'', he remarked, almost to himself, before turning triumphantly, to face down his inadequate inquisitors. ''I'll be back'', he announced.

Somehow, I doubt it. See, I finally sobered up & came to my senses. I still encounter Colonel McCartney on her rounds. In fact, it was she who clued me in concerning VD's China Project. There's a lot of idle tiddlywinks, allegedly. McCartney said she'd spoken to top brass Salvation Army characters in Honkers; true to form Max is there, in an advisory capacity (seconded from their London nexus, paid double-bubble as factor & administrative director). It felt weird our parting; the speed & proportion of our rift was Faustian. I picture that moonless night hooters McCartney brought me up to speed, as if it were yesterday.

"Well, I can't stand here chattering all night I'm afraid." McCartney felt awkward considering how painfully jealous I felt. "Yes, I'm sure I'd feel the same, if I were as poor as you.''

After all, Max & I were as thick as thieves, once upon a time. I've swallowed poverty, despair, & crapulence holus-bolus, but I've never endured the grinding humiliation I felt at that poignant moment. The humongously breasted Colonel noticed my tears. My personal suffering amplified by the sweet intercrural love, Max & I shared so freely, back in those glorious, perfervid days.

Max deliberately avoided me throughout Operation Cullion, as if his profound, emotive impressions, ignited by our impassioned affaire de Coeur, forbade him from emasculating me. Inevitably, we hooked up a few times, mostly to gossip. Naturally we broached his amazing rocket to fame, & the pointed fact that this stellar fate passed me by (alternatively, I naused up first mover advantage); still, Max saw me OK. He spruced me up; romancing me in Michelin-starred restaurants. Too cute to be caught in flagrante delicto, he cheekily bundled us through the tradesman's entrance of a disreputable Bayswater Hôtel X. Love & pride are queer bedfellows. Max whispered he'd sooner pay me out of his own clown's pocket, or join the soprano choir invisible, rather than witness my magnificent manhood wilt. Mind you, he'd earned enough sourdough to render a crust of compassion by then.

"I'm sorry, but it's sauve qui peut these days." piped the heavily stacked Colonel, leaving me to maudlin mémoires.

That's a powerful fact of life. As is springtime (now encroaching relentlessly, like soggy anal afflatus from a de-hibernating Grizzly bear); my distended testicles throb with viscous vitality. I can't help feeling prepared to trade at least one, for a degrading part-time job. Sadly, the E14 project's redundant, & sophisticated tasks beyond the orbit of my piss-poor curriculum vitae. Mercifully, after my last night with Max, he administered a five-knuckle shuffle (transfiguring me cockeyed with gratitude) & a golden-handshake, conscience money I sagely invested into Sight-&-Sound, cum Correspondence courses. Moreover, our covert sensory dates, at banging restaurants, not only lent occasions to ingest how I desired, but, importantly, sparked basic blackmail concepts, from which I'm gradually beginning to profit. Here's the gist:

Charlie Chan's Chinese Cuisine
4 Always and Forever Road
Walford, East London
10 April 2004

Dear Sir

I'm a traveling businessman, so not a regular diner at your restaurant. I visited your establishment recently, on my way to clients in your locality, who had recommended your services.

I paid a little under £22 for a meal that was substandard, & unpalatable. I elected not to complain at the table, because I fully appreciate how difficult it is to build up the sort of reputation which you enjoy, & so, it would be unjust for one aberration to lead to an embarrassing scene.

It's not in my nature to inform my clients, all of whom dine regularly, with their own account customers, at your restaurant, about my unfortunate experience. However, I'm very disappointed, & suggest you consider reparation.

Yours sincerely,
Mr. S John, Ramp 3 (Lower)
New Brunswick Shopping Centre
London WC1