Sir Hearty Luncheon under leaden skies clambered into the back of the Lexus, therein sank into the embrace of warm beige leatherette, from which there emanated a brief squeak and the mildest of odours, as of the discreet bumquake of seraphim. Mr Jagtar Singh very smartly closed the door behind him, and very smartly got behind the wheel. Tires crunched over gravel, engine hummed, a balletic gliding past the baronial columns at the entrance of the park. Very smart. —
Lexus, Sir Hearty Luncheon, Mr Jagtar Singh
The road past the airport. Dun featureless countryside through which, more slowly than was necessary, crept charabancs and trucks. Sir Hearty Luncheon extracted his tablet, and essayed to busy himself with the Metal Trader Special Bulletin on melted money, and then with the Allgemeineszeitungstahlergänzung. But the motion sickness to which he had ever been a martyr gnawed at his oesophagus, forcing him to loosen his tie, and gaze through the window slantwise at suburbs. Cant, cant, everywhere cant. Beige and ugly and pettifogging cant. Palsied and wan, acrylic fibered, nugatory cant. Cant. —
Cant
to which Sir Hearty Luncheon returned another grunt. The Lexus glided then up Hotwells Road, past the beefburger barges floating in the gunmetal waters of the Avon, past the jutting prow of Pex ’n’ Quads, underneath the new apartment blocks, turned right into Anchor Road, depositing the Pierpont Morgan thereof very smartly upon thereof the pavement. —
Anchor Road
Sir Hearty Luncheon watched the green figures marching across the screen, and listlessly bought some money, and fretfully sold some other money. Then some other green figures marched back across the screen, and Sir Hearty watched their progress too. Then he listlessly sold all the money he had bought, and fretfully bought back the money he had sold. His mind’s eye wandered now, and he found himself once again thinking of his partner Lord Handjob. The Monchild-Rothsanto deal had spilt a great deal more coin into the coffers of Handjob Luncheon than it had into those of the Agua Caliente tribe of Riverside County California. Sir Heart Luncheon pictured unto himself, very unwillingly, Lord Handjob at the Agua Caliente’s roulette tables, a starlet at each elbow. Rendering unto the pueblo a tiny portion of that which was rightfully theirs, by means of chancing a spin of the wheel. Sir Hearty Luncheon’s mind eye ran listlessly down and then fretfully up the list of Lord Handjob’s defalcations - the racehorses and the talcums of Medellin, the sexual stimulants and the plastic surgeries, the pair of paid-off rape investigations. All of it: all of it was cant. Total, complete, and utter cant. —
Cant
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