Pen

The Best of Times Short Story Competition


August 2009 Results




The Gay Bomb

Copyright © Wendy Kramer 2009


Wayne wanted to be the wealthiest man in the world. Not that he wasn't already. Just last June it was announced that he was the world's richest man, top of the 100 as listed by Forbes magazine. But Forbes had such a limited readership, which annoyed Wayne and made him depressed. It's not certain whether one can become more depressed than clinically depressed, but its something Wayne had unwittingly strived for his entire life.

Wayne had more properties than his ex-wife had snide remarks, some of them as big as his girlfriend's over-inflated ego, and all of them as well-kept as his ravishing Russian mistress... Roula, a contortionist from Cirque du Soleil. He had accrued almost 100 plastic surgery procedures, enough to put Michael Jackson to shame (whose nose was in the second drawer down of his treasured oak bureau... bought at Sotheby's for 1.23 million pounds). His seamless features, the result of cutting edge space age technology, defied imagination let alone gravity. The newly discovered chemical D1027, used in every one of his procedures, was the talk of Hollywood (or so Brad Twit claimed the other day during his persistent interrogation regarding Wayne's ultra stiff upper lip). "I mean Wayne man, I know you don't like to talk about such things but..." Wayne impatiently interrupted to inform him he had more important business to attend to. He was certain Brad was simply rubbernecking... after Wayne's perfect pout saw him win 'The Worlds Sexiest Man' competition earlier this year.

Unfortunately, all of the above wasn't enough for Wayne. Wayne wanted more. So on one spontaneous Sunday afternoon he fired up his not quite completely chemically fried brain while reclining on his antique lace, but still extremely comfortable, day bed. He had recently hired one of the Victoria Secret models as his PA. She was still on trial but at this stage was not showing much potential. Just earlier that day she had skulked over to him, one slender lingering finger fingering several delicate little balls before seductively putting two in his mouth at a time. He had started coughing, choking. "They've got seeds in them, I only ever eat seedless varieties of grape you flaming idiot," he'd spluttered between gulps for air. "Perhaps you should spit the seeds out," the incredulous little bitch had replied. The seed incident aside, Wayne had seen his life flash before his eyes and then and there he decided to cut the capital and sell all his real estate to invest in an exciting new start-up he had been watching, Gaybomb.com.

PART 2

Wes didn't want much. All he was really guilty of was being a daydreamer. Terminally unemployed he was more than happy when given the opportunity to join the work-for-the-dole program. And as fate would have it, that is where he had met his beloved partner. For the last year he had not only 'volunteered' at the Royal Prince Alfred Hospital but also as a gardener at The Moorings, a statuesque mansion shadowing Sydney Harbour. A refuge for the homeless and unemployed. Wes never saw any homeless people and he suspected that he was the only unemployed person within 20 kilometres of the mansion. He even doubted that The Moorings was in fact a charity and would waste moments wondering what weird and wonderful stories those rendered white walls could tell.

Wes had plenty of doubts and they were compounded further when that very morning a leprechaun of a woman wearing nothing but a leopard print leotard, Chanel No.5, and a litigious expression, appeared in the doorway, her glossy pout glistening in the sunshine. His focus shifted from the delicate pastel petals of the miniature rose bush he had been pruning, beyond the woman's six inch Italian leather heels, to study her expression. Although presumptuous, he considered how it could not be litigious, especially when such ferocious and explicit sounding words raged from her trout lips, words in another language, possibly Russian. She shot him a death stare and hissed, "I beautiful, I Russian, and now I omeless... Ill sue the bastard... iv I don't kill im virst," with a vicious Russian accent. She stormed off and Wes, a little confused by her performance, went back to his pruning and his rosy demeanour.

Unfortunately, things were less than floral later that day when Wes was informed that 'Homing the Homeless', the charity that ran The Moorings (among other establishments throughout the city) was closing down and selling all their assets. Apparently the CEO was unhappy with this last quarter's profit.

Wes didn't get sad very often, but his head hung low now, almost so low he didn't notice Desmond's beaming smile as he entered their apartment. Des, a stockbroker, was Wesley's life partner whom he met while volunteering at the Royal Prince Alfred Hospital. Des had been admitted with a medical complication and Wes served him tea. That was two years ago now but Des had only just recently been diagnosed. Apparently he had unelephantitis of the testicles, otherwise known as 'Shrinking Ball Syndrome' and he hadn't really smiled since that day, although Wes was secretly glad as it explained a few things.

Wes was confused as to why he was smiling today though, particularly after Des had finished his story about the day's events. Des had had an extremely testing day, in a nutshell, he attended a meeting in the ballroom at the Hyatt with the world's richest man. According to Des, "The absolute goon sold all his assets and bought a 95% share in a company that... hilariously... claims to have discovered a lust potion. A potion you apply like a perfume that makes you irresistibly attractive. Can you believe it, Hon?" Des grinned widely. Apparently the brokers had laughed uncontrollably on hearing this, and the goon tycoon soon became quite aggressive accusing the group of brokers of having 'balls the size of ants'. To which of course, Des had taken great offence and now intended to take legal action.

"What was the company called again?" Wes asked.

"Gaybomb.com."

That night Wes completed his tea run at the Royal Prince Alfred Hospital, the other illegitimate love-child of the work-for-the-dole program. It was raining outside and he was therefore stuck in the lunch room for his tea break. His coffee was still too hot and its hedonistic aromas had sent him to the depths of a vivid fantasy about the potential of a lust potion. Staring trance-like at the paper he realised he was getting a little too excited and so he strategically placed the newspaper while he desperately thought about trucks, cars, football, anything... when a nurse with thunderous thighs sidled up beside him. She began spruiking about her wealthy friend who broke-up with her boyfriend and was going to be selling all the remnants of their relationship this coming weekend. She lunged over Wes, one index finger outstretched to a point, heading for the groin area of his lap toward the very pointedly and prominent printed heading 'Garage Sale'. The weight of her left breast pounded against his shoulder, her herring breath overwhelming, and he thought he felt a bristle of a stray hair on her cleft chin... he immediately gained composure. Wes hastily promised to go to the garage sale before he was hooked into any pending conversation.

PART 3

That night in Wayne's 900 square metre penthouse, he pondered the potential of the lust potion while he sat on the golden throne. Literally golden. His now estranged sister had once highlighted the excesses of the gold plated toilet and how there are starving children in Africa. That stupid bitch, he now thought, what would those dirty children in Africa want with his toilet? They don't even have proper septic systems, even the Romans had sewers. It was precisely that thought that was ricocheting between Wayne's brain cells when Roula burst through the door in a tornado of rage, the titanic of all tantrums. "You good for nothin bastard, you put me on the street, you promised you'd take care ov me... alvays."

Wayne silently cursed the cleaner, she had strict instructions to replace all vodka at The Moorings with water. Surely this little babushka wasn't pissed on water? And besides, he was taking good care of her, he was thinking of her liver for one. "Now calm down Gorg, I've got this new company you're gonna love."

But the last thing on Roula's mind was love. She lunged for the only blunt object she could find, that annoying doodle-shaped hat holder, the one his retched Father had left him. His gregarious black akubra hat was knocked to the ground as she grabbed it tight in her fist. Not even caring about her newly manicured nails, she hurled it straight at him. Not a girly pitch but similar to how the Australian Aborigines used to spear kangaroos, like on that Discovery documentary she had watched the night before last.

PART 4

The garage sale turned out to be a flop but while Wes remained flippant Des was back to his usual forlorn quiet self, quite miserable. Wes tried to cheer him up and told him about the VIP patient that had arrived at the end of his shift last night. Apparently his jilted foreign and very feisty girlfriend had belted him between the eyes with a blunt object and while the poor bastard lie unconscious on the cold tiles she went to his manhood with a nail file. "Ouch," Des squealed lamely as he feigned interest, feebly picking up a stone and slightly phallic looking table ornament. Wes gave him a genuinely concerned look. "Stop worrying would you, I'm OK, I'm just a little distracted. The court is serving the summons to that Wayne wanker today and I'm just hoping I've done the right thing."

"Don't worry Sweetie, you'll be OK, you're just giving karma a little hurry along."

"Yes WE are," Des replied, making it very clear that they were both in it together.

The morning's cloud-cover was breaking up and Wes was wondering if he had packed sunscreen when he looked up to see the lady running the garage sale staring at Des, horrified. Wes looked at Des, Des was smiling back at Wes, Wes then looked down and noticed Des's firmly clenched right hand running up and down the length of the table ornament. "Um... how much for the... " Wes gestured toward the ornament.

"Five dollars," the lady replied with raised eyebrows. "And it's a hat stand, that is what it is used for and that is what God intended it to be used for, nothing else, just displaying hats," she offered, eyebrows raised even higher... any higher and they would be clean off her face.

The boys got their phallus hat stand home and sat it on the coffee table directly on top of the acetone stain, a remnant of a drunken night in drag. Des went into the kitchenette to cook chicken parmigiana and Wes slumped deeper into the couch and began aimlessly flicking between stations when the Antique Road Show caught his attention. The show was being broadcast from London but rather than admiring the beautiful streetscape, Wes was admiring the presenter's tanned hard body, particularly the way his chambray shirt fell about the pectoral area. Tonight's show was about ancient pagan fertility symbols, but Wes wouldn't have known it, he was too busy praying for a full-length screen shot of the handsome presenter. The fertility symbols were carved from stone and of the exact same dimensions and appearance as the hat stand bought this morning at the garage sale for five bucks, and sitting on the coffee table next to the couch, next to Wes. They were interviewing the archaeologist who had found one of the rarest fertility symbols known to mankind which resided in the British Museum on Great Russell Street. The presenter was explaining how they were used during the winter solstice and said that such artefacts were considered to be priceless.

But Wes was now focused on the curve of the presenter's shoulders - so focused that he had been again dragged into a fantasy about the lust potion. He hadn't even noticed that he was stroking the shaft of the hat stand suggestively when Des walked into the room and let out a high pitch shrill. It was during a news headline which was announcing the newly discovered carcinogenic nature of the chemical D1027, a popular chemical used in modern day plastic surgery.

"God, Hon, I was only just enquiring about a procedure the other day."

This was such a silly statement considering they were both so broke. Wes was now thinking about how much tonight's parmigiana was a luxury. He grinned to himself as the faint waft of parmesan tickled his nostrils.

"Also in tonight's news... controversial international company Gaybomb.com underwent a raid this afternoon after a tip off to police. They have been exposed as manufacturing illegal methamphetamines, not an elusive love potion as previously claimed. CEO Wayne Makemyday has yet to be interviewed due to hospitalisation from an earlier unrelated incident."