Tuesday, January 22, 2013
The Chapter Called Picasso's the Best (chapter 2)
Billionaire smiled at his catch.
What the fuck did I just do? Innocent thought about her life. I don't know anything. I don't know what to do. I don't know where I'm going. I just don't know. She waited for Tiny Mom to jump in and force advice, but she was silent.
Umm, a question?
Billionaire Goldcock is just a name, right? You don't have, like, a gold cock, or something?
A golden cock? No. But that would be awesome. I would imagine people wouldn't mind getting fucked if they knew they were getting their money's worth. Then he added,
So, Innocent Peece. Is that an odd name? I really can't tell.
About as normal as Billionaire Goldcock, I guess.
Really? I'd hoped so. By the way, according to the contract, I can fuck you like an animal or I can fuck you like a gentleman.
How is that? At this point she decided that nothing he said would shock her. It was like a boy holding a toad up to her face. Or in this case, a gold cock; she wasn't going to let it bother her.
If I fuck you like an animal, I get stuck inside you and growl until someone throws cold water on my back. Or like a gentleman, when I give three firm thrusts, call you a good girl and then fall asleep.
Is there a door number three?
He was doing a good job of pushing her, but still, she wasn't getting upset. Yeah. Another question? Does anyone else know you're nuts? I mean, totally insane.
He seemed to ignore her.
She'd decided to just roll with whatever he threw at her. I'm pretty tough, she thought. And it's not like the guy was a serial killer. And even if he was, it was probably too late to get away now. So I'll put on a happy face and see if I can charm the pants off this guy. If nothing else, it'll at least show him who's boss.
Before we get to our afternoon of mad and passionate shtupping, let me give you the tour. So you at least know where the bathrooms are. There are 14, by the way, I think. So I can't guarantee that I remembered to flush them all.
I'll survive, she said.
Good. And then I will screw you six ways to Sunday.
You are such a dick, she chastised playfully.
This was the mating ritual. The male displays his colorful plumage and the female doesn't let on that she'll bite his head clean off once they've bumped uglies.
I don't know what billionaires do. You said you were a billionaire, right?
My name is Billionaire. But I'm actually worth a trillion American dollars. Almost a trillion.
A trillion minus one.
Minus one? Dollar? How do you manage that? A trillionaire minus one? Do you just keep throwing money away each time you make another dollar?
I have charities I support.
With your one dollar?
Yes, my one dollar? He sounded a little annoyed at her sarcasm. You know math? So if you had a trillion dollars in the bank earning one percent interest, how much money would you earn each year? And how many dollars would I earn each second that I could donate to charity?
Well, neither do I. I was hoping you'd know. Didn't you go to school, or anything?
Not for this, she said. Don't you have accounts to tell you this? Just call someone.
No, I don't have accountants. I should probably make some. But trust me, it's a lot.
Well. I don't know even what it's like to have $1,000 in my checking account, so if you think you'll impress me with your fancy… stuff, well, it's probably going to go right over my head. I wouldn't know a crystal goblet from a beer mug. She pointed at various objects. What is that? I don't know. What is that? I still don't know. What is…
Looking around, Innocent spotted a something she thought she'd recognized. It looked like a painting.
Who is that? It looks like a Picasso?
It is a Picasso, he answered proudly.
You're kidding. Really? Because I don't recognize it. She moved closer to admire the painting.
You've never seen it.
No. I studied his work. I wrote papers, a thesis. I've seen thousands of pieces, but I've never seen that.
Really? Like newly discovered?
No. New, new. I think the paint is still a little wet.
She felt a corner and the paint was still tacky. A fake? But the lines were unmistakable even if the colors were a little off.
Billionaire wondered out loud, But the paintings aren't perfect. There's something about them that's missing. Maybe that divine spark of life. He seemed momentarily distracted, but then he asked, Do you want to meet him?
Who? Picasso? Sure. Whatever. The first rich guy I meet and he's fucking nuts. So I might as well play along. At least until I get some lunch.
Billionaire led Innocent into a darkened room where a man seemed to be busily at work handling various canvases.
Hello? You, there. ¿Hola? Ven. This is Innocent. The figure shuffled in the dark. I don't think he understands a word. He just paints. He is the greatest painter, you know.
Why is that? She wanted to know why a rich guy might love Picasso. Maybe the paintings appreciate in value faster than Renoir?
Innocent loved Picasso's work. So the opinion of a collector interested her. How would she feel about owning a Picasso if she could ever afford one?
So, why? What would you say makes Picasso the greatest painter?
Because of the 'ass' in his name.
Her jaw dropped. She laughed a little at what appeared to be a joke.
I'm not joking.
That's why he's great? Because of the 'ass' in his name? That's the only reason?
You had better be good if you have an ass right in the middle of your signature, right?
So that must make Emily Dickinson the greatest writer, you know, because of her 'dick.'
Billionaire laughed out loud. He put his arm around Innocent's shoulders in an avuncular manner.
Avuncular, meaning being friendly, like an uncle. I don't need to look that word up in no dictionary, Innocent serendipitously thought.
Billionaire explained, Of course, he's not the real Picasso. He's just a clone.
A clone? Of Pablo Picasso? Innocent playfully feigned shock. You just whip that up in the kitchen?
He won't come any closer because of the light. He needs to work in darkness, so he never gets the colors right. A flaw in the cloning process will cause him to burst into flames if he becomes exposed to bright light. As it is, he exists in constant pain. But if you want a new Picasso, I highly recommend it.
Why does he think this is so hilarious? He can't really clone someone. So what's with the goofy story? She thought it was odd that he might have some art forger making his own private Picasso's, but so long as he wasn't pushing them off on anyone as the real thing, he wasn't hurting anyone.
They headed back to where they started when another set of footsteps came padding in from another room and a beautiful Golden Retriever jumped up on Billionaire to greet him. The dog dropped a few sheets of paper from its mouth before licking the man.
Innocent, I'd like you to meet my parents. Mom, Dad, this is Innocent, the future mother of your grandchildren.
Clones? She asked wryly.
Of course. I call them MoPo. The dog panted at him affectionately.
Apart from the mild disgust brought on by the potential art forgery of her favorite artist, Innocent was beginning to like this man. She felt a softness form in the middle of her stomach. Maybe it was the presence of the Golden, but there was something that made her feel that this odd, goofy, eccentric, weird, crazy rich guy was probably harmless and maybe just what she needed in her life. At least for right now.
Picasso? Clones? I can't believe one thing you say to me.
That's too bad. Because I'm going to need you to believe every word.
Billionaire picked up the papers the Golden had carried in and held them out to Innocent to show a paw print on the contract.
Look, we have our witnesses.