 |
HECTOR'S DEMISE
Page 2 0f 2
Hector cooked a dinner sufficient for a full homeless shelter, in quality and quantity. Amelia was flabbergasted and happy. She ate till... the beer lasted.
The Guardian Angel looked at the loaded table with unveiled disgust.
"Are you nuts? You want to kill yourself. What is the matter with you? Honest... sometimes I feel useless, rather quit than worry about your guys... I had less problems with Evel Knevel..."
"Trust me! It is for a worthy cause. Now bugger off!"
He barked at the worried Angel.
Hector released his belt and unbuttoned his pants. Amelia misread the intention and loudly objected.
"Are you kidding, you want it now? I can hardly move."
"Don't be stupid. I just want to make room."
The night was long and painful, with no Bromo or Alka-Seltzer in the house. One, long nightmare tormented Hector throughout the night. A huge studio was full of gay painters smearing enormous canvases with excrement... and he, Hector came late. As he stood helplessly at the door he listened to the tirades of Master Dogface who kept repeating... No advances! No advances!
It was horrifying!
He woke up with a pounding headache, kind of a hangover, tired and lethargic. He was almost ready to give up on his "great" idea, but he felt it might, just might result in renewed interest in his wilting reputation as a "sellable" artist. After all, there were times when any of his small canvases fetched as much as fifteen hundred dollars. He used to be the toast of the local critics.
He ransacked his studio, actually, a glassed in back porch -- but he found no canvas, no stretch frame not even a good-sized amazonite board to paint on.
He was urgently called to the bathroom and while sitting on the can, his eyes got fixed on the bathroom door... well, -- he thought it would do. He unhooked it and placed it on the easel, decided to leave the knob on, and since he had no clue what he will paint except with WHAT, he called the piece: La Porta Numero Uno. Why Italian? No reason, other than it sounded good.
By the time Amelia woke up, he was furiously working on his masterpiece. He was really on a roll, with a wide palette knife, he mixed the brownish substance with water based paint -- he was surprised by the bleakness of the "material," so in order to achieve some impact he cheated by adding some color. The stench was unbearable. He opened all the windows, the cold December wind blew across the house, he was shivering but whistling happily as usual when felt the surge of adrenaline. These were the happy times when not even Rosalinda was bothering him with her constant erotic demands.
"What the hell is this?" - Amelia screamed as she emerged from the bedroom. - "The sewage backed up?"
Hector gave her a short lecture about the new media and promised her a new era of success, fame and of course, money.
"You are a genius, Hecie!" and she wrapped her warm body around the shivering artist.
"You know what?" -She whispered in his ear. "I want to contribute. That will be our ultimate oneness, an everlasting bond."
The La Porta Numero Uno was completed and the sex was fantastic that night. Better than ever. Wild, loud and very physical...
The Guardian Angel flipped Amelia's breast aside and pulled Hector's head free.
"Take a breath, you idiot you'll suffocate."
"Leave me alone, cant you see I'm busy"
...and he exploded in an earth shattering orgasm in perfect unison with the Bitch. (An apology for the clich�. The Author.)
Rosalinda sighed with resignation.
As the masterpiece dried sufficiently, Hector delivered it to The Gallery with great expectation. Much to his surprise though, Dogface howled with uncontrollable exasperation. He called Hector everything in his vocabulary under the label of "loser". The "great" idea crashed right out of the back door into the dumpster. Bruno kicked him out of his office swearing that all his remaining "junk", he called his works "junk" -- will be burned in hell with Hector included. His boys were standing at the front door holding their noses pinched and applauding their Boss as the humiliated Hector left The Gallery. They sprayed Garden Magic air freshener (Mountain Potpourri) all over the Gallery. Repeatedly.
The snow was falling, gently, ceremoniously on the city, creating an early Christmas ambiance. On the corner a shabby looking Santa was ringing his dull sounding bell over the Salvation Army kettle. People were going briskly about their business, elegant women and self-assured men spending their hard earned money in the fashionable district. Bored chauffeurs were reading the morning papers in their idling limos, waiting for their bosses, all, the whole world as a matter of fact was profoundly ignorant of the big happening, that Hector AAmazing's artistic career came to a crushing end.
On the bridge, over the ravine the traffic was light...
Hector glanced over his shoulder, checking if Igor followed him with the limousine, he did, - turning to Rosalinda he said:
"Lets fly to the Riviera"
The touch of the freezing cold steel railing brought him back for a moment. He looked down to the ravine below, the snow barely covered the top of the evergreens. A couple of seagulls were circling over the tiny pond, with stretched out motionless wings, up and down in graceful silence. What an unmatched beauty -- he thought, regretting the fact that he never been able to carry this calming sense of peace and tranquility to a canvas...
"Hector, you are finished!" - Rosalinda hissed at him with unprecedented cruelty in her voice. - "We are finished! You are a pathetic loser, skinny and ugly, and you stink!!!"
Hector wondered, how high was this bridge over the trail below? Sixty, eighty feet?
The limo pulled up to the sidewalk and Rosalinda slid into the front seat, not the back but the front and in unison with Igor, a loathsome scowl on their faces they gave him the finger. Through the sunroof the moneybag flew into the air landing at Hector's feet on the sidewalk. It was cut open. Empty... The obnoxious, big bank logo stained the fresh, white snow with crimson red. The black limo with the black lover drove off toward the other end of the bridge... as Rosalinda's scream echoed over the ravine:
"Jump, you stinking plagiarizer... I dare you. Jump!"
Hector was surprised how easy is it was to leap over the railing -- "...somebody should do something about it. It is much to low..."
- and the shocking realization: "Now this was really stupid!" - The thought flashed through his mind. For a while it seemed that the whole world came to a halt. Frozen in a motionless eternity for a split second. He wanted to scream to the seagulls...
"Please... Hurry! Teach me how to fly! To fly home to Amelia..."
One of the birds, almost like if she wanted to help, escorted Hector half way down... and then with a frightened screech she rose above the bridge. The last image Hector saw was...
...The Guardian Angel leaning over the railing
"OOPS! he sighed and shrugged his shoulder..."Well, what the heck! You win some, you loose some."
A headline in the afternoon tabloid:
STARVING ARTIST LEAPS TO HIS DEATH
Dogface stared to the paper and with a mad dash, raced out to the back. Just in time, a garbage truck was halfway into the back lane when Bruno pulled La Porta Numero Uno out of the dumpster.
Before even the rigor mortis fully set in to stiffen the hand that created it, the bathroom door a.k.a. Masterpiece, graced the window of The Gallery, with a gold lettered sign:
The Door No:6
by
Hector AAmazing
1950-1998
and of course a discrete price tag: $25,000.00
(Yes. No.6. Just in case there will be a market for more.)
"Shall I spray it...? The boy asked Bruno with a painful sneer on his pretty face.
"For heaven's sake no! Let it stink."
***END***
Back to Page 1
Steven's Website
Comment on this story?
Home Page
Send E-Mail to: dsullivan30@juno.com
Copyright © 2008 Donald H Sullivan. All Rights Reserved