Top Fem Girl beds Lard to gain control of the paper
“Well Henna, I’d say you are 100% Fem – with just enough Girl to keep things saucy.”
The Fem Girls leader, lounging languidly on the king-sized waterbed, emits a cool stream of hot smoke from her thin lips, as if in acknowledgment.
“Now that we’ve done the business, maybe we can get down to some horse trading, darling.”
Hutsol raises one of her slender, nude thighs into an arch, while propping up a fat pillow behind her mane of limp auburn hair.
“The Poster is just a-waiting for your pretty little pinkies to print whatever they desire. It’s a blank sheet in need of some words. Scandal, you say? Just pick a target and get to slinging the mud. No need to worry about lawsuits, cuz I can PR a pumpkin into a carriage fit for a prince – or a princess too, for that matter.”
Hutsol extinguishes the cigarette into a crumpled-up condom wrapper lying on the nightstand next to the bed and tilts her head back to gaze at the ceiling as if concentrating on something.
“To be brief – in my briefs, so to speak – the ball’s in your court, where I know you can muster a team of tiny-titted protesters at the drop of a hat. Line ‘em up, Henna, and lead ‘em into action, as you see fit. Only now you’ll have informational support, your own damn media outlet to paint the picture as you please. No more going down on your knees… ahem… before egotistical editors and money-grubbing news networks. No Ma’am. You can be your own woman!”
A wan smile begins to take shape on her still pretty if somewhat hardened face. She taps one of her subtle pouting breasts with a single finger, while kind of eyeing over this latest lover: A silver-haired cherub circa age 60, but with the dancing eyes of a drunken king. His mound-like belly is buried under the satin sheets, while the torso up top still retains a manly aspect – at least in the dim light of the Kyiv hotel suite.
“All right, Boss. No need to charm the panties off me – all the more as they’re already lost amid the clutter of clothes on the floor. Right now, I’m more interested in hearing how you’re going to handle Moe Zaire. If I’m not mistaken, you work for him, not the other way around…”
Lard lifts his fat-filled frame up into sitting position, while clutching the covers to keep his belly underneath.
“Because I’ve long harbored plans to remake the Poster in my own slutty image. Yes, I’m a whore, and I intend to be paid – not piecemeal by every Tom, Dick and Harry who tries to coax me onto a couch or bend me over a desk…”
Lard gulps, greedy-eyed, as if remembering some tasty tidbit in his lunchbox still lying there waiting to be eaten at his convenience.
“I don’t want a salary either. From whom, for what? Do you think I can monetize these skills and work them into an employee package with remuneration mutually satisfactory to myself and a prospective hirer…? No need to answer, because the answer is ‘No.’”
Lard, now almost hiding behind the sheets as well as the covers, stares wide-eyed into the dark at his fiery mistress.
“So you see, Boss, the Devil’s in the details. Thumb Head’s been shit-canned. But Mustard’s still flapping her gums. I could have a platoon of tiny-titted protesters – as you call them – take the editorial office by storm, but I need to know how and where Zaire stands, or whether he’s just sitting cross-legged staring into Muslim heaven…”
On the street below sits a middle-aged man in cape and suspenders. A coffee cup with the Kyiv Poster emblem printed on it is his only companion.
“Jim, isn’t that Bret Boner, former editor of Kyiv’s leading English-language weekly,” a woman half the size of her husband asks in passing.
“Huh? Uh, yeah, I think so, honey.”
“Maybe we should drop a few coins in his coffee cup; what do you think?”
“Nah. That’s just a promotional gimmick. I’m sure of it.”
“Jim, I really think he’s down on his luck. Maybe we should give him some money.”
The owl-faced expatriate writer, dangling a divining rod at his side, approaches the unshaven and, by the smell of him, unwashed journalist tentatively.
“Hey brother, can you spare a dime,” says Boner in a despondently gravel voice.
“No, but I may be able to steer you toward gainful employment,” says the owl.
“How’s that, Bub,” says the out-of-work wordsmith, his thumb-shaped head drooping in defeat.
“Well, I’m told there are jobs for English-speaking expatriates in these parts, and I’ve got myself a divining rod to sniff them out.”
“Yeah, right! I’ve heard it all now, Mister. What’s your game, anyway? Looking to have a little fun at ol’ Media Man’s expense… yeah? That’s right, I said Media Man, that faithful fighter for freedom of speech. That’s me, see? I’m not wearing this cape as a fashion statement! Because, see, journalistic principles are no longer in fashion.”
“Jim, give him a hryvnia and let’s move on.”
“Hold on a second honey. Now listen, Boner. I’m no journalist, but a Kyiv-based writer. Nevertheless, I have it on good account that there are jobs around here for those willing to seek them out…”
“Says who,” now sounding surly.
“I read it in Kyiv Edited, a new publication being put out by The Ferret.”
“The Ferret?” Now growling… “I’m gonna murder you.” Leaping onto all fours like a dog unleashed from its lead, Boner lunges at the terrified owl-faced man, catching his cotton pant leg between his teeth.
From a balcony above, Boss Lard and Henna Hutsol stand in monogrammed bathrobes observing the scene.
“Darling, shall we, er, go back to the negotiating room?”
“Take me, Boss. Use me like a dog-eared copy of the Kyiv Poster…”
Filed by Dirk Dickerson, June 29, 2013