The Knife Sharpener (4)

4.

He wore stained corduroy beige slacks, with a frayed leather belt, a few shredded notches short of ripping, tucked under an overflowing belly. A white crew neck t shirt, covered in yellow sweat and brown gravy stains. Patchy facial hair and one eye drawn into a narrow slit. A hand rolled Champion cigarette dangled from the corner of his thin-lipped mouth. Slight odour: tobacco, musk, and steel.

            He sat behind the steering wheel of a rust beat Toyota panel van and played Neil Diamond’s ‘Girl, You’ll Be A Woman Soon’ on fuzzy cassette. A dilapidated air freshener hung from the rear view mirror and empty fast food wrappers covered the floor of the passenger side. He held the accelerator at an unremarkable 75 kilometres an hour. Not sure if it will go any faster and certainly unable to afford to go any slower. Industry, outer west Melbourne suburbs, and warehouses pass by. A few milkbars peeling at the façade. A few stop signs. Not a lot of traffic lights. Not a lot of traffic out here but for some semis and old sedans.

            His name is Helmut Isa. Occupation, knife sharpener. Mobile and on call. Tools of his trade firmly strapped down in the rear of the van, wrapped in velvet and stashed carefully in a tin box.

He checked his old cracked flip phone Samsung for the next set of chefs in need. En route. Put it down and scratched his thigh with crust thick nails.

            The soggy filter of his nearly finished cigarette was stuck to some stray whiskers growing from a deep dimple. Helmut cranked the window down and flicked the moist butt to the street. He drove on. Swiped his pants of scattered ash with the back of a scar crisscrossed hand. Clamped back onto his large 7/11 coffee. Still hot from ten minutes ago. A sip and momentary contentment in bitter burnt beans.

            Another Diamond song, ‘Cherry, Cherry.’ Oh, gonna show me tonight, yeah. Fingers on the wheel loosen, tap a little. His knuckles creak and dust falls to the van floor. On down the road. Exhaust fumes mix with factory fumes and it’s all a kind of concrete grey. A clean shaved homeless man in a clear plastic rain coat, hood up, swigs a longneck in paper and waves. Closed factories that once made cardboard and tin cans.

Over the bridge he could see commerce and silver. Skyscrapers of straight lines shivered in flashes of sunlight between low hung clouds. Artful minimalisms of glass and steel that house excesses in the billions. Here was the convergence of all radial lines. The end of all roads. Around him, there are more cars. Sedans and coupes and SUVs. Clean and reflective with tinted windows. Then the motoboys weaving traffic on scooters and dirt bikes, deliveries on their backs.

            Another Champion cigarette is balanced on his lip. Tim Buckley playing on cassette. All the stony people | Walking ‘round in Christian licorice clothes. 1973 live recording. The track buzzed and murmured. The panel van mounted the beginning of the West Gate Bridge, slows back to 55. Helmut took his hand off the wheel to tap ash into an empty coffee cup.

A series of texts on his Samsung:

Need ya at The Wasatch

OK. 3pm.

His digital clock behind oil smeared glass on the dashboard reads: 1330. It should take him a half an hour from here, depending on post long lunch traffic in the outskirts of the CBD. Few too many Burgundy’s and cars crawl in suspicion of the undercover constabulary.

An ivory BMW pulled up beside the Toyota to overtake. Helmut could see the driver wearing leather gloves, Ray-Bans, and a blue suit. How he sits back, easing the automobile through the crowded bridge one handed. The passenger, likely corporate, maybe political, behind blacked out windows. See Helmut’s reflection: a balding scalp with a loosely tied ponytail and drawn cheeks. Teeth clamped down on his cigarette. The sunshine reminds you of concreted skies. The BMW pulled away and flowed into the lane ahead, full of other BMWs and a few Mercedes. Not many semis coming in on a Thursday.

The work waits for him.

The Knife Sharpener (3)

3.

‘Haven’t seen Paul in yonks,’ said Bohemian Bob.

            Nichola watched the man across the road. His steps were unsure and uneven as he swayed back and forth. First heading towards Dandenong Rd and leaning on a shuttered Asian restaurant. Then reversing back in the direction of South Yarra past a well-lit X-rated bookstore. She had never seen a silver robed person enter the building.

            ‘How do you know who he is?’ asked Nichola.

            ‘His resplendent accoutrement. Never takes it off.’

            ‘It could be someone else wearing it.’

            ‘Nah, not a chance. It’s like his personal uniform, sayin who he is and where he belongs. Like my eye patch used to do,’ said Bohemian Bob. ‘Also, Paul is a spindly fella. A bit of torso. A lot of arms and legs.’

The silver robed man across the road was sitting on the ground in front of the X-rated bookstore. His knees were wrapped up by his protruding elbows and long forearms. High enough to nearly cover his face. Nichola couldn’t deny that he was certainly unusually long limbed.

‘Beanstalk bastard. Have a look at him, will ya? I wonder where he’s been?’ asked Bohemian Bob, slurping at his beer and checking his black digital watch. ‘Nearly time to head out, love. Gotta chase the hour on down the street. Cheeky bugger always creeping on.’

‘How do you know Paul?’ asked Nichola. She was still doubting the veracity of his claims. It could be Geoff under that silver robe. He’d arrived at 4:15pm. Although she wasn’t sure if Geoff was quite so skinny and knobbly. The silver robed man across the street was struggling to rise. A few orange tanned women and men in yoga pants and puffer jackets, accompanied by three terriers in Versace alpaca sweaters, gave him a wide birth as they yakked there way down the footpath. Their noses wrinkled through the botox.

‘He used to occupy that very seat of yours, Nicky. Come in all silver sparkly and the like, inhale a few, talk endlessly about outer space mostly. Couldn’t even get a word in. Me? I know right? Verbose fella. Passionate about his role in that Church of his,’ said Bohemian Bob, pointing across the road to the building. ‘I remember one night he met me after his congregation and followed me down Chapel. Might’ve been one of the last nights I saw him, too. Dunno. My brain could be making a foggy rumour out of the whole affair. I think he appeared when I was most of the way to Toorak Rd.’

The silver robed man had managed to get to his feet. There was a frantic jerk to his motion now. A marionette movement of hurrying away but trapped on the same stage.

‘He say anything else about his Church?’ asked Nichola.

‘Not much that I can bring to mind, love. I was properly carouselling Chapel by then, succumbed to the froth fever,’ said Bohemian Bob, finishing the last dregs of his beer. His knees audibly creaked over the stoner rock on the speakers as he stood. ‘I don’t think he was having fun there anymore. I get that. You know how I hold fun at a high premium. Paul was just rambling about apocalyptic changes to the doctrine. “Not the spirit of it. We were community,” he was saying.’ Bohemian Bob dwelled for a moment. ‘Might’ve been saying. There’s a lot of voices up here, Nicky,’ said Bohemian Bob, tapping on his stackhat.

Kent and Todd, still in their black and silver robes, ran out the front door of the building. The silver robed man spotted them and tried to take off down Chapel towards South Yarra. His legs buckled and he fell two steps past the X-rated bookstore. Quickly, Kent and Todd surrounded the fallen figure and hurled him up by the crook of his elbows. His hood tumbled off his head, revealing a pinched face with a huge nose.

‘That’s Paul’s proboscis, alright,’ said Bohemian Bob. He looked down at his sweater and pulled at a loose thread. The two black and silver robed men hauled Paul back into the building. Nichola could almost hear his whimpering. There was no muscle or fight in the man. A couple of Chapel St tramps nearby ignored the whole scene. They hit their goon sack and asked a trio of Southside hipsters eating burgers for a smoke.

‘Time to jostle onwards,’ said Bohemian Bob.

‘Ok. See ya, Bob,’ said Nichola.

A few motoboys stood up and made their way to the entrance of the bar. Bohemian Bob removed his orange stackhat and left it in the communal bucket.

He turned back to Nichola. ‘I don’t know much bout your interest in them over there, love, but as I’ve said before, they’re a harmless bunch. Middle of the road people trying to find their rock to get off. Get a little freaky. A bit noteworthy in an otherwise unspectacular existence.’

‘They just dragged your mate Paul back into that building. Their Church,’ said Nichola.

‘So, they’re a bit kinky? Don’t worry your emotion on them, Nicky. Leave em be. Nothing to be done,’ said Bohemian Bob. ‘Tell you what, come with me down Chapel. Give this stuff to your memory and let it lie. I’ll tell you all about that time I got lost in Forest Hill. Got out just before the Wastes. We’ll have a good old time.’

‘No thanks, Bob,’ said Nichola. ‘I’ll probably see you tomorrow.’

‘Sure?’

‘Yeah.’

Bohemian Bob bumbled out of the bar, half looking at Nichola. ‘Righto,’ he said and disappeared in a circle of motoboys, seeking the Windsor Station pub that was always his next stop.

Nichola watched him go and drank her cider. She turned back to the building. She had gone down the alley to its right a few times. It led to a fenced, gravel pit carpark that backed onto a gully where the Sandringham train line ran.

She had always thought that there was only the one entrance and exit to the building. To this Church.

But, maybe?

She dwelled on her mission and waited for it to get dark.

The Knife Sharpener (2)

2.

On Chapel St, the legend of Bohemian Bob bordered on myth. He was the Mayor of Chapel St. The Royal Vagrant Roamer. The Wig Wearing Wafting Wanderer. The Effusively Inebriated Gentleman’s Storyteller. His bar hopping, timed to arrive at each overlapping happy hour as he galivanted from Windsor to South Yarra, was a nightly performance. Behind him, Bohemian Bob would leave a trail of empty glassware, exhausted bar tenders, and cross-eyed motoboys. Everyone would extoll the virtue of his tall tales. No one could quite remember the details of what he said.

            Nichola had high hopes when she first arrived at the bar that the Chapelian Baron of Bar Bouncing would be able to tell her all about the activity across the road. Everyone always said, no one knew Chapel better than Bohemian Bob.

            That was probably true. He was an endless chatterer. A kind of social nexus that attracted anyone and everyone. Hipster angels waiting to ascend to Revs for their nightly prayers. Middle management still not sure of their role in the middle, secretly suspecting they were actually somewhere down the bottom. South Yarra fashionistas doled up and held together by plastic and mystery adhesive. All were drawn into the beer-soaked orbit of Bohemian Bob. His was a conquest of spirited braggadocio, strung together by the unalterable rhythm of his movement down Chapel, buttressed by an enormous capacity for fermented yeast beverages.

            Bohemian Bob was like a friend. A good old-fashioned drinking buddy in the tradition of old mate at the pub. Leans over and gives up a political opinion. Utterly stereotypical in its content and context. Never an invitation to an argument. Just a request for a spirited discussion about the foibles of whatever issue everyone agreed was a bit shit.

It helped that he had a news broadcaster’s voice. A counterintuitively rational rumble sprinkled with a touch of that reassuring Australian larrikinism that made Bohemian Bob seem like he perpetually fell in the middle of any issue. The deft tone of his rhetoric relaxed those around him. They were in good hands. While also subtly cementing the unbreaking ritual of his wandering. To listen to Bohemian Bob was to be taken back to a nightly habit of watching the news. The nightly habit of imbibing with your footy short wearing buddy. The Chapel St Chaplain.  

             Bohemian Bob was the man people listened to realign and identify their own sociohistorical patterns. Their need for self-reassurance and nostalgia. Plus, he could turn a story. About what he saw, thought, believed, had experienced. None of it particularly consistent. From waxing lyrical about the public transport system. To speaking of being terrified of Tram Sprites on the 78. Warring with the Conductors. He had apparently dined at, and been disappointed by, the finest restaurants in Melbourne. Once, he served as a fairy hunter out in Ferntree Gully but missed Prahran and the wild days of the Alma Park Market too much. His politics were ambiguous. His sense of social justice largely centred around the right to a good time and having enough money to do it.

            But Nichola had come to learn that much of the lore of the Totalled Titan was carefully self-curated. Most of the stories about him could be traced back to his own telling. And though he was an unending talker, there was very little inquisitive about him. Bohemian Bob certainly knew of any permutations that happened along his beloved Chapel. He never failed to point out an unexpected oddity. A late or early tram. A fellow barfly missing from his usual spot. A venue about to fail paying its rent. He just never felt any desire to pursue the causes behind them. It was why he never questioned the robed figures entering the building across the street. They were just another part of his odyssey.

            ‘How long have you been doing this, Bob?’ asked Nichola.

            ‘Doing what, Nicky?’

            ‘Your thing. This nightly Chapel St crawl.’

            ‘Oh, I’ve lost count. At least since the Northside Delinquency,’ said Bohemian Bob. ‘Did I ever tell you how I used to work up there once? Sold boutique, personalised eye patches out of a stall near The Tote. Reckon I still got some feedback loops in my bloodstream. Not enough to be properly dangerous, but definitely buzzing.’

            ‘Eye patches?’

            ‘Oh, they were all the rage. Very symbolic for them kids. Something about being so committed to their views they were one eyed. They always liked em to be red for some reason.’

            ‘I see.’

            ‘I wore one too. A tidy little beige and purple number.’

            ‘Did you have a particular view you were serious about?’

            ‘Yeah, nah. More that I went through a bit of a phase of trying to imitate them Northside kids whole rebel cool, tearaway thing. Bit laissez faire, but not, you know? Didn’t really work on me. I was lacking the conviction. I did look dashing, though. I wore that thing on and off for a few years. It was good for secretly acknowledging Northsiders fleeing Ministry who’d wander over to my side of the river – like a secret handshake kinda deal. Also, scared off the Tram Sprites. They thought I was a pirate. Flamboyant and fierce.’

            Nichola watched another robed man walking up Chapel towards the building. This one was very tall, very heavy, bespectacled, and white haired. He wore expensive black loafers under his robes. While he waited to be let in, Nichola made another note in her book: Kent, 4:55pm. Bohemian Bob, still at the quieter beginning of his evening, contemplatively slugged at his beer. She suspected he liked the quiet of her company for a few moments before heading off to the next bar at 5pm. The motoboys were getting restless. Most of them would soon be on the roads for their dinner service. The others would escort Bohemian Bob for the duration of his evening. At least, as far as their own tolerances took them. Their relationship to the Cardinal of Chapel bewildered Nichola. No one really understood the motivations of the motoboys.

            She lifted her cider to her lips. It was nearly time to go. From her notes she could see that only Tom and Gertrude were missing. They wouldn’t be far away. The robed figures rarely came after five. They never arrived at the same time on consecutive days. They always entered one at a time and waited a minute between entering. They always had to wait for the door to open. There was only one door. They always wore black and silver robes with the hood down.

The simplicity of their behaviour infuriated her. It stood in direct contradiction to the complexity of their nefarious task. It made clandestine entry into their building seem impossible.

            ‘Well, well, well, if it ain’t Paul,’ said Bohemian Bob.

            Across the road a lank man in an entirely silver robe lurched around the corner of the building. Bohemian Bob was pointing at him. Nichola could see that the robe was splattered with dirty water and mud. Otherwise, it shimmered. His arms were held stilted to his side and his head swivelled looking up, down, and across Chapel St.

She didn’t know how Bohemian Bob was able to identify him. His hood was up. They couldn’t see his face.

The Knife Sharpener (1)

‘One of the most poetic facts I know about the universe is that essentially every atom in your body was once inside a star that exploded … We are all, literally, star children, and our bodies are made of stardust.’

            Lawrence M. Krauss – A Universe From Nothing

1.

It was happy hour. The bar was full of motoboys waiting for their dinner deliveries and middle management wearing loose suits and orange stackhats. Hands were occupied by pints. The vibe was muted. Chatter relegated to quiet pleasantries. Make It Wit Chu seemed to be playing on repeat over the speakers.

            Nichola sat on a stool in the window. It had become her usual spot over the last month. She nursed a cider and stared at the squat grey building across Chapel St. Her drink was getting warm and flat. She didn’t care. She never finished it. A leather notebook lay open on the elevated stained bench she leaned into. It was propped open by her left hand. Her right adjusted her stackhat to sit a little further back on her short brown hair.

            From an alley to the right of the building a man in a black and silver spotted robe came around the corner. He was middle aged, flabby, and grey haired. Nichola saw that he wore white New Balance sneakers under his robe. In her notebook, she quickly jotted down the arrival time – 4:45pm – for the man she had given the alias, Todd.

            She watched Todd ring a doorbell next to the building’s front door. He scratched his armpit while he waited to be let in. People ignored him as they walked past. A skeletal woman in a matching black and silver robe, who Nichola had named Patty, emerged from the same alley. On seeing Todd, Patty stopped and waited at the corner. They didn’t acknowledge one another. Nichola made a note of the time of her appearance also.

            After a short wait, the door opened for Todd, who disappeared inside. Patty stood at the corner for a minute before strolling to the door and ringing the doorbell. Nichola had long ago observed that there were no cameras over the door. There were only a few small blacked out windows facing onto the street and a peephole in the door itself. She had never seen any electronic surveillance. Even in the carpark at the rear of the building. But, then, in her sneaking around, Nichola had only ever found the one entrance. There were no other doors besides the one she had been watching for a month. All the windows were boarded up.

            The front door opened for Patty. It was 4:47pm and happy hour was due to go for another hour and thirteen minutes. Nichola sipped her cider. She still had no idea how to get into the building. A month long stake out and nothing to show for it.

            As he did every night around this time, Bohemian Bob came and sat down next to Nichola. He guzzled at his pint and followed Nichola’s gaze across Chapel St. He wore his usual torn footy shorts and thick yellow woollen jumper. There was a slight sourness to his scent, but also a rich cologne. Nichola never quite knew how to differentiate the two smells. She side-eyed the ill-fitting toupee slipping around under his stackhat.

            ‘Nichola, lovely, they call it happy hour,’ said Bohemian Bob. He leaned close enough to tap stack hats. His breath was beer and mint. ‘Cheer up, this ain’t the end of the world or nothing.’

            He drew on his pint, then slammed it on the bench, leaving only a mouthful sloshing around the bottom. A motoboy in a white motorbike helmet, slipped free of his comrades and quickly replaced the near empty glass with a fresh pint.

            ‘You stress too much staring at that old, ugly building all the time. It’s rubbing off on me vibes. Good ol Bohemian Bob will tell you again: they’re just a bunch of frustrated uptown spooks who like to play at fancy dress. It’s a bit nouveau riche. I bet ya they’re probably swinging. Car keys in the pot. Nasty linen on a springy bed out the back.’

            Bohemian Bob always changed what he thought they were doing in the building. Antique dealing, board game nights, watching movies, group TV binging, wine appreciation, shooting porn, haberdashery, taxidermy. None of it astounded his imagination. He didn’t understand, nor ask about, Nichola’s obsession with the building. Bohemian Bob espoused his theories and carried on.

            For her part, Nichola never bothered to tell him about what she actually knew of the building. All the rites and the dangerous beliefs of the individuals inside. Bohemian Bob wouldn’t have cared. This was only the first bar in his own Chapel St pilgrimage. Nichola was a part of his ritual. Whatever the black and silver robed middle aged people were doing in that building did not concern his pattern of chasing discounted intoxication.

ode to supermarket rotisserie chicken

O, I just want to rub you and your succulent herbaceous oils across my face and inhale your aromas;

Leave your juices in the fragrant moisture sopped plastic bag till they congeal into pudding and I can eat this delectable mixture with a spoon;

Tear away the barbecue char of your luxuriantly tender skin and rend it gently ‘tween my teeth, nibbling with soft lips from breast to wing tip to leg and back;

Inelegantly use my fingers to massage your flesh free of the rigid, impeccable structure of your cream white bones, and see steam waft from these crevasses: little clouds of piquant promise in which I wrap myself and dream …

I see you there, glistening under humming fluorescent heat lamps, tucked safely in your clear packaging, basking seductively in your natural cooking liquids.

I see the enticing sodden mass of spiced bread crumbs spilling carelessly from your rear, as if taking a sneaky look at the world – at me – and saying, ‘oh, hey there …

                                                                                                            Hungry?’

Yes. Yes, always for you, yes, wedged just so into supple white bread rolls like velvet pillows,

smeared with alluring waves of kewpie mayonnaise,

layered with crinkled fresh lettuce spotted with dew,

made resplendent with a slice of tomato as passionate as its fire red hue,

and a hint of salt and pepper, always together.

The bite, then, coveting, yet fierce; loving, yet firm; caring, yet just a little bit rough. 

Unquestioning.

Forever watching, endearing, craving, wanting.

O, as lustful as a performance of courtship in the dark, though more beautifully messy.

Your colouring today, it is unusually dark: a rippled deep golden dessert ochre.

You, brave bird, must have dared fly too close to the heat in your near endless turning, but I appreciate your sacrifice:

the extra texture, the knuckles of crusty muscle coating your joints, the pockets of crunch disguising the dainty meat below.

O, from under the halo of warmth alighted upon your furrowed, rounded breasts meeting in perfect symmetry, do I hear you cry for me?

Do I hear the echoes of motors slowly rotating, consummately cooking, which led you to me? The mysterious ingredients and additives?

The very precision of your existence?

Yes, my friend, the rotisseries chicken. I do. I always hear you.

A Baby Boomer Has An Earnest Chat With Melbourne’s Weather

Boomer:

Hello. Thanks for coming. Please, take a seat.

…

Boomer:

You can’t? Why?

…

Boomer:

A meteorological phenomenon? What’s that?

…

Boomer:

Yes, but’s wrong with being called ‘weather’? That’s what you are.

…

Boomer:

I don’t see how that is stopping you from taking a seat.

…

Boomer:

*scoff* Have it your way then. I personally think my chair is more than capable of handling your so-called immensity.

…

Boomer:

Anyway, we need to have a little chat about your performance in Melbourne the last few weeks. Frankly, it’s just unacceptable.

…

Boomer:

Why? Because it’s irregular. It’s spring and it’s cold. I’m supposed to be out watching my gardener trim the petunias at the moment, not tucked up inside with my central heating switched on. Gas bill will cost me the proverbial, especially with the missus constantly fiddling with the thermostat. I’m always telling her that 24.5 degrees is optimum. She’d rather we live in a broiling swamp.

…

Boomer:

Yeah, listen, I know this is Melbourne – four seasons in one day, haha – and Melbourne has its, um, penchant for being a bit – whadda call it? – hipster. Bit original, individual, bunch of laneways and graffiti and that stuff. I mean, I get culture. I go the museum and the musicals. But I don’t see how that excuses this complete refusal to align with traditional weather –

…

Boomer:

… if you say so – meteorological

*under breath* silly term –

patterns.

…

Boomer:

My fault?

…

Boomer:

Ridiculous. Clearly, you’re not working hard enough. Just gotta get your foot in the door. Start from the bottom: bit of 20 degrees here or there. Maybe, a cheeky 25, you know? It’s the problem with your generation, you just don’t have the value of patience that defines people like me. Too eager to switch from 35 degree balmy days, to 12 degree freezers. Shows a complete lack of persistence.

…

Boomer:

Not that easy? Of course it is. As they say, you can’t spend all your chips on avocado and expect to own a house.

…

Boomer:

Apply to you? Well, it’s the gist of the thing isn’t it? Instead of just taking the easy way – punishing us with rain and hail temper tantrums, bit of artic wind – you could just get your head down and save up some of that rotten weather, turn it into something nice for the rest of us.

…

Boomer:

What do you get in return? Isn’t the satisfaction of a job well done enough? I don’t get how you all think that your every action is worthy of payment. We all need to make sacrifices to get what we want.

…

Boomer:

My sacrifice is taking time out of my day to talk to you.

…

Boomer:

It’s hard to concentrate on what you’re saying when you won’t just sit down.

…

Boomer:

I still don’t get why your abstraction is a problem. No flexibility. Gotta be willing to put in the yards. When I was learning to sit, I started small, with a stool. Eventually, with a great deal of hard work, I graduated to a nice lounging beach chair in Sorrento. You people have no appreciation of the process.

…

Boomer:

No imagination, either. An absence of limbs is not an excuse, weather.

…

Boomer:

I think I’ll call you what I’m most comfortable with, thank you very much.

…

Boomer:

Are you going to do something about this unseasonable chill, then? I’ve got the races and my beach house waiting for me. Can’t really do much at either if it continues raining and being fucking cold.

…

Boomer:

That’s just plain disappointing. Back when I was young, there was never this kind of drama. You could tell the date by the change in weather. 

...

Boomer:

Really, it’s like buying a house. Just got to work hard – like I did as a young man – and you can get a nice townhouse in Malvern. You, weather, just need to work at it a bit, get over complaints about ozones and emissions – a pair of excuses, at the end of the day – and get it done. Plenty of opportunity out there for a nice day if you're willing to look. Might need to scrape by a bit at first – few less boutique beers and trips to Europe, so to speak – but that’s the way it goes. Can't be spending all that hard earned sun in Mykonos.

…

Boomer:

Where are you going? Fuck, you’re all so indecisive and flaky: whatever happened to commitment? To regular, good old-fashioned weather?

…

Boomer:

Global warming? A myth created by Greenies who wanna lure us into socialism. So, no, it’s not my fault. You’re just lazy. Keener to post yourself on Instagram with some kinda motivational message, then actually live that message and achieve something.

…

Boomer:

Yeah, is that so? Whatta snowflake. There’s two sexes, and the weather is the weather. And, currently, you’re doing a shit job. Work harder.

automatic search erasure with a cleaning mechanism and a crane

Greetings, investors! My name is Hector Faigle, CEO and Chief Technician at KustomCompLTD!

            (wait for applause)

And do I have an opportunity for you!

With the lives we lead online, there’s always someone watching. The government. The social media. Invisible creatures going by unconscionable aliases dwelling in the corner of the internet. And worse still, friends and loved ones. They observe, analyse and judge. Who wants to be judged for what they do in private with their digital selves?  

            Some would say that the answer lies perhaps in shutting down. Switching off. At best, controlling our online habits. Reclaiming and rewriting, maybe even eliminating our online personalities. I say that such solutions are nothing more than thinking small! Refusing the gifts technology has given us! In these days of our enlightenment and access and fantasy made real, why turn our backs to the internet? Why refuse ourselves?

            See, my current girlfriend and I, we are deeply in love. The proper kind of soul to soul understanding. She gets me. I get her. We like the same televisual entertainment. Have similar senses of humour and both thoroughly enjoy West African cuisine. Life moves pleasantly along. Supportive and affectionate, filled with Ghanan curries and long bouts of Netflix.

            But does she need to know all about my online life?

            I have this close friend. We’ll call him Harry – for anonymity’s sake, of course – and he had a girlfriend who happened onto his personal, internet habits. And, well, Kate was somewhat perturbed. Which isn’t to say that Harry’s tastes and viewing rituals online were any more peculiar than the next persons. Not at all. Who are you – am I, to judge? I mean, one man’s fetish for feet is another’s longing for dark vans, chains, foreboding music, and little blondes with blushed cheeks. Right? It all amounts to the same thing: personal, private enjoyment.

Did you know that ‘fetish’ means to be in awe of something? Apt, isn’t it? Are we not entitled to enjoy a little show every now and again? Have our awe bodily inspire us? Give our quieter, but no less urgent desires, a little attention? Can we not light a few candles, dim the lights, turn up the speakers, and indulge?

            Kate seemed to think not. Seemed to think Harry’s own penchants were her concern also. A betrayal of taste and common decency, she said! Like he would ever ask her to partake in his fantasies. Unless she wanted to. It’s not like they’re that dangerous in properly controlled conditions, with the right safe bells nearby for her to ring after the ritualised gagging. It’s all performance people! Not real, but fantasy’s reality.

But, in the end, these are private concerns of the flesh. And Harry’s privacy was compromised when Kate stumbled, firstly, into his office unexpectantly, then secondly, into his personal computer’s search history. (I’m still yet to figure out how one accidentally opens another person’s search history, but Kate was an honest woman – her own internet life (of course, according to Harry) was littered with Practicing Truthfullness memes and Honesty Forums.)

            Kate and Harry were close. A lovely fit. I mean, no one questioned the strength of their bond. They were what all their couple friends aspired to. It seemed like fate. Even after it was all over, after Kate had let the chained blonde out of the bag – so to speak – their friends were still certain they would make amends. It didn’t seem right they said. I certainly thought so.

But her judgment of his innocent little predilections, and understandable predilections for the innocent, left a permanently bad taste in the mouth of their relationship. Harry never felt safe indulging around her again, lest she mistakenly opened a window she would never understand. Not that they could be ‘understood’ in the conventional sense. No. They were beyond understanding, I assure you. More sensuous than anything.

            Oh, he was a broken man when she left him. I, personally, up-close, had to bear witness to the tides of erotica and amateurs and black van rouge videos he bathed in to exfoliate his hurt. These videos and fantasies, so often a source of comfort, became a blasé glut. He drowned in them and forgot his simple pleasures.

He said, that it all became too easy. There was less rush, less satisfaction. There was guilt, but the wrong kind.

            I watched his malaise sadly and I grew concerned with my own totally normal, regular infatuations and habits. Not that his were not, you know, normal – mostly. Honestly, I can see the particular appeal: the control, the shadows, the shine off the chain.

But instead of dwelling in desolation, worried forever that my significant others were always bound to uncover my satisfactions, I rose up to create a better world. Not just for Harry, but for others. For those who just like the occasional release without being accidentally discovered for their individual delights. For those whose tastes tend to side with what the rest of the world may unfortunately call ‘unusual!’ For those who value well-made technology that enhances and protects their online selves. For those who love the game of evasion, but not the risk of ever losing.

            I designed the first Very Private Cumputer (VPC)™ personal laptop.

            (wait for rapturous applause)

Now, you may be asking yourselves: well, haven’t we mastered computer design? What more could possibly be added to my well-made, sleek little laptop? It does all the tasks I need it to. Some I don’t. And, hell, some I don’t even know about.

            (wait for laughter)

            And, even then, Mr Faigle, surely you know that there are ways to delete search history, to control your online persona, to be more selective about when to indulge so as to avoid prying eyes?

            Well, of course there are! But that requires so much boorish planning. So much clicking and cleaning up. Who has time for that? And who is to say it is even comfortable? Perfectly safe? We all make mistakes, friends. These days, these mistakes can be gargantuan, leading down the path of public humiliation, judgement, or a Kate breaking your heart over some very small personal pleasure, shot in perfect HD to get the lighting on the chains, cheek’s blush, and side nipple just right.

            With the VPC™, I can guarantee you all the enjoyment of your personal moments, along with privacy, comfort, and, above all, SIMPLICITY!

            The VPC™ is ergonomically designed by the best German and Dutch engineers, with a dual mouse feature. Finally, you’ll be able to handle your ‘mice’ simultaneously

(wait for laughter)

without ever having to awkwardly cross arms! Or, alternatively, switch it up and try out your other hand for a bit of a stranger experience! Either way, you’ll find this to be the most comfortably designed laptop you’ve ever seen. Heck, sometimes I have to hide it from my current girlfriend who adores its streamlined features and adjustable screens and keyboards. It’s my turn, Hector, she’ll say.

            (wait for thoughtful pause)

            And, you know what, she can have it. (When I’m not using it, anyway!) I’ll never have to worry about her finding any mess on my VPC™, because it features a discrete Japanese-made self-cleaning system, with a six ply tissue dispenser, desticking mister, and a one of its kind Catching Glove which can be fitted to almost any household drainage system. In our world of convenience, why continue with thin  tissues when a perfectly adequate Catching Glove is right there? 

            That’s not all, either! The VPC™ also features a unique in-built security system that automatically keeps your computer free of pop-ups, viruses, government watchdogs, and unfortunate accidental Social Media shares. It automatically erases your search history, while maintaining a finger print locked personal history of your beloved videos, performers, scenes, and sites! If I want to go straight to my favourite completely normal live stream, all I’ve got to do is wipe my thumb across the print reader and my VPC™ sends me straight to the peep show. What a service! And no accidental, Kate-like stumbling across your own special video stash, like the old days!

            The security measures don’t stop there either, because you’ll never have to worry about people sticky beaking (accidentally or deliberately) into your private business ever again!

            (wait for applause)

            The VPC™ features 360-degree motion sensors that alert you to any immediate dangers to your personal enjoyment, which can be toggled to monitor distances from six to 50 meters. Never get caught out surprised again! Be aware of your surroundings! Personalise your alarms sound from over 100 options!

            Of course, I know sometimes we all get lost in the thrall of our pleasures and with a system like the VPC™, with its beautiful 4K HyperReal screen and a carefully curated surround-sound system, it is all too easy to ignore its inbuilt warning signs. Which is why I am so excited about the revolutionary design of the Crane. Attached to the rear of your laptop, the Crane is suspended over your head and attached to the rear of your pants. If all warning signs are ignored and someone is detected by your VPC™ to enter your special pleasure palace, the Crane goes into action, quickly yanking your pants back to their acceptable on position, before withdrawing behind your laptop and opening Excel.

            Brilliant, no!?

            (wait for rapturous applause)

            This, folks, is the game changer! It has already saved me from potential embarrassment in front of my current girlfriend – a close call it was too! – and could have saved the otherworldly bond Harry had with Kate: the one everyone thought would last a lifetime because they had it all and it worked so well and they just seemed to walk in one another’s steps in perfect synchronicity. Never would she have seen, nor heard, those videos, and busted him in the act, chain wrapped delicately around his neck, oil greasing his chest, pants around his ankles – the Crane would have saved him.

It isn’t worth trying to get over the loss of people like Kate in your life. Harry says he’s ok now. Been very busy, I assure you. But we all know he still hurts and his little online worlds and pleasures have never been the same.

According to such distinguished websites like pcworld.com, computerreviews.eu and safeerotica.org, VPC™ is the way forward for laptop design! Acclaimed online reviewer and prominent Pornhub commentator, Barry Snife, recently wrote: ‘For the amateur purveyor, or homegrown connoisseur, the Very Private Cumputer™ is the way forward for properly hiding your pornographic habits.’

In the old days, we’d stash our magazines under the bed, and Kate would have turned a blind eye. But, these days, with limitless exciting options to explore, we need something more than a bed, something more than merely changing our habits. Now, all you need is a personalised VPC™ laptop!