Another Uncommon Interview

Another Uncommon Interview

Leslie Lovely, the strange, weird, sharp-tongued journalist who worked for a "family publication" called me back and begged for another interview. This time, she said her employer would offer me some financial incentive. Naturally, I asked her what the financial incentive entailed. An eight-day first class cruise for two around the Society Islands, airfare included, or $13,000 in cash, she informed me. I gave her the routing and checking number on my bank account.

She showed up, doll-like, with tasteful make-up---slight rouge, almost indiscernible eyeshadow; with a low-cut white blouse, sporting a jade pendant between two nice pyramids topped by perky, pointed nipples, hardly covered by sheer white bra; and stylish jeans on top of expensive-looking shoes, enhancing her statuesque shapely figure and height of around 5'8". She dressed as if she went for an informal date with an artist. I liked what I saw on her, but I didn't dispense any flattering remark after giving her a quick-over with my appraising look and sporting a most friendly smile on my still drop dead gorgeous, handsome face.

I offered her a choice of tea and biscuits or wine with an assortment of nuts. She opted for the latter. It was Thanksgiving eve. Dinner time. I didn't invite her to dinner. I never gave a woman an opportunity twice. She didn't say anything about the view of the city this time. Lights were already all over town. A big globe of full moon was on the rise over the mountains in the west. Instead, she asked me if it was okay to look at the books on my bookcase which was lined up against the wall in the living room.

-You sure have a lot of interesting books. You read all those?

-No, they are for show. 

-I thought so.

-Leslie, I don't really care what you think. Are you here to talk about me or about you?

-What's eating you? You sure are not friendly this evening. What's wrong, honey?

-Don't "honey" me, please. So are we proceeding with the interview or you're preferring with chitchat over sweet nothings?

-Okay, Mr. Wissai. Please tell our readers in ten words who you really are. They want to know. And I want to know, too. I've been intrigued.

-Poet-philosopher-writer-hunter-poker player who loves taking risks. 

-Elaborate, amplify, elucidate, clarify, please.

-Look, after being able to put food on the table, I'm not interested in hoarding money for rainy days. I'm not terribly intelligent. I know that. Everybody knows that. But I am always attracted to the idea that I am different than most, better than many. My ideas are different. My values are different, maybe even better. Very few humans impress me. I look at my fellow men and I see mostly loud-mouthed monkeys, neurotic chimps, and defective, stupid, greedy, lying humans. I don't want to be like them. I can be like them, but I don't want to. That's the difference between me and most human beings on this planet. You can write that down and take it to the bank. So I read, trying to know who I am and what was out there beyond the noise and the din. I wanted to write poems for a long time, but I couldn't because I was stupidly bogged down by rhyme and meter and all that shit. Then one day about 15 years ago, I got a breakthrough. I ignored all the rules. I just concentrated on the rhythm. And I have not looked back since. About being a hunter, any moron can be a farmer. All you need to do is to follow the rules and the weather and the politics and you survive until retirement. Then you really start to live. For many it's too late. Most monkeys are proud of that regimen, however, at least outwardly. They skimp and save for rainy days while their life is slipping away from them. I could not be a farmer, not for long. I have a temperament of a nomadic hunter. I hunt dangerous carnivorous beasts, besides easy herbivores. I feel alive when I hunt. I feel a rush of adrenaline when my life is in danger and a calming, satisfying feeling of triumph when I bag a prey and carry it back to my tent. Hunters usually don't have a respect for farmers, for easy, safe living. I am not rich, but I am not starving either. You can see that.

-Yes, I can see that. Like I said last time, you seem to do all right. 

-Let's talk about love. It features predominantly in your writings. 

-What's there to talk about? I wrote about love but I don't believe in it anymore, after being mistreated by whores and douche bags. I don't know women. I gave an impression, even bragged, that I knew women, but I didn't. I still do not. 

-Do you love any women right now?

-Are you kidding me? Are you hard of hearing? 

-What's wrong? 

-Nothing's wrong. It is what it is. I don't believe in love anymore. No women love me. And I love no women. That's fair. That's an equation. 

-Are you feeling lonely then? (Leslie gave me a seductive smile. She bent forward, fingering her pendant, watching my reaction. Her pyramids were in full view. The nipples were fully erect and inviting.  I leaned back, giving a sigh)

-I am too tired from hunting to feel lonely, too disillusioned and angry to feel horny. In fact, I feel like killing some woman, maybe two or three right now.

-Really? How exciting! Do you really? Or just a thought, an idle thought, and not really an obsession?

-As I told you the last time, killing is not hard at all. It's dealing with the aftermath, that's hard. 

-Are you prepared to deal with the aftermath?

-I don't know yet. But right now, I don't give a shit about love and loneliness. I just don't.

-Mr. Wissai, honey, yes, I am calling you honey, please allow me. Tell me what's going on. Can I help? I really mean that. Fuck! Can't you see I am being sincere here? I didn't tell you it was I who badgered my boss into going back and getting another interview with you.

-Leslie (I was sighing, once more. I looked away, at the moon now high above the mountain. I could see the snow on the mountain summit reflecting the moonlight. It was quite a lovely sight), certain realities just dawned on me. A midget bitch called me names. I was suppressing the anger. Now it's rebelling, demanding me take immediate action. I told it to wait, telling it that in hunting you must learn to wait for the right time to strike and that you must maintain silence. You don't want to alert and scare the prey away. Talks and threats are cheap. 

-Roberto, I hope you don't mind if I call you you by your first name. You've been calling me Leslie. It's only fair, right? All what you just said excited me beyond measure. Do you know that? Nobody has talked like that to me. Nobody. You're the first one. I smell blood. I smell passion. I smell pain and anger. Deadly combustion. The result is either jail time, even death or great literary works in the waiting. Of course, I want literary works, not a mundane court trial, then long prison term. That would be too boring, too predictable, deep down, although it looks exciting at first, ratings would go up. I would profit tremendously. I could write a book about you. No, honey, you are too good for any bitch. You don't have to stoop down to their level. About the midget bitch, she is not worth your trouble. She is scum. She is human trash. A cheap parasite. She is not even self-supporting. She is living on charity. And yet she has the stupidity to be proud of herself. Of what? She can't fuck, can't cook, can't read, can't understand what's the fuck going on with the world because she's half-assed literate. She should just roll over and die like a little bug that she is. I understand you were lonely at one time and she was your plaything for a while. But you are okay now. You have money again, health, good looks, and talents. Forget the bitch. Let's go to the gym and work out. I lied to you the last time I was here. I am no lesbian. I am a full-blooded heterosexual woman. I like you a lot. In time, you will like me. I guarantee you that. Don't be shy. Let's go. But first, I need to go to the bathroom. Honey, please show me where it is.

When Leslie came back from the sojourn in the bathroom (she stayed there for a long time, at least half an hour. I didn't know what the fuck she did in there. Either she had a very bad case of constipation or she was playing game, testing me if I became impatient and then knocked on the door, asking what the hell was going on. I didn't do anything. I stayed fixed in the living from, thinking. She could have dropped dead in there for all I cared. I was in my violent misogynistic mood), she was surprised that I just looked at her with my eyebrows raised. She sheepishly smiled. I silently pointed to the chair, indicating that I was not in any mood to go anywhere. Not yet. Then I opened my mouth,

-I was thinking of what you had said about the midget bitch. Her name is Lund, by the way. That's my nick for her, very pregnant with meanng. Look it up. You must be a linguist, well versed in many languages, to know what it means. The other nick I have for her is VAW. Exotic, but mundane. If you can figure what that means, that would make my day. Anyway Lund/VAW Is just a very stupid bitch. She didn't understand me at all. She thought she would make me angry and mad with her fucking cheap insults. She didn't know by doing so she travelled into a fucking dangerous terrain. Everything looked so fucking clear in hindsight. She was kicked out of an association of exiles. She quarreled with her neighbor, screaming bloody murder at the top of her voice in the dead of the night, waking the whole fucking neighborhood up. Her neighbors called the cops. They and the ambulance arrived, sirens blared off, the whole fucking scene of mayhem and black comedy. She held a lowly job which paid barely above minimum wage. She has no job now. Who the fuck would want to hire her? One must be stupid and crazy to hire her. The woman is a ticking time bomb of troubles and annoyance. She speaks broken English. She does not know shit about anything, except sitting on her ass all day watching TV. She is living on the kindness of humanity. Her relatives disowned her because she quarreled with them. She quarreled with everybody. She is a fucking parasite, and yet she had the gall to criticize me for being a lousy lay in bed, and of my erratic income for being a hunter! I am self-supporting. I don't live on handouts as she does. I play the stock market. I am into consulting. I make money in poker. I am financially independent. I have money to travel, to go anywhere in the world at the drop of a hat. Lucky for me, I didn't show her what I had in the bank, otherwise I would be more upset now. I didn't want to tell her that I was a stud in bed with Harriette out of the kindness my heart. I didn't want to tell her I performed poorly in bed with her because she had a lousy, unsexy body and she didn't know how to excite a man (At that time, Leslie interjected, saying, "I do! I do!", I smiled warmly at her). I'm telling you, she is a walking defnition of failure in every sense of the world. Her ex-husband beat her, chasing her all around the neighborhood. She had to take refuge in a neighbor's house. She is a midget but has a very big mouth. She was full of Midget Complex. You no doubt wondered why the fuck I went out with her. She chased after me, not the other way around. I am a man. I want to experience life, high and low. As simple as that. Anyway, I'm tired of talking about the bitch. Let's go. You said you like me, heh? I have that effect on women. Don't be so bitchy and tart-tongued, all right? I am in no mood for that. I want to relax, taking things easy. 

(To be continued)