Tuxedo Junction glittered with the promise of new things

and winked with the knowledge of old.

“1698” declared the legend above the doorway, and the club towered over the street, expansive, hands on hips, smiling a welcome from her generous doorway, at once maternal and seductive.

Her name had changed thrice in a colourful lifetime; but no-one remembered the first two, as they came and went before the turn of the new millennium. A rather pointless snippet of trivia, but I thought of it every time, without fail, that I arrived at my only haunt.

This was due solely and entirely to the fact that the information had been imparted by a club dancer with the longest, most delicious legs and the firmest breasts and such spinal proficiency as to disillusion an asp.

As we had lain upon the cold, tiled floor of the shower off her dressing room, or undressing room as she liked to call it, both naked only from the waist down as the progression from the undressing room to the shower floor had been such a hasty one, Dolores Shaw had smiled wanly, licked her lips, and said: “D’you know this wasn’t always called Tuxedo Junction?”

Dolores wasn’t here any more. She had moved on to another club, another town, another time probably. One day she was here, the next she was gone. This was a considerable pity. Nevertheless, I made a point of visiting the club once a week, Fridays, 8.30pm-12.00pm.

Yet it was different tonight. I couldn’t put my finger on it, but it was somehow different. I climbed the stairs to my usual seat on the railed balcony above the dance floor.

Almost immediately, I was joined by a man I had never met before. A blonde, bronze man with cool blue eyes and one ear very noticeably set higher on his head than the other. He said: “I believe you’re looking for someone.”

“I may be,” I responded after a few moments.

“You are, and I can help. I want to go with you. I am qualified.”

I studied the dancers on the floor, twirling to the efforts of the live band. There was something wrong with the picture. Crooked ear spotted my furrowed brow and followed my line of sight, then said: “There’s two of each.”

“What?”

“I said there’s two of each,” he pointed at the dancers.

I looked again. It was true. That’s what was wrong… each dancer on the floor, each watcher at the table, each waitress gliding from patron to bar, was duplicated. An identical twin existed for every individual in the place.

“So there is,” I said.

Crooked ear stood abruptly, extended one sun-browned hand and remarked a little too casually: “My name is Russ Webber. I kill for pay.”

Then he turned on his heel and was gone… though on the dance floor he whirled and whirled an ordinary looking young woman in a maroon sequinned dress.

Dahlia was cool as ice. She waved me to one of

the leather armchairs in Mr Walton’s reception area, a brisk flick of her wrist, already having turned back to her terminal.

I wondered what I had done to upset her. She was usually such a cheery lass, a little shy and awkward at times, but always prepared to share a smile. Once, I had asked her out to lunch and she’d accepted.

We talked about dating, but mutually agreed that we probably weren’t compatible. She was the daughter of a wealthy hotel-owner, I the son of an alcoholic bus conductor. She liked to travel, I to stay put, content with the familiar. She was a Leo and I Taurean.

“Dahl-” I began, but the frosted-glass door to Mr Walton’s office slid open and his P.A., Rob Finch, beckoned me in.

Seth Walton was a big man. Obese. He worked hard, but lived well – he had been known to devour seven lobsters in one sitting. The suite was a reflection of the man. Ostentatious.

The ceiling extended two floors up and was adorned with murals from Greek mythology. Noble horses danced among the gods, way up beyond suspended cut-glass chandeliers. The walls of the room were  panelled in oak, alternated by mirrored sections. Marble plinths cradled the busts of various Walton ancestors, luminaries all; a judge, a naval officer, a statesman, a shipping magnate, an actor, a colonial explorer.

“Dean. Sit down.”

Mr Walton murmured something to Finch while I did as I was instructed. Finch nodded and left the room.

“Now then, Dean. How long have you been with the firm?”

“Three years, Seth…” I responded, as though we had been friends for as long. Mr Walton did not appear taken aback by the audacity of this mere desk-jockey, daring to address him so intimately. I myself was a little surprised at my own bravado, but somehow it didn’t seem awkward or overbearing in the least.

“Good, good. I have a job for you, Dean.”

“A job? I already have a job, Seth. I’m paid a pittance for working my fingers to the bone, but all the same, I have a job.”

Seth Walton chuckled heartily and offered me a cigar from an ivory box, inlaid with gold and mother of pearl.

“No, no. I mean a real job. A chance to earn some real money. How does half a million sound, for one day’s work? Eh? How does that grab you?”

“I’ll do it for one.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“You heard me.”

“You don’t even know what I want you to do.”

“I know your favourite niece has been abducted by an international gang of terrorists and is being held to ransom for a hundred times more than I’m willing to rescue her for. I know she’s being held somewhere in eastern Europe. I know you can afford to pay me half now and half when the job is done.”

The big man smiled wryly, reached under his desk and produced a three-tier leather briefcase. He popped the twin locks, lifted the top and pushed the case across the desk. I blinked. The velvet interior contained neat bundles of thousand dollar bills, eight rows across by five down. The distinctive crispy-musky smell of new money condensed like an invisible cloud around the bargaining table.

“There’s extra. For expenses,” said Walton.

I shut the case, lifted it, drew expansively on the Cuban and strode from the room without another word.

For 7.40am on a Monday morning, the office

was abnormally busy.

Not only were all the staff already at their desks, none of them were finishing their breakfast, applying their make-up or exchanging news of their weekend activities.

They were working. They were on the phone, taking notes, or they were typing new policies, or they were filing applications.

I took my desk, lit a cigarette and perused the spectacle, brows furrowed.

Angela, the official office gossip and easiest lay, was not proclaiming the relative merits and demerits of false nails. No! She was making a telephone sale, mustering all the sincerity and integrity requisite to the essential characteristics of any ambitious insurance broker. She was not batting her eyelashes, her legs were not crossed at the aisle-side of her desk, her thighs were not seductively visible.

I uttered a barely audible expression of incredulity, then turned my attentions to Basil Hansen. This morning, Basil was clean shaven, bright eyed and bushy-tailed. He displayed none of the signs of a hard night of hard-drinking, of hard smoking and hard sex with women he hardly knew. He looked more like a hard-sell salesman, in control, confident as a young prize-fighter.

And old Ralph Butcher – all hail to the Long-Server of Long-Servers, the Sultan of Subservience – was not lecturing wide-eyed, green yuppies about the importance of being earnest. He was not ruing the day he would have to bid adieu to his client base, built up over 40 years of loyal dedication to Walton, Walton, Walton & Schaufenhauser. Old Butch was actually doing rather than preaching!

My solitary awe was disrupted by the trill of my extension. I lifted the receiver.

“Mister Dean?” it was Dahlia, the chairman’s secretary.

“What’s with the ‘Mister’, Dahl?”

“Mister Dean, Mister Walton would like to see you in his office right away.”

“Sounds serious. What’s the matter, Dahl?”

There was an electronic pip, and the line went dead.

I covered my internal alarm with a nervous smile, glancing around to see who may have overheard my conversation.

No one was interested. There were no knowing looks of “Ha! Dean’s about to bite the dust… can’t wait till he’s outta here so we can tear the shit outta him.”

Mister Walton, CEO for almost fifty years, third-time incumbent President of the Global Institute of Insurance & Reinsurance, was in the habit of personally despatching personnel not up to scratch. And he normally waited until he’d had his lemon tea, 8.00am Monday morning. I looked at my watch. It was 7.55.

“Come in, come in! This is my granddaughter Felicity.

Felicity, this is Mister Dean from next door.”

I advanced with caution, Scraggers now clinging to me and also surveying the scene with the kind of astonishment only cats are truly capable of displaying.

Felicity sat alone in an antique rocking chair against the window in the far end of the room. She wore an expression of abject misery, a paradox to the snorts and giggles escaping from her grandmother.

I studied her face – lovely, soft lines, petite nose, dark eyes, jet black hair. Her body – slim, lithe, with pert, young, unencumbered breasts beneath a flimsy blouse. A body that, somehow, also seemed tired, spent. She couldn’t have been more than sixteen.

“How do you do,” I asked politely. She looked away, not answering.

“Mister Dean, do sit down. I have something to show you,” sang Mrs Marshall, as though I was a child and she a doting mother, playfully building my excitement and anticipation as one does with little ones at Christmas. I felt a little uncomfortable.

Mrs Marshall was absent from the room only a few moments. Felicity kept her eyes averted, not in a coy manner as a girl her age may be expected to do, but as though she didn’t even know I was there.

I individually disengaged Scraggers’ claws from my shirt and placed her on the carpet. She stood and looked at me, at Felicity, back at me, her bewilderment growing.

“Look! See!” cried Mrs Marshall as she re-entered the room. “I’m a great grandmother!”

She held a silent bundle in her arms, a quiet, anonymous shroud of soft cloth. “Look! See!”

She came gliding across the carpet as if on wheels, and thrust the bundle into my arms.

It was an infant. Nothing peculiar about that. But it was not just any ordinary infant.

It was unusually small, and undoubtedly dead.

Felicity began to weep softly from her corner. The coldness of the little corpse seeped through the downy cloth and into my hands.

The cat was shaken, but still alive. Theodora Lancelot had, to her credit,

not left one puncture mark in the unfortunate feline’s throat. Just lots of warm saliva.

I glared at my pet, who now bounced around my legs, whipping at my untrousered knees with her un-docked tail. Thoroughly excited, she trembled in anticipation, darted halfway across the plot and back again, desperately urging her master to throw the cat for her to fetch.

I swept one final look of utter disdain over Theodora Lancelot, and walked with the cat, back up the stairs and into my tumble-down abode.

Once dried and petted and fed a bowl of warm milk, Scraggers looked sufficiently recovered to be returned to the loving embrace of old Mrs Marshall.

I dusted down my old pair of shorts, slipped my feet into a pair of well-worn leather sandals, lifted Scraggers and made for the quaint little cottage Mrs Marshall called home.

I unlatched the gate and heard the tinkle of merry laughter. Odd, because Mrs Marshall normally kept to herself, content with the company of two cats, a Pekinese and an overweight goldfish called Humphrey.

Mrs Marshall had once, a lifetime ago, been a dancing girl in Chicago. Rumour was that she had had an affair with the legendary Salvatore “One-Eye” Spumenti. She had settled down at last to a life of quiet, suburban desperation, married a credit clerk, had three children and taught herself how to stain glass – a hobby that made enough to buy groceries a week in every month.

Then her husband ran off with a girl from the typing pool, her children all left home and now visited occasionally to see how she was doing and to reassess the value of their anticipated inheritance.

Laughter. It was quite loud now, as I rapped conservatively on the door. It swung open to reveal Mrs Marshall’s wrinkled face wreathed in smiles, a mirthful chuckle slipping now and then.

“Why, Mister Dean! How nice to see you!” she said with genuine pleasure. Then she screamed hysterically and began to laugh once more. I viewed her with mild amusement, tempered by a growing sense of foreboding.

The Middle

They say that life is like a book

So what kind can it be?

A history? A mystery?

We’ll have to wait and see;

The plot has many twists and turns,

A most enthralling text,

I find it most exciting

To wonder what comes next!

- D.J. Morris

I sat at my bureau, pensively sucking on my upper lip, eyes turned toward the open window that overlooked my dusty yard, studying the sky, the dirt, the broken line of the fence, the battered trash can in the corner, nothing in particular, the sky… No inspiration.

The sound came first. A strange, muted squeal, a short sound. Sch… MIK! Followed by another Sch…MIK! Each SchMIK came within a second or so of the one before it, no more, no less. A good, disciplined rhythm of SchMIKs.

I listened for a time, relishing this curious intrusion into the dull, windless silence of the day. I stretched, lit a cigarette and stood, exhaling through my nostrils. I stepped forward and leaned one hand on the dusty windowsill, tipping my ash through the wide mesh of the window.

Sch…MIK! It was Scraggers, a mangy tabby belonging to Mrs Marshall next door. Scraggers was being propelled into the air, twisting and tumbling. Theodora Lancelot, my muscular little bull mastiff bitch, was catching Scraggers in mid descent – Sch… MIK! – and effortlessly tossing her up again.

I had never seen anything like it before. Catch, SchMIK, toss, twist, tumble, catch, SchMIK, toss…

Strange, I thought. Normally such good friends.

I sat down again. I looked at my hands, then at the ashtray balancing precariously on a pile of unopened envelopes. Funny. Where’s my fag? I lit another one, stood up and strode purposefully back to the window.

“Theodora Lancelot! What are you doing!” I cried in horrified disbelief.

Tumble, catch, SchMIK, toss… I made a dash for the door, stumbled down the wooden steps and into the yard. I caught poor Scraggers in mid air as one last half-hearted SchMIK was expelled from her lungs.

Okay, so much for my dream…

That was it. My late uncle seeing fit to invite chaos into my life.

Into the world.

When I awoke from my dream, I was pretty creeped out.

Then I rationalized… It’s just a dream.

What did I know?

By the time I was throwing back my second espresso, I’d all but forgotten it.

And I would soon be too preoccupied with the the bizarre events happening around me to remember the dream for a long time.

Let me tell you what happened next. We’re out of the dream territory now. What follows is my journal.

True story.

My late uncle was clearly not impressed,

judging from his reaction in my dream.

What he did next shows just how unimpressed he was.

I know I’m talking about this as if it’s real – as if my late uncle really did something from his newfound home in Limbo…

As if this wasn’t all just a dream…

But I tell you, I have my reasons for believing that this was no dream. It was a premonition.

Best you read on. This is how my dream ended…

* * *

Q turned off the screen. He could look no more.

“Jesus effing Christ!” he groaned. “I can’t believe this.”

“Thou shalt not…” came the computer.

“Yea, yea, yea,” snapped Q impatiently. “I beg forgiveness, okay?”

“Nomine Padre, et Fili et Spiritus Sancti, Deo absolvo…”

Q was silent for a long while.

Then he knew what he had to do.

He turned the screen on. My current life was still being played out. To my uncle ‘Q’, it was like some low-budget soap. All the same characters, saying much the same things. The story line had not progressed at all. I was at my desk, checking my watch against my desk-clock, my desk-clock against the digital clock on the wall…

Q muted the sound, minimised the image and clicked on Edit. Three options appeared in the window. Script. Story Board. System.

Q selected System.

“What is it you seek to do?” asked the computer.

“Modify the life of Algernon Dean,” said Q.

“Select Manual or Random.”

“Random.”

“Select level.”

“State levels.”

“Minimal. Moderate. Extreme.”

“Extreme.”

“Select overriding factor.”

“State options.”

“Fortune. Failure. Providence. Tragedy. Chaos.”

Q smiled. “Chaos.”

“Please wait until reconfiguration is complete,” said the computer.

A percentage bar appeared on the screen. Ten, twenty seven, thirty-four, forty-nine, sixty, seventy-eight, eighty-seven, ninety-four, ninety nine… It hung there for a very long time, longer than Q suspected it should.

Then a bright red window appeared over the first, flashing like a beacon.

“Policy Committee Rejection,” boomed the computer.

“What?” cried Q. “What the hell is that?”

“LifeScan Configuration Modification Authorisation Denied.”

“Never!” yelled Q, incensed.

He began opening every window on the screen, accessing files, renaming them, deleting randomly selected sections of binary code, altering document properties, importing pictures from one LifeFile into another, cutting, pasting, copying, saving…

The trauma was too much for the delicately balanced system. It began to shut itself down to prevent any further interference. But the damage was already done.

The Chaos Factor was alive, and unleashed upon creation.

It’s weird…

In my dream, my late uncle, aka Limbo inmate Q (for short), was watching my day unfold.

MY day – the day I experienced before going to bed and having this dream.

Like a movie, on the screen of the LifeScan Configuration Processor… in a hidden room somewhere in Limbo…

For which privilege my late uncle had traded one of his celestial rhythm sticks…

I know. Just bear with me.

This is what my uncle saw…

* * *

… Me on the screen, checking my wristwatch as I clocked in. 7.37.

I was the first in. I walked over to my desk, sat down in front of my terminal, turned it on, tore a page off the desk calendar, turned the desk-clock towards me, checked the time it showed against the enormous digital clock on the far wall of the open-plan office. 7.39. It was correct.

“Seven thirty-nine,” I murmured. “First tele-appointment eight fifteen. Time to check the schedule.”

I clicked on Day Planner and the computer obliged with a list of objectives. As with every other day on the Day Planner, it was headed in large, red lettering: Time is Money.

“Time is money,” I told myself woodenly. “Make time, save money. Save time, make money.”

I checked my watch again. 7.42.

“Seven forty-two. Hmm,” I said.

Ralph Butcher walked through the door at 7.46.

“Morning Algernon.”

“Morning Ralph. You’re a bit late this morning.”

“Still early though.”

“Yes, but you’re normally here by seven forty-five.”

“Traffic. Can’t talk. No time.”

Angela arrived at 7.51, about right.

“Morning Algernon,” she said seductively, flashing a thigh at me and licking her brightly painted lips as she took her seat.

“Morning Angela.”

Most of the others arrived just before 8.00. Basil Hansen drifted in at 8.13, obviously suffering yet another hangover._

“Morning Basil,” I called cheerfully.

“Sh…” said Basil weakly.

My terminal began flashing. I turned back to it.

“First tele-appointment, eight fifteen,” I said to myself. The screen blinked and a bald headed man appeared on it.

“G’day,” he said.

“Good morning Mister Redmond. Are you still okay to run through the update on your policy?”

“I have about fifteen minutes,” said Mr Redmond. “Will that be enough time?”

“Should be, if we get stuck in right away,” I replied, glancing up at the big clock on the wall…

“Christian name Algernon. Surname Dean,”

confirmed the computer.

In an instant, it threw up a long list of Algernon Deans.

“Date of Birth, April twenty-three, nineteen ninety,” said Q.

“Date of  Birth, Twenty Third of April in the Year of Our Lord, Nineteen Ninety,” said the computer. The list was shortened to seven.

“Jesus, seven Algernon Deans born on the same date!” muttered Q.

“Thou shalt not use the Lord’s name in vain,” remarked the computer.

“Okay, okay,” said Q.

“Beg forgiveness,” said the computer.

“I’m sorry, please forgive me,” said Q.

“Deo absolvo,” said the computer. “Please continue.”

“Son of Albert.”

Six Algernon Deans disappeared from the list.

“Thank God for that,” said Q.

“Praise the Lord,” agreed the computer.

“May I look at the life of Algernon Dean?”

“You may,” replied the computer. “Beginning, middle, end?”

Q paused for a moment, then decided. “Current”.

“Current,” confirmed the computer. The screen blinked. At the foot of the screen a little bar appeared with the name, age, occupation, marital status and address of the subject:

Algernon Dean, 49 years old, insurance salesman, divorced, 101 Kangaroo Court, Boomerang, Sydney, Australia.

“What the..!”

Q was shocked. How could this be?

Only three earth years ago, when he died, he had left a fortune worth untold billions to his nephew Algernon. And he had advised Algernon to seek adventure, live his life and above all never, ever again allow that evil, ticking contraption, the clock, to rule his life.

How could it be that here he was now, working as… as… Q nearly choked at the mere thought of it… as an insurance salesman? And why in Australia, of all places? What had happened to the luxury penthouse in Monaco, the private jet, the limousines, the sports cars, the yacht.. the NUBILE VIRGINS?

The computer was almost finished configuring the Algernon Dean File. Images began to appear on the screen, blurred and fuzzy pictures at first, then line drawings, the animated movements still jerky, then fluid, and then the images began to take form, becoming more sharply focused, filling in, showing colour.

At last, there was a motion picture on the screen, in rich colour and texture, with perfect sound.

Forty-nine year old divorcée insurance salesman Algernon Dean went about his dreary routine, playing out a role scripted, no doubt, by some miserable son of a bitch celestial copywriter with about as much imagination as a lobotomised gnat.