The man was dreaming.
As his mind floated from one image to the next, latching onto yesterday’s sensual information at the office; a peek of the secretary’s cleavage and his damn financial report, to his late aunt who smiled with a chocolate grin, he came upon a FLASH and an egg appeared in front of him..........
CONTINUED.......
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The man was dreaming.
As his mind floated from one image to the next, latching onto yesterday’s sensual information at the office; a peek of the secretary’s cleavage and his damn financial report, to his late aunt who smiled with a chocolate grin, he came upon a FLASH and an egg appeared in front of him.
The egg was black and shiny and was as finely polished as a mirror.
The egg was big and was in one corner of a room with no carpet, just bare floorboards.
Then the egg began to crack with the HOWL! of a typhoon and out of the crack shone a blinding bright light and something else, the man felt wet.
He saw spittles of blood flying around him.
The blood spat out and eventually flowed down the side of the egg and over the man’s new patent leather shoes, which were arranged neatly in a pair, to be sucked down through the greedy wooden floorboards along with his attention.
Sucked down.
The man awoke with a start.
It was Monday morning, five-fifty eight.
The image of the egg echoed once more then disappeared into his consciousness, forgotten behind his eyes as he squeezed them shut, hoping time would stop or fast forward. He hoped that it would be any other time than getting up and going to work in his office time. Another week ahead of him.
Pulling the duvet over his head, Jean-Claude Zinn remembered how felt all those years ago, when he started work at the firm. He was proud at getting such a good job and all off his own back. His parents hadn’t been rich like all those at his level. It had been study and determination that had gotten him that job, nepotism worked for all those around him. But not for him.
So why was he beginning to feel resentful and confused?
It had been creeping up on him for months, a worm in his perfect apple.
His alarm screeched through his dark bedroom and his beautiful, still good for her age, wife stirred and let out an audible sigh. Jean-Claude leant over to turn his alarm clock off and as he turned back, he could see Isabelle’s perfect profile and felt a little sick in the pit of his belly. He was not a good looking man, he knew this, he was short, scrawny, balding and had a downright ugly mouth. Rat-like. That was how he saw himself. He held no illusions. But when he walked down the Parisian streets with her and she was dressed in the most elegant clothes, he felt like more of a man than all those well groomed, fashionable young men that leered and lusted after her. It was his cock that went inside her, whether she married him for the money or not.
It was his cock.
He got up and showered, hearing Isabelle moving around and as he was drying himself he could smell the dark sweet morning odour of fresh coffee being made in the kitchen. Dressing, he remembered his schedule for that morning, a meeting, an important one, he needed to be fully alert and know exactly what he was doing. A lot of Euros were banking on this.
He entered the kitchen tying his tie in a perfect Winsor knot, his preferred style, it was something that had become second nature to him. He could do it with his eyes closed. Stroking the tie down flat and sitting at his breakfast he looked over at his wife and began to feel aroused. She had a tiny little see through chemise on and only a black thong covering her perfectly sculpted bush. He sipped at his big bowl of coffee and glanced at his watch, he didn’t know why, he knew that he had barely enough time for a shit, never mind a shag.
Isabelle was stood over the frying and he heard a tap and a weak crack. He turned his head quizzically, “Eggs” he thought, “she never cooks eggs in the morning…”
He always took the Metro to work. He had a car, of course, as befitted a man with his status but saw no point in using it in a large city. His car was for his weekends away in the country. That bright Autumn morning everybody seemed angry about something or other. The trains were full of frowns, not the usual Monday morning resignation and people seemed to be pushing and arguing with each other over the smallest things. Maybe it was the predicted transport strike, maybe not.
As Jean-Claude was stood against the door of the train, a big rough looking brute of a man stared down at him, and he stared back until the tension made him shut his eyes. He felt the man’s eyes chewing into him, but tried to think of other things. He remembered his dream and a thought struck him across his temple.
If some men choose to dwell in fantasy, it is because the world has not been created well enough for them.
Shocked, he opened his eyes to find that the man had gone and began to feel itchy and felt a wave of prickly heat moved up and down his body. He had never had thoughts like that before, it just wasn’t him. He thought about the football, his wife’s cunt, his secretary’s breasts, how to ingratiate himself with the Director. This new thought almost knocked him over. It just wasn’t him.
The next stop was his and as soon as the door’s opened at La Defense, he barged his way out of the door, knocking a young black student out of the way, her MP3 player flying and bouncing onto the floor. Jean-Claude darted up the stairs as his thoughts started to dive bomb their way into his head.
He began to feel sick as he thought of his job
and all the sycophants around him
and the corporate inhuman drivel about money
and things that truly did not matter that were spoken near him every second of every working day while time just ticked away
and he was trapped by time
and some idiot was getting rich off his efforts
and his wife was fucking his next door neighbour
and that was why she always seemed so happy
and she spent his hard earned money on clothes and caviar
and his daughter hated him and just took and took and took and took and expected she should give nothing back
and all the time he was getting hotter and hotter.
Clambering up the stairs, trying to dodge the early morning crowds, he had reached the first floor and almost the barriers when he dropped his briefcase and began to pull and tear at his clothes. First his jacket and shirt came off and people began to part and some just stood there and stared, while others pointed and jeered. His shirt came off next and he ripped at his tie, then fumbled with his belt as he lost his balance and fell to the floor, yet he couldn’t stop. He was on his back now and tearing at his socks, throwing them across the station as he crawled onto his knees and pulled at his underpants. Someone flew at Jean-Claude to stop him taking his last piece of modesty covering clothing off but he kicked the man right in the balls as his silk cloth was forced down to his knees and his feet.
A woman screamed and Jean-Claude stood panting, looking around at all the scared people, feeling like a wild animal, a tiger, alive.
The pressure hit a peak and he began holding his head. He felt it would explode and it did. Looking into the eyes around him, he felt he would laugh and never stop.
Whistles screeched in the distance, the police were coming with their batons and guns and handcuffs, but they couldn’t get him now.
He turned and ran at the furthest wall, he moved his legs faster and faster, they became pistons and he, a machine.
Pumping, pumping, pumping, head down, wall looming…
THUD!
He hit the wall head first and bounced, his head cracked a gash open and blood spat out.
The last thing he remembered about that day was the light.
He woke up in a police cell, he didn’t care, they could do what they wanted to him. His head hurt, and he touched the wound gently at first, then harder, feeling the pain wash over his body, making him jerk to life. He felt something over his belly and leant painfully forward and blinking, he realised that he had a towel wrapped around his midriff and stroked it, feeling the coarse material over his hands. His eyes began to focus on his environment. He looked over shielding his eyes from the bare light bulb and saw an old Romanian gentleman curled up in a corner of the cell with a scarf around his neck.
The old man nodded and Jean-Claude nodded back.
Jason Michel has been turned on, tripped up and stumbled over all around the world on a ten year self imposed exile. He currently lives in France and now wonders if that was such a good idea... He has had work and will have work published in remark, scarecrow, dogmatika, zygote in my coffee, triptych haiku, faux pas magazine and straight from the fridge...
Last update : 13-02-2008 19:40
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