Thriller
Haunted by memories of his father, the life of German business consultant Marcus Wirtmann solely revolves around work, business trips and alcohol. In San Francisco he runs into a mysterious feisty woman and falls in love. He helps her to escape from Japanese gangsters and, obsessed by her, follows her.
She rejects him but he doesn’t give up, saving her life a second time.
Convinced of his potential she takes him to her hideout in the desert of Texas. There she subjects him to her harsh training methods, turning him into a fighter.
Their first mission to pick up a mysterious briefcase in Tokyo goes haywire and both are being forced to cooperate with the Japanese government. The future of the entire world as we know it is in danger …
‘Milo – Angel of Death’ is based on true events the author writes under his pen name M.E. Fiend. With this trilogy he not only processes his memories of the past few years but also desperately tries to find the ‘brother’ who means everything to him.
eISBN 9783947612-17-8
Copyright © 2018 by mainbook
All rights reserved.
No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior permission in writing of the author.
Prolog
1 – San Francisco, Monday, February 6th, 2012
2 – San Francisco, Tuesday, February 7th, 2012
3 – San Francisco, Wednesday, February 8th, 2012
4 – San Francisco, Thursday, February 9th 2012
5 – London, Friday, February 10th 2012
6 – London, Texas, Saturday, February 11th 2012
7 – Texan Desert, Sunday, February 12th 2012
8 – Texan Desert, November 2012
9 – Texan Desert, January 2013
10 – Texas, Tokyo, Friday, January 25th 2013
11 – Tokyo, Saturday, January 26th 2013
12 – Tokyo, Sunday, January 27th 2013 - Morning
13 – Tokyo, Sunday, January 27th 2013 - Night
Epilogue
I know you are somewhere out there. And I will find you, you hear me? At all costs.
I gave you my promise.
P.
The explosions fade out into the desert. I fire at the target six times. The heavy recoil of my Remington revolvers is powerful. I reload fast, the cylinders snapping back into their locks.
Never take longer than two moments to change ammo – she beat that into my brain.
I walk towards the target through the blazing heat of the late Texas morning. Six hits, five times bull’s eye – I am lucky she’s not here. She is a harsh mentor, unrelenting – and irresistible. She, who I secretly call ‘my woman’.
I slowly turn around, gazing in the direction of the gleaming sun. What would he say if he saw me like this, decorated with countless scars, the huge burn on my hand, the bullet wounds? If he knew about the things I had done to save her, to be with her. Would he think that I’ve finally grown up? That I have surpassed him? That the cowardly failure has become a monster? Nothing. He would say nothing, well aware it was him who has created that monster.
I don’t need to answer to him anymore. He does not control me any longer. Never again he will beat and humiliate me. Nowadays ‘my woman’ has taken up those tasks and for that I love her even more than anything else, more than myself, and what I have achieved in my miserable life.
I have left everything behind. Everything. And it was definitely worth it.
The daily agony in her presence is incomparable to anything else on this planet. Yet the few minutes in between, when she is not my teacher and I’m not her student, our training ground feels like cloud nine, despite broken bones, cuts, scorpions and poisonous snakes, the scorching heat and the sunburn.
My mentor is on her way to do a recce and to get new supplies, foremost to stock up on our liquid friend. I don’t want to count the empty Jack Daniel’s bottles decorating our junkyard. It’s scary how we excel in our nightly booze ritual. We finish two bottles a day. Whatever! In Germany I’d probably have a nagging wife telling me how unhealthy that is. To this day she can still outdrink me anytime.
At dawn this morning she casually jumped onto the driver’s seat of our ancient Dodge, speeding away across the dirty road towards the horizon, behind which civilisation exists, and these days always make me sad. Without her motivating blows to the neck and kidneys, training is just boring.
I miss her. These are the times when I sit down to write. Actually I use the whole time when I am alone to write. She can never know what I am writing. I am writing in German because she is unpredictable and if she read these lines all could be lost.
If there is a heaven you surely won’t find me on the guest list. And God has stopped listening to me as well, which is fine.
Only few months ago I stood next to my flip chart, a tie wound tightly around my neck, explaining virtual worlds in the aseptic-cold air of a conference room.
Today I am standing in a desert in Texas – the freest man on earth.
I hate Mondays. Even more so if they start - like today - in a two star dump with only about ten square metres space. Doesn’t matter if this hotel is located in an awesome city like San Francisco. It’s all the same.
Hate. I hate my job.
I switch the light on in the bathroom. The overhead light is covered in filth, its dim shine barely reaching the dirty tiles. The yellowish toilet is missing its seat. There’s a mouldy small mirror cabinet on the wall opposite the shower. I pull the shower curtain to the side and get under the calcified showerhead.
I let the water run over my body while counting the black spots on the tub. Why the hell am I doing this? No love. Just self-hatred.
I turn the water as cold as I can endure. Loneliness. No joy.
The same shit each morning.
I reach for the soap, it slides out of my hand and when I try to pick it up I almost slip and fall.
Why am I not quitting? No joy.
No answers to my petty questions. Whatever. Complaints are useless.
To stop any false perceptions I have to disclose now that I am from Germany. Cheerfulness has been part of my upbringing. I am from Munich, my name is Marcus Wirtmann, I am not even thirty years old and not dead yet. Yeah!
I am a business consultant at the SAP company in Germany. Sounds cool? It isn’t.
Our customers buy software modules and I support them in the area of procurement and logistics to help optimize such business processes. Have you fallen asleep already? Wouldn’t be surprised. On trying to explain my job to someone I have to pull myself together not to start yawning.
Scoring with women when telling such boring stories is barely possible. They’d have to classify the foreign words I mention as a sign of intelligence. I am not stupid but in my opinion getting a degree for this job was unnecessary.
I get around a lot and get to see many things. Still I hate this job. I really do.
Christ almighty. My mirror image is not exactly flattering. The different time zone and the sleep deprivation have left bluish bags under my almond-brown eyes. Irritated, I start restoration procedures, which seem to take longer each day. I am not what you’d call a model but I know how to accentuate my personal assets. My face is clean-shaven, the fashionable short haircut accurately parted to one side and I wear stylish clothes. Add a bit of poise and the shell looks perfect. Wearing that mask is irritating. Yet it’s part of the job. Always look your best professional self for the customer.
I am squeezing the last bit of Colgate out of the tube when my mobile screams. Every morning that maddening sound gets on my nerves. But I’m not complaining: it’s me who set the alarm.
I curse, stumbling from the bathroom to the bedroom with the toothbrush in my mouth; my little toe catches on the foot of the bed then my thigh bumps against the dresser.
‘Fuck!’ The toothbrush drops from my mouth and I catch it with my left hand and in doing so manage to spread the toothpaste on my chest and legs. Awesome. I push the off button for the alarm on my phone then nurse my foot. I slowly shake my head as I take in the tiny room.
The bed touches the desk, which is at the radiator on the other side of the room. I guess the dark-brown oak furniture to be at least twenty years old, which somehow intensifies the pain in my leg. The rest of the dump is just as modern: there is no room telephone. Didn’t think that was even possible. The wallpaper is ancient, yellow and covered in stains. Couldn’t hazard a guess when they last painted the walls in here. Well, actually still better than the saggy pillow. I avoid looking in the mirror on the wall and walk across the burn mark patterned carpet to my suitcase.
Still tired I put my clothes on. Black suit. Yellow tie. A trite business outfit is one thing that exhausted business advisors don’t have to complain about. I zip up while downing one of the tiny Johnny Walker bottles from my personal stash. My special little breakfast.
On the ground floor I meet with Patrick Klahre, my colleague. He is also tired, his eyes only half open. In contrast to me he still manages to find the energy needed for the job.
‘Morning. So? Did you sleep well?’ He grins while taking in my appearance. We are both sarcastic. Surely it comes with the job. My night was downright crap. Like always. And he can see it. Thirty minutes of sleep is an exaggeration. I spent the rest of the time drinking and staring at the ceiling. Like always.
I answer his question with a half-hearted smile. ‘Shut up!’
We met two years ago during our last project in Germany. The AGCO Group. Automotive industry. Farm machinery, tractors mainly. A political, eighteen-month ongoing catastrophe. An enduring fight against rival firms wanting to kick our software off the playground. They won. Unfortunately. Our solution was crushed, meaning dismissed, yet SAP, our glorious employer, still came out as a hero because of our dedication, and the project completely tanked after our involvement ended. Our rival’s software never saw the light of day because their processes were mapped totally wrong. Just as we had predicted. The exertions of those months, the never-ending working days and the resulting extensive boozing, and the customer brought us close to insanity but the two of us grew closer. Except for a tiny raise we got fuck all. Not a problem for us. Our real reward was that since then our bosses have decided to send us as a team to any difficult job right around the world.
Patrick looks sharp in his suit. It’s a blue one and he’s wearing a black tie. We both wear a white shirt. Business look. Hair neatly parted to the side. Spick and span.
‘Let’s go sit in the restaurant’, Patrick says then shakes his head. ‘Oh right, there is none’, he teases me because I chose this hotel.
‘Well, fuck you, too.’ Patrick is an idiot but he is right. The hotel’s “restaurant” consists of one table with two chairs in the entrance hall. On a rusty metal tray there are a small selection of sandwiches.
Exasperated I take in the meagre breakfast buffet. Shrink-wrapped croissants and something resembling a bad copy of a Danish, also shrink-wrapped. I sit down, frustrated.
I look around myself. The tiles on the floor are grimy and well-worn. The wallpaper is turning yellow. Again. The table and chairs are heavily scratched. Typical two star comfort. From where I sit I can look through the glass doors out on to the street. Patrick is studying the guy hiding besides the reception desk.
He’s a stocky, bald man wearing a white tank-top that stretches across his paunch. Probably Korean, judging from the colour of his skin. His eyes are shifting from Patrick to me and back. To him we must look like we came from another planet. He’s almost right.
‘We could have stayed at the Marriott,’ says Patrick, after he has finished looking around and his gaze falls back to our terrible breakfast. ‘The company would have paid for it.’ I shake my head. ‘Five stars, Marcus.’ He lifts his hand. ‘Five stars. Swimming pool. Decent food and…’ I cut him off.
‘Patrick, San Jose is too far away. I don’t want to spend half of my days driving. We are going to enjoy our trip anyway, buddy. Take my word for it.’
He grins. My words have had the wanted effect. I am smiling for the first time today. ‘Night life beckons.’
Patrick shakes his head. ‘But why does it have to be this dump in Tenderloin? It’s not safe here. And why does the whole building smell of Chinese food?’
I take a bite of a dry croissant and cough as the crumbs of the antiquity get caught in my throat.
‘I told you everything else was full. We were too late. Even you wouldn’t have thought that…’ I am searching for the right words, ‘…we would be allowed to return after the incident last time.’
Patrick is grinning. ‘Aha, incident.’
‘Shut up.’
His grin becomes a full smile. He lifts his hands, forming quotation marks with his fingers. ‘Incident.’ His smile widens even more. ‘Interesting euphemism.’
‘Oh, be quiet.’
He’s still smiling when he looks at his watch. ‘Half past seven. Shit. We have got to go.’ We’re knocking back the almost cold terrible coffee - a dose of caffeine is a must -, leaving the abandoned restaurant with our small trolley bags containing our laptops. We’re asking the sullen Korean to call a cab for us then we go to hold the workshop at one of our biggest customers.
Patrick looks through the smudged windows of the taxi. During our last stay in San Francisco we didn’t have any occasion to see the centre of the city by daylight. Eighty-hour weeks are no exception when it comes to our job.
He is enthusiastic. ‘I do love that Victorian style.’ He points in the direction of the grey, narrow townhouses and apartment buildings with the romantic fire ladders on each house. ‘Many of those didn’t survive the big earthquake of 1907.’ He lifts his hands. ‘Some of them are mostly made out of wood and were obtained by the city to protect the historic townscape. For example, the Cadillac Hotel…’ I wipe my eyes. Again he comes up with some incoherent shit to impress the ladies tonight. I smile at him. He grins back and stops talking. He knows I don’t care at all about this bullshit. Don’t get me wrong. I like the certain flair of the houses yet I don’t share his predilection for old buildings. Further threats. ‘I’ll show you everything at the weekend.’ He starts counting the tortures he has planned for me. ‘Nob Hill…’
‘Where?’
‘Nob Hill.’
‘Is there going to be booze?’
His eyes widen as he glances at his watch. ‘It’s barely eight! How can you already think about getting drunk? The Grace Cathedral is on Nob Hill, you philistine!’
I snort. ‘Why the hell would you want to drag me to a church? I want to go partying.’
‘I’m sure there will be enough time for that. Keep your shit together.’ He turns around for better orientation when we enter the bigger road. ‘California Street? Then we should be…’ He grabs my chin, forcing my face to the left. ‘Just look at that!’ I see a church. Must be the cathedral Patrick mentioned. It’s a grey, ancient, about thirty metres high church amidst even higher, grey, about twenty floors high concrete skyscrapers. ‘Fucking beautiful.’
‘Yes, it’s okay. I see it. Looks pretty. Thanks.’
He’s outraged. ‘Pretty? It was built in 1850. Show some respect.’ I simply shake my head. ‘Did you know there’s a labyrinth on the floor in there that is being used for meditation?’ I look at him, irritated. I am about to choke him. He’s looking past me through the window. ‘Look – Huntingdon Park.’ I laugh. This guy is unbelievable. Now he’s fascinated with lawns and trees. There is enough of that in the Black Forest.
‘How come you know all this shit?’
He looks smug. ‘Because I read up on it. This cityscape is unique in the world and I really want to see these sights.’
‘Sure, I know exactly which sights you are planning to see.’ It’s my turn to put my hands up forming quotation marks when I utter the word ‘sights’. He innocently lifts his shoulders. I knew it.
The driver passes a taxi while crossing the rails. We are directly behind a cable car now, San Francisco’s railway system. I count to three. Not long now and he’ll comment on this, too.
‘That is one other thing the city is famous for.’
I moan loudly. Breathe. Grant him this joy.
‘Uh-huh.’
‘No, honest. Let’s head north on one of these things during the weekend.’
‘Uh-huh.’ I look at him.
‘You can see the whole city and across the San Francisco bay all the way to Alcatraz.’
‘Uh-huh.’
He grins. ‘You’ll enjoy it.’
I smile at him. ‘Uh-huh.’
‘You don’t give a fuck, do you?’ I nod. He stops me with a wave of his hand. We have enough railways in Germany. They might be a little older than this yellow relic from the seventies.
Now it gets interesting. We’ve advanced across the next hill and the cable car is gone so we can see the first skyscrapers. The streets are getting busier. There are more pedestrians. Traffic is getting heavier. Buildings are reaching higher into the sky. There are less wooden houses here. With a grin I regard the tarted up ladies in their high heels, pumps and booties. I can see cops in their black uniforms wearing matching black sunglasses. The first houses with Chinese pagoda roofs appear.
Suddenly even I am excited. ‘Cool. Is that Chinatown?’
Of course Patrick knows the answer. ‘No, that’s even further south, closer to where our hotel is.’
‘Ah, okay.’
‘Actually there are more Vietnamese people there and not as many Chinese as most people think.’
I am almost sobbing, begging him to stop playing tour guide. ‘Why are you telling me all of this? Save it for the ladies tonight.’
We both laugh. The taxi driver addresses us in his Californian slang.
‘I have to park around the corner. I am not allowed to stop here.’ Patrick and I nod at each other. Walking the short distance won’t do us harm. He’s turning right and because of the traffic he stops about two hundred meters away in front of a restaurant called Sushi-Bay. We check our watches. The drive took only about ten minutes.
‘There you go,’ I say. I get out, slamming the door. Today he will pay for the taxi. When he looks at me blankly I add. ‘No one-hour long taxi commutes anymore.’
On our way we are overwhelmed by so many new impressions. The area is lively. There are skyscrapers all around us. We see red busses and countless cars trying to pass them. The huge mass of people slowly pushes forward. There are many billboards trying to make you drink Coke Zero or buy the new Nike AX-whatever sneaker. The noise of the car horns and the shouting of the street dealers trying to force their bargain watches and jewellery on us is deafening. Patrick and I decline their continued offers every second.
‘All fake!’
‘What else,’ I reply. The dealers are wearing colourful pearl necklaces around their necks and arms. Green, pink, blue, white, even brown. ‘I could put that crap together myself.’
The higher-class, unshaved scammers offer objects of art on matted brown blankets. Adding to the noise is a group of four street musicians murdering El Condor Pasa on pan flutes and Russian immigrants doing a great version of Kalinka and sad tunes from their motherland. My eyes are watering from the emissions of the exhaust pipes. The stench of old fish, trash and faeces attacks my sensitive sense of smell. But most important of all? Pretty women. High heels of all colours pass us by. Blonde, pinned-up hair. Tight grey, red and white ladies’ suits, some with trousers, others with much more graceful skirts. Emancipated, dressed up ladies on their way to their office jobs. Their ages range from the mid-twenties to the mid-forties. Patrick and I manage to score occasional smiles. We look content when we face each other. Our promise for after work. We already checked local bars and nightclubs when we were back in Germany, thanks to the internet. I hold on to the hope to be able to go out at night with Patrick this time, as during our last visit we didn’t have the time.
The evenings with Patrick have been quite enjoyable. He’s become a good friend those last few months. Thanks to fucking work he is also my only friend. The rest of my ever-dwindling friend list has simply given up trying to keep in contact with me. Patrick shares my fate. And my passion. I can relax when we have our nightly beers at the hotel bars, distracting my thoughts from my ongoing frustration, if that’s even possible. Lately the liquid diversion has become more and more important to me. I am not sure why. Can you experience a midlife crisis in your late twenties? I should google that.
Trolley bags in tow we advance towards the hyper modern building of our client. A concrete monument reaching about thirty stories high into the sky. So many windows. There are four atrophied spruces decorating the courtyard. Around us only more giants of concrete. An imposing view. Our customer can obviously afford this. Why? Because banks hoard money. Banks have so much money they don’t know where to put it. Yet banks are anything but tolerable clients, especially the United States Bank of America. We are aware of the significance of this workshop.
For all of you who don’t know what I am actually talking about, here’s the lowdown: A workshop is a collective of exalted suits whose sole purpose is to push us poor business consultants to the edge of sanity because we are the source of all evil on this planet.
‘Nervous?’ Patrick pushes the button for the tenth floor while smiling at me.
‘No.’ I am not the least bit excited. I have a total lack of respect for this task. Yet I am well prepared. No one can tell me I am not serious about my work. Even if I really hate it. ‘We get paid very handsomely for letting them scream at us, don’t we?’
Patrick giggles. He gets me. ‘Don’t be pathetic. It’s only two weeks.’
I roll my eyes. ‘Okay. Calculation. Two weeks. That’s about one-hundred-and-sixty hazardous hours in which I am supposed to sell them our half-baked software.’
I should actually keep my thoughts to myself because Patrick is a Pollyanna. I don’t want to strip him off his astounding enthusiasm for his work. We started working for SAP almost at the same time a few years ago. We present different programming modules of our employer so we are not competing. Our actual competitors are waiting upstairs, eager to collaborate with our client to ruthlessly tear our product apart in an epic battle. The masochist in me is doing a somersault.
‘Well, I am quite relaxed.’
‘You can be, smug idiot. They more or less already agreed to your shit last time.’ They really did. Last week he forwarded an email to me, which stated they just had a few more questions but were basically content with his solution.
‘Come on. Put on a great show today and all will be settled.’
I moan.
It’s strange. The way I look at life and the consequent duties are turning the world around me more and more into a hapless grey. I am not exaggerating. The word hallucination describes it best. When the elevator doors slide open it looks to me like an evil entity has painted the large pot plants, the likes of which you can find anywhere in reception areas all across the globe, in an ugly and dull grey. I wipe my eyes.
‘Everything okay?’ Patrick casts a concerned sideways glance at me. How endearing.
‘Yeah. I’m fine.’
‘You’re not shitting yourself already, are you?’ Again he’s cracking me up.
‘What the hell is your damn problem?’
‘I mean it wouldn’t be the first time.’ He hints at my last performance during which I sweated up a storm.
‘Christ, not this again. I didn’t soil myself. I was just sweating.’ He shrugs.
‘Never seen someone before sweating like that on the insides of his legs.’
I shake my head.
‘Good Morning. How may I help you?’ The receptionist interrupts our banter. Patrick knows the answer to her question.
‘A very good morning to you. We are from SAP. We’re here for our nine o’ clock appointment.’ A huge grin spreads across his face as he leans his arm on the counter. The flirt is on. He can’t help it. She wears a fitted grey uniform. And she takes her time. Must be new to the job. Early twenties. Wears her short blonde hair strictly swept back. Grey eyes. Way too much mascara and rouge, her lipstick too red. The standard version of a Lufthansa flight attendant. She’s a pretty young thing despite her uniform.
Patrick tries his luck, as always. I suppress a laugh while watching him.
‘You have a nice space here.’ Good old lovemaking with the eyes usually does the trick. She is not impressed though.
‘Thank you.’ She keeps it strictly professional, avoids eye contact and lifts her brows. I change the language to German.
‘Patrick, leave it. She’s not interested.’ Her body language tells all. But he won’t listen.
‘Are you from around here?’ Patrick stays adamant. To his loss her attention is only professional and she doesn’t answer. Suddenly she smiles, addressing us in German.
‘You should listen to your colleague. Here are your IDs. Take the elevator to your left. Twenty-first floor, the Redwood Room.’
I look up to the ceiling. Ouch. That’s a blow for him. I’d rather he succeeded. I pat his shoulder in a gesture of support. He accepts it with a grim sense of humour.
‘No comment from you.’
I try to cheer him up.
‘Tonight, Patrick, tonight.’ My words have the desired effect and he beams at me.
‘Definitely tonight, Marcus.’
‘That’s my boy!’
Once we exit the lift his chin drops.
‘What?’ Then it strikes me too. He is fascinated by the view from the window. For him it’s a stunning sight. On our previous assignment we were more or less kept in the cellar.
Patrick is back in his comfort zone. His finger keeps pointing in different directions. ‘Wow, look, San Francisco Bay. And the San Mateo Bridge.’ He takes out his mobile phone. ‘Look at the skyscrapers. The sun makes the windows look like they’re on fire.’ That’s Patrick. He is awesome. He can stare at old stones and flowing water for hours. No kidding. Last autumn we visited Budapest, Hungary. While he was visiting the castle I was sitting in a nearby restaurant having two, three, ten beers. When I stumbled back to meet him an hour later he was still taking photos admiring the same building.
I move closer to the window trying to understand. Not a chance. All I see is the smog layer beneath us, dirty ocean water and a grey concrete monster called San Mateo stretching across the river. Patrick wants me to share his enthusiasm. I do appreciate that. It lifts my mood.
‘Awesome, isn’t it?’ I tell him what he wants to hear.
‘Very cool.’
He takes about a thousand photos. ‘The weather is great. Blue sky with no clouds in sight. No fog. Man, we’re back. Come, on, smile you idiot.’ I laugh.
‘Okay, I get it. Get a move on. We have to start soon.’ One last photo, a selfie of both of us.
‘Come on.’ We are standing in front of the window. He stretches his left arm out while holding the mobile phone and puts his right around my shoulder. You have to love this imbecile.
Enjoying the sights doesn’t last, as we find the Redwood Room is actually narrow and doesn’t have any windows. Damn.
‘Great. So much for the view. Maybe they think we are vampires.’ I gave up giving a shit about things like that a long time ago. Let’s see what will happen.
I switch on the light. The grey plastic tables have been arranged in a U-shape around the overhead projector. At least the projector is already there, which is not often the case. The floor is grey. Grey walls. Grey chipboards have been put up where usually windows would be. The chairs are plastic and uncomfortable with steel legs. Our customer is not only very wealthy but also parsimonious. Not a good sign. Morosely we set up our laptops and the presentation.
‘Christ, there’s no air in here.’ Patrick is fanning his face.
‘Why don’t you open a window then?’ We both giggle. A nervous giggle. We start fooling around. I go first. ‘Don’t make a fuss, Patrick, we only have to spend the next two weeks in this darkroom.’
‘Fuck you!’ I laugh.
‘At least I don’t have to look at your ugly mug the whole day.’ Now my brain starts coming up with one-liners. And Patrick joins my laughter.
Taking the piss out of each other will get us through the strains of the day. Misery loves company, to stress an old proverb. Without our humour we as well jump out of a window right now, which would be effective, as we are on the twenty-first floor. Unfortunately it’s not possible because of the damned chipboards.
Our camaraderie is disturbed when a large group of people enters the room: our client along with his top-class entourage. We learn that three of them are bankers and four are big cheeses from our competitor, also Germans. They are supposed to reveal weak spots in our software. I won’t make it easy for them, as I am aware of the weak spots and will do anything to conceal them. I’ve always harboured disgust for those political games.
I have to put on the mask of the professional business consultant. We shake hands, introducing ourselves. I instantly forget their names.
I have to start with the presentation. Patrick will take over later during the day. I look at the blank faces of the attendees. Grey upon grey upon grey. I want to throw up over their feet. My extended pause registers with them. Patrick throws me a concerned look.
I take a deep breath then I smile before - also on Patrick’s behalf- thanking them for the invitation to their beautiful city. Like in any place we visit and on any consulting raid, I open with comments about the nice weather and the nice office climate and I do it with credibility. Patrick coughs slightly, hiding a grin behind his hand. I don’t avert my gaze. If I don’t want to laugh I won’t. He’s always been impressed by my ability to keep a poker-face.
Flattery is the ugliest part of the job. It creates a relaxing atmosphere allowing myself a smooth start. I don’t have to mention I actually don’t give a fuck. I am actually so appalled by it that I don’t want to soil these notes, which are very important to me, by writing down those untrue and stilted empty phrases.
The men are wearing suits and the mandatory ties. Grey upon grey upon grey. The two bankers at my left give me a cruel stare. Maybe their superiors decided against their will to acquire our solution. It’s always like that. With the result that I am standing here having to fight the inferiors, trying to persuade them.
They look young, in their mid-twenties, except the fat bald oaf in their midst, who takes off his jacket, rolling his shirtsleeves up. With his designer specs he surely feels godlike amongst his fledgling colleagues.
The grasshopper to his right is female and seems nice. Human compared to the douchebags. I have a feeling she sympathises. Who knows? I still have two weeks to go.
The young guy with the thick-rimmed glasses left to the oaf is obedient to his master. He also takes his jacket off, rolls up his shirtsleeves and opens a notebook. His mean look has changed into expectancy. A neophyte in search for the meaning of life. Mentally I shake my head. Ah, to be young again.
The four morons from our competition, slouching between Patrick and the bankers, give me snide grins once I start the power point presentation of the process optimisation. They sit on their fat asses, high with the thrill of anticipation to rip me apart later. Why? Because Patrick and I are not allowed to play with them. The budget is limited. And they don’t like sharing the budget of their client with us. Their only goal is to make us look like absolute beginners. Sharing the cake with us? In their sandbox? And their sand moulds? No way. It’s exactly like kindergarten.
They are all about thirty years old, except the douche next to Patrick. He is sufficiently senior that he doesn’t have to shave. Mid-fifties. Grey hair, grey beard, grey suit. Looks to me like Greybeard is on a family tour with his snotty brats. Each of these brats is wearing glasses. I bet they don’t even need them; a smokescreen to look more professional. The third to the left seems like he talks to his toast every morning. You can’t always tell the IQ by just looking at a person but this mouth-breather gives off every signal.
The air is tense. I’m concerned about how many things could go wrong today because my audience are attentive bastards.
The English language of the Germans is pretty bad. The one to the left can’t lose his Bavarian accent. I let him repeat each sentence twice before I reply, just to make a fool of him. Works for everyone’s amusement yet unfortunately it’s self-defeating regarding my task. Whatever.
The topics I mention only briefly have their utmost attention. My arguments about those areas being only of minor concern for the client at present are widely ignored. I try and try again to put the focus on the strong elements of the solution. Not a chance. If you hate something from the very beginning even the slightest problem is welcome ammunition.
Lunch break is cancelled with the workshop moving more and more towards an execution. At about two pm the oaf starts blurting out.
‘You have got to be kidding us? What do you mean it’s not available? We definitely need that report!’
They don’t need it. I know. I am very well prepared. But what arguments should I use? They are obviously glad they finally found a reason to run to their boss to tell him because of this missing component my solution won’t work. The oaf told them many times before.
‘Are you trying to tell us this tool won’t be available for us?’
I avert my gaze. I can hardly breathe and I loosen the knot of my tie. One of the competition’s idiots cackles. Let him.
Why the fuck am I actually doing this shit? I forgot, can’t remember at all.
I get a grip on myself.
‘You are right about that. Our product won’t grant you that function. It has yet to be developed which will mean additional costs.’
Despite the bad lighting I can see his face turn crimson. I can’t tell if it’s because of my calm and friendly manner or because of the suggestion I made. Designer glasses jumps up, huffing ‘See you later!’ to his colleagues before darting out of the room. No word to us. The terrible feeling in my guts worsens. The gloating from our competition reaches new heights.
4 pm. For seven hours I’ve been running around between the screen and the flip chart, gesturing with my hands like an Italian, drawing squares and arrows on the white paper. It looks like Patrick won’t be getting his spot today. For ten minutes he’s been staring out of the non-existent windows. It looks like he lost his last bit of motivation for today.
Welcome to my world, Patrick! At least we will have enough to talk about later on and a really good reason to get drunk.
My eyes move across the audience and I flinch. Father is standing right behind the douchebags of the competition, shaking his head, his eyes wide. I put my hands in front of my face rubbing my eyes. Can’t breathe. Breaking out in cold sweat. He’s not there! He’s not there! I have work to do.
‘Are you okay, Mr. Wirtmann?’ The young guy pretends to be concerned. I lower my hands. He is gone! He is really gone!
I stammer. ‘Yes. Yes, everything’s fine.’ I check the front of my pants. Nothing happened. Thank God.
I should get more sleep. Damned fatigue. I reach for the box of the caffeine pills in my laptop bag. Patrick frowns. He hears the chattering of the pills and knows what to do, handing me a glass of water. I wipe my brow and inconspicuously wipe across my mouth while secretly swallowing the meds then I continue.
After another sixty minutes of being the sole entertainer I am done.
‘Ten minute break?’
The attendees are grateful, especially the pretty girl. We’ve been smiling at each other frequently. At least one person who wishes me well. However, my poor feet are most grateful. I should get a device counting my steps. I must have walked a few kilometres today already. But walking around helps me stay relaxed. It really does.
I join Patrick on the lounge area in front of the huge windows, unpack the dry croissant that I stole from the hotel this morning, trying hard to enjoy the view of San Francisco.
‘Are you okay?’ Patrick gives me a scrutinizing look then takes a bite from his Danish. ‘What the hell was wrong with you in there?’
Heaven has turned to a malevolent grey, just like my mood.
‘Nothing. I might’ve have eaten something that was off, wouldn’t be a surprise regarding the exclusive breakfast.’ I smile.
He shakes his head. ‘You’re still using that stuff?’
I sigh while lying to him. ‘Don’t worry. I worked late last night to be prepared.’ He nods with sympathy, his lips pursed. I have to change the subject, as pity is the last thing I need right now. Sarcasm always helps. ‘That went better than expected.’
He snorts. ‘Man, I really feel for you.’
He has obviously lost the joy of presenting his part.
I pat his shoulder. ‘Come on, it’s your turn tomorrow. Look forward to that.’ My cynicism can’t be beat.
‘Keep your voice down.’ He watches for eavesdroppers. He’s right. Our competition could be listening in. ‘You really think they will want to see us again after the recent spectacle in there?’
I shrug.
‘Let the douchebag run to his boss. I know his superior. He will run against a brick wall, believe me. It’s not his decision to make.’ Patrick dismisses my prediction with a wave of his hand.
‘I hope you’re right about that. I have no desire to fly back home already.’
He leans back, his hands crossed behind his head, grinning. ‘Guess I’ll have to listen to your bullshit for longer then.’
I pull a face before enjoying my two star luxury croissant.
Unfortunately he was right. Until eight o’clock I struggle against the conniving questions of the competition, defending something I don’t want to defend. When I switch off the projector the disgusting people start leaving the room without a word except for the cute bird. She politely says goodbye with a neat British accent.
‘See you tomorrow, Mr. Wirtmann. I enjoyed the presentation.’ No American jargon, nice accentuation of the vowels, which is a treat. I am very pleased.
‘See you tomorrow, Miss Engelberth. I am glad to be of help.’ She shakes my hand and smiles. Bats her eyelashes.
I find her ponytail with the blonde highlights, the grey ladies’ suit with the matching grey pumps and her pearl earrings terribly dull, yet being acknowledged by the female sex is always welcome. Engelberth. That name rings a bell.
I sit down at the laptop and write an update email about today that my boss is already expecting.
‘Can you stop your smug grin?’ Patrick won’t grant me my pleasure.
‘Oh, shut up.’ We both laugh. We are about to continue our happy banter from this morning despite the short twelve-hour break in the darkroom.
I close the laptop. ‘Ready?’
Patrick continues typing on his keyboard. ‘One second. Have to finish the email.’
I gather my things. After-work time is beckoning. ‘Hurry up, we don’t have much time.’
‘Hold your horses, big man’. Big Man. Stupid nickname. Though given my height of 1:94 metres, taller than him by a head, surely appropriate. Finally Patrick sends his email off with a sigh of relief then stows the laptop away in the trolley case.
‘We’ve got to hurry. Each minute wasted here is a minute we don’t have in our spare time.’ We make a dash for the elevator.
Back on the street I feel queasy all of a sudden. My ears are ringing. Grey upon grey upon grey. Streetlights and headlights merge. Strange screams in the background. Screams of a woman? There’s a strong smell of urine. The noise wrecks my nerves. We make our way past the spruces and the masses of pedestrians towards the street, calling a cab. Heaven above is spinning. My head hurts, my temples throbbing with pain. All I want is a cool beer. What the hell am I saying? A dozen cool beers.
‘Hey, everything alright?’ Patrick’s eyes widen, as he looks me up and down. I can feel my heartbeat drumming inside my skull. It’s painful…
‘I’m okay. Just a headache.’ I bend over, hands on my knees, moaning. I feel his hand on my shoulder.
‘Are you sure? If you’d rather rest for a bit that’s okay. We can go hit the town tomorrow.’
‘No! No. I’m fine. Just need to breathe.’
Patrick takes my trolley case, putting it into the boot. I get into the back of the taxi, close my eyes and rest my forehead on the cool window. After a few minutes the pain becomes less. I glance at my partner, giving him a smile.
‘I’m going to drink you under the table tonight.’ He’s grinning.
‘We’ll see.’
When we’ve arrived at our hotel Patrick punches my shoulder. ‘Okay then. Short stop at the room to freshen up and change clothes and we meet back down here at nine. Okay?’ He smiles. ‘We earned that.’
‘You’ve had a really straining day, haven’t you?’
Patrick is laughing now and I can’t help but join in while I shake my head. What an idiot. I pay for the taxi. Twelve dollars. The driver is stealing us blind. That’s okay. The company is paying for it. We get out and Patrick slams the door, heaves our trolley cases out of the boot and takes off through the hotel entrance with a ‘See you!’
‘Yeah, see you.’ I wipe my eyes. I am still feeling light-headed. Not sure why that is. The noise. The crowds. I am trying to find something to hold on to but I grasp at nothing.
I shouldn’t be here. What the hell am I supposed to do?
‘Failure!’ I flinch. That voice. His voice. I frantically turn around. He’s not there. He’s not there. Impossible. ‘Coward!’ A tear runs down my cheek. I’ve get to get out of here. … And Patrick … he’s waiting.
I run up to my room.
Change of clothes. Jeans and a white shirt. Black patent leather shoes. My party look. I need a party more than anything else. The sweaty business shirt lands on the radiator. It’s the fastest way to get it dry. I pat down my pant pockets. VISA, Amex, cash, driver’s license, room key - all there. I’ll leave my mobile behind. The colleagues from Germany like to call during night-time because they don’t give a shit about the time difference, which is so very difficult for me to get used to. Difficult because, understandably, I am not capable of discussing business with colleagues in the middle of the night. Especially not tonight. The mirror reflects my failed grin. Tonight I am going to get totally blasted! All you can drink.
After I downed another Johnny Walker from my private stash I meet Patrick right on time downstairs at the hotel entrance. He dressed up, too. Blue Levi’s, black loafers, white shirt and a black tie, the knot casually loose. It’s what we call our ‘porn style’. Like myself he used some gel to style his hair wilder.
Something is wrong. He’s looking around, clearly concerned. ‘Marcus, this is really a fucked up part of town. I heard gunshots just now.’ He points in the directions where he thinks the shots have been fired.
‘Really?’ I can’t help it, I’m laughing.
‘That’s not funny. Maybe we should stay at the hotel. You hear the sirens, don’t you?’
Yes, I hear it. So what? He is usually not a sissy. Relaxed I pull him towards the destination of our evening, the Swig Bar. The result of our internet research. No one, not even Patrick, is going to spoil my boozing night! That’s why I don’t care about his fears, even if they are quite justified.
‘Come on, it’s going to be a riot!’ This genius joke is lost to him. ‘There was a shooting and you didn’t take any pictures for the album?’ Patrick is shocked.
‘Marcus, I’m serious. That was maybe just one or two blocks from here.’
‘Paddy, what’s wrong with you? It was probably just a few teenagers shooting into thin air.’
Of course this area is anything but posh. We, okay, I had the urge to get some action. Why should I always just work and sleep? Why shouldn’t I be able to decompress at least after work?
Patrick has calmed down. ‘The first round is on you.’
Aha. That’s what he was aiming at.
I punch him in the shoulder. ‘Because you were stressed out today, I know.’
He grins. ‘You are right about that. I was under extreme stress.’
‘Idiot.’ I push him through the entrance to the Swig Bar.
He laughs. ‘Wait, don’t you want to get something to eat first?’ I step in after him, taking in the interior of the bar.
‘No, your fast food shit would just take up precious room.’ The bar is furnished in different shades of brown and modern. Lots of leather sitting accommodations. There is even a fireplace. The very long expensive teak counter stretches along in front of the bare wall, which has a shelf reaching up to the ceiling that is filled with exclusive liqueur from all across the world, from Carlos Primero to Extra-anejo-Tequila right up to Tullamore Dew. Two barmaids conjure up cocktails.
Content we sit down on stools close to the fireplace and right away we are courted by a waiter. Telling piercing through his right ear. The internationally understood signal. His half-long dark hair is slicked back, stuck to his scalp, the gel almost oozing out of his hairline. Skin like a baby’s arse. Slightly tanned. Black shirt. Black tie. Black jeans. What’s the modern term? Metrosexual?
‘What can I get you?’
We are grinning. ‘Beer.’ We are forming the shape of a big glass with our hands. ‘Lots of beer.’
Our waiter needs more information. ‘Which brand? Bud, Miller …’
Not important.
‘Doesn’t matter, mate’, I explain, ‘Just make sure we never run out of beer.’
Patrick slips him a note. ‘He’s unwell. Just ignore him.’
Mr. Metrosexual moves away with a smile.
‘Douche’, I hiss. Patrick laughs heartily.
The beer works its miracle, distracting us from the annoying guests. The characters at the bar are worse than the guy at the reception of our hotel we met this morning. So are the looks they give us. Without exception the glances they give us are just as hostile as the ones from the bankers at our workshop. Why? No idea. Thanks to alcohol we don’t care.
Patrick gulps down his drink then stares into the almost empty glass. ‘Do you know why I had to suffer a lot more than you today?’ I raise my eyebrows, eagerly awaiting his explanation. His grin spreads across his face. ‘You had a huuuge sweat stain on your arse.’
I look at him in disbelief.
‘And I had to look at it the whole day.’
What an arse. We guffaw, raise our drinks for a toast.
‘Patrick?’ We touch glasses.
‘Yes?’
‘You are a fucking douchebag.’
Content we pour the cool beer down our throats. The funniest moment of a really crappy day.
Unfortunately I feel worse with each additional beer. My attentive colleague can see it. ‘Hey, what’s wrong with you?’
Shit. Now what? What am I supposed to tell him? I reach for my sixth glass and take a swig. I think about it before I burp: ‘Was that all, Patrick?’
He doesn’t understand.
‘I mean, doesn’t all of this annoy the fuck out of you?’
He’s putting on the same pensive expression he showed this afternoon. He’s moving his glass around on the table, takes a sip, he seems almost sad.
‘What do you mean?’
He really can’t be acting that dumb. Not with me. I glance across the bar. Grey upon grey upon grey. Now that I am drunk I really see the world with different eyes. The monotonous characters, the boring women, the drab noise, even the candles on the table are suddenly getting on my nerves just by being there.
‘Getting up in the morning. Doing a shit job. Going to sleep. Is that going to be all?’ I stare at Patrick, infuriated. Hopefully he’s got some answers for me. But he is only laughing. That’s not what I wanted.
‘Do you have a better suggestion? Do you know a job that’s better than ours?’
Is he really serious? I down the glass in one, signalling Mr. Metrosexual to bring two more.
‘Patrick, I am not just talking about work.’ The philosopher in me pushes through the drunken shell. ‘I mean the sense of this whole shit.’ I cough. ‘Shouldn’t we have a family? Kids? At least a hobby, dreams, or…’
‘Marcus! Your nose.’ He holds out a napkin. My nose is bleeding. I press the fabric against my nostrils. ‘Go to the bathroom. I’ll wait here.’
I shake my head. ‘I’ll be fine.’ Suddenly there’s that booming noise inside my head again. My ears are ringing. The fear inside my chest. I massage my temple.
‘What’s wrong?’