This is just to make the point – and provoke a libel-tour lawsuit in Merry Old England for our forum-shopping American friends, for whom their First Amendment protection is no longer good enough – nyug
[Also, for some inexplicable reason – for what other kind can there be; really? – the so-called Story Notices start here (see Appendix A at the back of this book) and continue, fairly consistently, in tandem with the remainder of this volume (#3) – One of Us]
It is well past any reasonable hour as Welsh Losser has been sweating greasily in a desperate bid to make friends with his brother, Welsh Losser, just in from Seattle, whom he fears, buying him drinks all day – and now all night – in a basement bar in downtown Kyiv.
Losser’s gouty heart thumps dully against his feeble fat chest – digitally enhanced to look built-up and fierce – as his brother, who has, naturally, done a much better job of optically pumping up his own chest, continues to attack him mercilessly, despite all the drinks. His money’s running out; Welsh Losser’s surprised at just how much his brother can put away; far more – naturally – than himself, and still hold himself together. If Welsh Losser had drunk as much as his brother, by now he wouldn’t be drunk… he’d be dead!
‘Dead drunk – nyugga-nya,’ he jokes to himself in his head – as he is wont to do both in his head and out loud in company, thinking himself quite the non-stop irrepressible joke-meister – but immediately regrets it, as there’s nothing funny to the present situation. In fact, the situation is quite dire, and possibly physically injurious or even deadly, depending on his brother’s mood, which Losser is keeping mental tabs on by checking the hands and face for any signs of sudden arbitrary swings or changes out from under his better walleye.
“Now, Weeelssshhh,” the brother repeats for the seven hundredth time, “tell me if you can, please, what’s this on your resume, with your heavily airbrushed photo and walleyes no longer askew, but brilliant, beautiful, blue, looking straight on and twinkling, aggressively charming and warmly inviting, posted so prominently and shamelessly on the Penmanship International website, where your fat ass allegedly occupies some top executive position, about working with the government in the U.S. to develop a more conducive small business environment? Was that work you did for Seattle, the State of Washington, or the entire United States? And is the small business environment back in the Home of the Brave so wanting in conduciveness that it needed YOUR help? Did the Betsy Ross Guild wave the Stars and Stripes more freely with a smaller tax burden, perhaps, thanks to YOU? Hmmm… Weeelssshhh?! Did you get them out of those oppressive sweatshops?!?”
Something like a wheezing sigh, or a suppressed squeak, toots out of Welsh Losser’s nose.
“Ah, but then it says here,” the brother Welsh Losser says, a finger pointing to what is undoubtedly his brother Welsh Losser’s photo and resume on the Penmanship International web page opened on the brother’s laptop, “that you went on to identify effective programs for vocational and technical colleges… Really, Weeelssshhh?! And what colleges were those? In doing so, who did you work for? Was it a private company, or maybe a contractor of some sort, or a government agency, perhaps – hmmm? Is there a record anywhere of your employment and, it logically follows, of your achievement? Or did you just make all this up?! And were the programs of these vocational and technical colleges so ineffective before, that they needed YOU to identify ones that would finally be effective? Yes, Weeelssshhh, I guess there was just no one else in a country of 320 million that could do that for these colleges… but you! And where did you identify these programs from, Weeelssshhh? Did you put them together yourself, oh, you know, from here and there, this and that – something these colleges had been unable to do themselves? What was your methodology? Or did you get these programs that you then so magnanimously graced these colleges with out of some catalog?! Or just pull them out of your ass!!! Ha har haaaaa! Because that’s something they couldn’t do either, Weeelssshhh… No! They were only able to move forward with their vocational and technical mandates THANKS TO YOU – HAAAAAAA!!!”
Except for an occasional ‘eruffum – nyugets…’ or other some-such indecipherable nonsense, Losser, stricken with fear, cannot bring up speech. He continues to look down, daring to give his better walleye a quick darting lift now and again to check the brother – those hands… that face… and those, uh, walleyes; albeit, better, naturally, than the walleyes belonging to Losser.
“And then it says, Weeelssshhh, that you – oh, I just can’t believe THIS – that you served as an adjunct college faculty member – like a professor…”
The moment Losser has feared seems to have arrived. He tries to gulp hard, but his mouth, tongue and throat have gone completely dry. A dark and terrifying pall descends over the face of his brother. The floorboards of the bar break apart and the ground beneath the foundation opens. The brother opens his mouth, but the rumbling voice that speaks rises from the depths of Hell:
“YOU LYING FUCKING SON OF A BITCH…!!!”
Losser goes completely hysterical. He tosses his beer mug aside, hitting a girl at the next table in the head, and begins hopping goutily around the bar screaming. This goes on for a few minutes until a couple of big boys restrain him and sit him back down behind the table, across from his brother, Welsh Losser.
As if nothing has happened, the brother continues:
“And what do you mean by creating seminars and training top corporate executives in Russia, Ukraine and Turkey – hmmm??? Really?! Where are the testimonials? Point me to one executive here in Kyiv who can testify that YOU actually had a hand in training HIM!!! And in WHAT language did you do that, pray tell, seeing as you know absolutely nothing of Russian or Ukrainian, even though you’ve lived here for twenty fucking years. Yeah, Weeelssshhh, that gels nicely with your earlier self-promoting bios and fake interviews in Boss Lard’s Point Missed magazine about how you liked to spend your free time creeping around the Kyiv Train Station because you wanted to hear what endlessly fascinating Ukrainians talked about, even though you admitted your capacity to do so was quite limited because… you didn’t understand them! Ha har har ha haaaaa…!!!”
Losser’s throat is so constricted, he can’t even drink his beer.
“And are you really responsible for developing Penmanship International’s business in former Soviet countries? Oh, yeah? WHAT BUSINESS – WEEELSSSHHH?!? The so-called company you work for is just a cover for an international criminal gambling network laundering its proceeds through Ukraine, compliments of local oligarchs running protection for a nominal service charge as a favor to well-connected friends on the outside – the ones who hired you as the perfect dupe to heat the leather of the chair your fat ass sits in every day. Oh, yeah, and sure, sure, you manage client training and coaching projects – yeah, sure… and WHAT ELSE do you do – Weeelssshhh?!?”
Losser’s eyes look dully on, no longer trying to catch a movement or change in his brother’s face or hands, but rather, stare into nothing.
“So, your background is varied, it says here. Hmmm, Weeelssshhh, that’s very, very interesting. Let’s see now,” the brother begins for the seven hundred-and-first time. “It says here you’ve been, and presumably still are, an author, ahuh, ahuh, yeah, sure, ah, let’s see, an instructor, m-hmm, m-hmm, a coach – aha, yeah, right – a-a-a-nnd… a speaker!!!… ooooo…”
Losser looks down at his soft imitation wingtip feet, wondering when it will all be over.
Filed by JS, June 21, 2015