We’re a bunch of elitists discussing the subtleties and nuances of a Rembrandt—the rich browns and the gentle beiges—in a stylish lounge bar, sipping on Château Cheval Blanc. We then talk about Ezra Pound and Fascism.
“I quite enjoy him. He’s an exotic, fragile thrill,” I say; my voice, flavoured with an exquisite, rich, deep-as-marrow baritone. The conversation drifts to right-wing American conservatism, which we endorse because we regret the sexual revolution with a modernist’s melancholia. “A generation of parasitic sybarites,” I say, adjusting my Roberto Cavalli tie with a gentle motion.
The Mini Caviar Parfaits arrive, and as we indulge, we discuss Bergman with great panache. “Persona is a work of Jungian excellence. Concepts like leaving behind an alter ego and those still unplumbed existential questions it posits have left an impression, like a Rorschach blot on the deepest parts of my consciousness. I understand exploring sexuality, but we must do it like Bergman with an avant-garde, Delphic flair,” I say and belch. I excuse myself immediately and rush to the bathroom.
“Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! I just had to! Fuck!” I scream and ignore that small inner voice that says, At least it wasn’t a fart. “Fuck! It’s like reading Helen Steiner Rice to an audience looking for the rich symbolism of Eliot.”
I then pull out my mobile phone and text my dealer. I need you to hook this old bastard up, I type and wait. In minutes, I’m sent a group sex video on WhatsApp. I head to the urinal, relieve myself, return to the table, and sit down. “I apologise for the inconvenience, gentlemen,” I say and then fart.
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