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FICTION

An excerpt from my in-progress serial SEXPATS

4 Apollo Bonaparte

As Mary-Jack Kennedy was climbing into her cab at the corner of Oxford and Regent, Apollo Bonaparte was entering his club, Chez Pretentious, through the back door. It will come as no surprise to you, gentle reader, that Apollo is the son of a Greek mother and French father. Unbelievably wealthy, painfully rich, Apollo had come to London a year earlier with mischief in his mind.

Having lived amongst the rich and famous his whole life, Apollo had come to disdain his peers. And almost everyone else he encountered. His mission in London was to take the piss out of everyone and everything.

His first prank was to open Chez Pretentious, the most exclusive club in the world. Chez Pretentious was so exclusive that nobody was good enough to become a member.

In order to convince potential applicants that Chez Pretentious was, indeed, a bona fide club for the ultra ultra VIP set, Apollo had leased an abandoned warehouse in Knightsbridge. He erected a modest sign on the door that read, Chez Pretentious, and installed a hundred thousand pound sound system within. And that was the extent of his renovations.

Apollo hired a team of CGI geniuses to create videos of wild goings on inside Chez Pretentious. He posted those videos on the club’s website and before he fully understood the depth and genius of his prank, those videos went viral on the world’s most exclusive social networking sites.

Applications poured in by the thousands. Every one of them was answered with a curt, “No! Fuck off! You’re not good enough.”

Apollo sat at the controls of his state of the art sound system and played DJ to his non-existent crowd. He mixed in crowd sounds to make it appear that the greatest party in all of London was underway inside the empty Chez Pretentious. Outside, a small throng gathered at the front door, which was always locked.

Apollo had started a rumour that the club was only accessible to members via a secret tunnel that ran from the Natural History Museum. The museum was inundated with queries as to the authenticity of the tunnel. The museum’s management were annoyed at the specious rumour and denied it vehemently.

Apollo laughed at the museum’s constant requests for him to publically refute the horrid, potentially libelous, allegation that his nightclub was, in any way, connected to their fine venue.

As he cranked the bass on a classic Chemical Brothers track, and watched the desperate-to-get-in crowd gathered at his door via CCTV, Apollo Bonaparte laughed maniacally.

But secretly, Apollo Bonaparte, son of multi-billionaires, longed for friends to enjoy the joke with. He longed for a girl. A magical girl who could fill his empty. A girl who could turn his frown upside down. Surely, there was such a girl on a planet of seven billion people.

Hopefully, he would never find that girl, because there was a deep, dark, ugly side to Apollo that no one knew about.

 

 

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