Posted by PK on November 25, 2001 at 16:40:33:
Hiram P. Woolfardisworthy III sat back in his chair with a satified sigh, sipping from his wine
glass. A cheeky little Californian Cabernet Sauvignon, he would have preferred a more
mature Australian pinot noir, but it would have been churlish to complain after such an
excellent meal. They did so pride themselves on domestic produce. He gestured to the waiter
hovering anxiously at his shoulder.
"Very satisfactory," he said. "You may be assured of a good review. Far better than I
anticipated. In fact, I might venture to say, a better rump of girl than I've had in weeks.
Excellent value, too. And, unless my taste buds mislead me, which in fact they do not,
entirely authentic."
The waiter visibly relaxed. Hiram could get away with talking like that because he was the
restaurant critic for the New York Times. "I'm delighted that you enjoyed it, sir," he said. "And
I do it assure you that the meat is authentic."
It wouldn't do to upset Hiram, he knew. The fat bastard, as he was unaffectionately known to
all restaurateurs in the city, was one of the prime arbiters of gastronomic fashion.
"One does wonder how you do it, if I may be excused a vulgarity, at such a modest charge.
You would hardly believe how much horseflesh I've been presented with in lieu of the
genuine article."
It was a sore point for Hiram. A sign of how far unregulated commercialism had eroded the
standards of civilised society.
"I'll give your compliments to the Chef," the waiter said.
Hiram finished his glass and poured himself another. He wasn't one to stint himself.
"Perhaps I could have a word with the manager?" he requested affably.
Hardly ten minutes later Hiram was ensconsed in a comfortable armchair in the manager's
sanctum, a lavishly furnished private office above the restaurant, sipping a more than
passable brandy.
"You enjoyed your meal, I hope?" the manager asked solicitously after the initial pleasantries
had been exchanged.
"Very much so. I have to say that I found it quite remarkable that you can provide provender
of such a, shall we say, specialised sort at such a reasonable price." Reasonable was a well
chosen word. In fact, the meal had been anything but cheap in everyday terms, but it was
understood that one doesn't obtain caviarre at the same price as hamburger.
"And you'd like to know how we do it, eh?" The manager gave him the twinkling conspiratorial
smile of someone delighted with his own cunning.
"As a matter of fact, I would, John." Hiram admitted bluntly. The manager - 'call me John' -
clearly wasn't going to blurt it out without setting the stage.
John didn't disappoint him. "Well, Hiram, I'm sure you know why girlflesh - I hope you'll
excuse the crude term, I'm a simple man - is so expensive in the dear old USA?"
Hiram shrugged. It was a decent brandy, he decided, offering his glass for a refill. "Of course
I do," he said mildly. If the man was going to spin it out he could stand playing straight man
thus fortified. "Just the fact that our gastronomic preference is legal now doesn't guarantee
any abundant supply of the necessary ingredient. Not that many young women care to oblige.
The age old principle of supply and demand. Even as a minority taste, the demand still
outstrips the supply."
John nodded. "Exactly. Look at those restaurants - if you can dignify them with the name - in
the South. Bare breasted waitresses, some of whom may be ordered as part of the menu.
How much do you think they have to pay them just to take the chance that on any given
night..."
It was true, and Hiram didn't mention that he'd eaten at one of the 'special' Hooters outlets.
Their prices had to be high to meet the wages overhead and, not incidentally, to ensure that
few customers would actually be prepared to pay for it. Otherwise how would they get anyone
to work there?
"And the cost of importing...." Hiram encouraged him.
John would have rolled his eyes and thrown up his hands had he been a more demonstrative
man, or if he hadn't been trying for a more sophisticated mien. A smaller but equally eloquent
gesture had to suffice. "The tariffs! The duties, the red tape...did you know that girlflesh is far
more expensive here than in Europe? I'm sorry, of course you do. And why?"
"Because Britain has companies handling the Third World excess population and our dear
Government doesn't allow it here. Quibbles about the rules on immigration, Food and Drugs
regulations, pressure from the Religious Right, all that nonsense..." he shook his head sadly.
It was as bad as the situation on prostitution. Not technically illegal but in practise impossible
within the law.
John warmed to his theme. "Exactly," he said again. "And just to keep the domestic food
industry happy and appease the Bible Babblers, they've taxed imports up to almost the same
level as the local produce. Protectionism, I call it, and a mockery of free trade."
Hiram had enjoyed the fruits of the Third World flesh trade, as a cosmopolitan man he had
no objection to it at all. It was the price per pound in the States that had almost driven him to
emigration. Oh, to be in England...
But then he'd have to rough it in a country with no air-conditioning. Not a hardy pioneer,
Hiram's soft body, accustomed the civilised amenities of New York, flinched from the thought
of privation. In his dreams....he shook it off. Back to the subject.
"How do you circumvent the problem?" he asked, noting that he was beginning to slur a little.
He anticipated a tale of smuggling, illegal evasion of the coastguard and the IRS, something
spicy.
It wasn't quite what he expected.
John leaned forward, confidentially. "We started out on a very small budget, you know. It was
a struggle, I can tell you. We had to do something to make the place special, it's not exactly
a good neighbourhood." He made a deprecatory gesture.
Hiram nodded understandingly. "So you decided to cater to a more discerning clientele.
Without advertising..."
"Oh, we dropped hints. We let things be known in certain circles. Amazing thing, modern
technology. Word gets around when something happens that's of interest to a small but
dedicated section of the public."
It had taken Hiram some time to track the place down, he wasn't exactly a techo himself. He
relied on the grapevine, hints passed on by fellow gourmets in private clubs. Not quite the
'word on the street' but in his own way he was tenacious.
"But the cost of the meat? How did you overcome the initial overheads?"
"The trade term is 'roadkill'" John said.
Hiram didn't get it. He watched John watching him, trying to work it out. "Accident victims?"
he ventured.
"Close, but no cigar," John said. Noting the affronted expression on Hiram's face, he
backpedalled. "Sorry, just a little joke. In fact you're almost right. Hiram, the clue is in the
source of the produce. You know the cardinal rule for haute cuisine."
"The ingredients. Quality. Freshness...."
"Getting warmer. Did it ever occurr to you that we are living in a Third World country?"
Hiram frowned. "No, we are not."
"Let me refill your glass." John suited action to words. "No, WE are not. You and I. It depends
what you mean be 'we', doesn't it? You and I, sipping our brandy after a good meal or..."
A social conscience was not one of Hiram's major personality traits. "Or?"
"Do you know how many people get shot on the streets in those parts of the cities dominated
by street gangs?"
"I have no idea...." But Hiram was starting to get the drift. "You get victims of gang
shootings? How?"
"If you repeat this, I'll deny it. Of course, you as a gentleman wouldn't think of reporting a
private conversation...." Hiram waved that away impatiently, of course he wouldn't.
John stared into his glass. He looked up. "We enlisted them."
"I'm sorry?"
"We let it be known...oh, the details are messy and complicated. We contacted gang leaders.
It's like they used to do with vermin, I read it somewhere. You got a couple of dollars per tail.
Where DID I read that? Was it rats or wolves?" He seemed genuinely bemused.
"Both, I think," Hiram said. Or neither, he hadn't a clue and didn't care either way. But he was
beginning to see where this was going. "So you hired them to do...?" What?
John poured himself another drink. He seemed to come to himself a little. "Not hired, really.
More like a bounty. To a 'gangsta' - I believe that's the term - horrible what they do to the
language - it's no big thing to kill members of opposing tribes - gangs - whatever. I simply put
a price on the bodies. Female bodies, anyway. Preferably young and healthy."
"Ingenious," Hiram said. "And economical."
"It got us started," John acknowleged. "But there were problems."
Hiram pursed his lips judiciously. "Well, yes, I imagine there would be." How to put this
tactfully? "An overzealous guardian of the law might consider that putting a bounty on young
women, even gang members, might constitute incitement to commit a felony." He made a
deprecatory gesture at bringing up such a trifling legalistic quibble. "And then there's the
unauthorised disposal of the remains..."
John nodded. "It was a worry, I have to admit. Not so much the police, they don't really
concern themselves overly about gang killings, but the food and drug people. Fortunately, we
have a very discreet clientele and some of them are...conveniently placed. I won't bore you
with the sordid details. The main problem was the erratic nature of the supply. Our suppliers
were not civilised people. Due to their irrational and intrinsically violent temperaments they
were to difficult to deal with. I actually found it necessary for my peace of mind to carry a
weapon while taking deliveries."
"How awful for you!"
"I didn't enjoy it, especially when I had to shoot one of them. But that wasn't the real problem.
They just weren't reliable, they had a tendency to get themselves killed in reprisals." He
shook his head. "Not an ideal situation."
Hiram was intrigued. He had initially been impatient but willing to indulge his host, now he
was becoming expansive and relaxed under the influence of the brandy. The restaurateur
told a good story, let him spin it out in his own time.. "So, what happened next?"
"I had an idea. What do Americans worship, really? What do they want?"
It would have been naive to mention Christ. Only people in the Midwest who voted for
Republicans addicted to firearms and the death penalty for homosexuals would go for that
one. "Fame," he suggested. "Success. Money..."
"But that takes work and talent, unless you're born wealthy. What are the most popular shows
on television?"
Easy. Game shows, where any moron could win. Not just money, but.....
Cornelia shook her head impatiently. She had taken SuEllen under her wing since she had
arrived at the bus station from nowheresville. Was it so much to ask that she should
contribute something? "I told you, it's easy," she said again. "You just play the game, push a
few buttons, and they give you money. You already owe me for the rent. Come on, it's easy
money."
"I just don't get it, that's all. Why would they do that?"
Cornelia had her suspicions. More than suspicions. She had played the games herself. She
wasn't about to do it again, at least not unless she really had to. Some of the people who
played these 'games' never came out again, and there were any number of speculations as
to what actually happened to them. Cornelia wasn't sure she wanted to know, and she
certainly wasn't going to explain it to SuEllen, not when her dealer was looking for her. She
just hoped that nobody else would talk to the girl until it was over.
"It's just down here," she said. She did really hope the girl wasn't unlucky, the odds were in
her favour. "Through this door..."
"I still don't get it. There's got to be a catch.Nobody just gives money away like that. If they
did, why doesn't everybody come here?"
"Not everybody knows," Cornelia said. That part at least was true, this place wasn't exactly
advertised, she had heard about it on the grapevine, the jungle telegraph, whatever. What
she wasn't saying was that some people did know and didn't come. "I think it's some kinda
social experiment."
SuEllen looked around dubiously. They were in a small, bare room with lockers on one wall.
"What happens now?" she asked nervously.
Cornelia allowed a faintly guilty expression to steal over her face. "Now you take your clothes
off," she said.
Hiram nodded owlishly as he came to the solution of John's little riddle. What do the no-
hopers who make up the majority of the great America public want? "Something for nothing,"
he pronounced. "A lottery win, divine intervention. Unearned reward. A free lunch, as
common parlance has it."
John clapped his hands in a friendly mockery of ironic applause. "Precisely, my friend.
Obvious when you see it. A top up?"
Hiram accepted, frowning a little. He had passed the initial awkward stage of inebriation to
the ponderous clarity of the serious drinker. Obvious indeed. "In principle, yes, it's not very
difficult. But the details, the execution, that's a different matter entirely. To put it bluntly, how
does it work? Game show contestants don't face any penalties for losing. The waitresses who
risk being put on the menu know the odds and are paid accordingly, that's why they do it and
that's why they're so expensive. It seems to me that you're back to square one."
"Almost," John acknowledged. "And you're right, that one had me stumped for a good while.
So, perforce, I continued to deal with the undesirable elements of society, with all the risks
and unpleasantnesses that entailed." His eyes unfocussed as he reminisced. "You wouldn't
believe the condition some of my suppliers left their catches in. I blame Hollywood, myself.
All these self-styled urban warriors, spraying bullets everywhere in the hope that they'll hit
something, imagining themselves in a blockbuster action movie. Not a real hunter in a clutch
of them. Do none of them realise that one bullet correctly aimed can do a better job than a
hundred emitted at random?"
Hiram shook his head in sympathy. "Such a waste," he said.
"You're kidding!" SuEllen exclaimed. "What for?"
"Look, I'm sorry, okay? Them's the rules." Cornelia contrived to look apologetic and defiant at
the same time. "If I'd'a told you, I figured you wouldn't'a come."
"So it's some kinda peep show?" SuEllen stared around, looking for the camera.
"Maybe. Who knows? Who cares? Look, we need the money. You'd rather peddle your ass
on the street?" Not that she hadn't done that before, but best not to go there.
"Easy for you to say. Anyway, if it's no big deal, what do you need me for? Why don't you do
it?"
That was the tough one. Fortunately, Cornelia had a line ready. "Fresh meat," she said.
"They've seen my tits and ass before. Okay, you're prob'ly right. Newbies get more." She
shrugged.
That was a pure and blatant lie, and in the midst of the half-truths it passed unnoticed as
she'd expected. SuEllen bought it.
"Okay," she said, "But if I'm playing, you get naked too." No big deal huh?
Cornelia sighed. "Okay," she said. And she did it there and then, stripping off and throwing
her clothes into one of the lockers. She struck a pose. "Happy? Like the tits? Come on,
girlfriend, what, you chicken?"
"A waste, certainly," John said. "Cigar?"
"Cuban, I hope?"
"Of course."
Hiram took one, sniffed it appreciatively and accepted a light.
"But I still don't know how you implemented this marvellous idea of yours," he insisted. "My
previous objections stand unanswered."
John returned to the theme. "You're right, as I said, that one had me stumped for a good
while. But there's a difference between people like game show contestants and waitresses
and the even less fortunate elements of society. As I also said, we have a Third World
country on our doorstep. All it took was to put the two elements of the idea together."
"A game," Hiram pondered, "And a lure..."
"Precisely. There is more than one way to catch a rabbit. You can hunt it down, or you can
set a trap."
"Yet even the most benighted humans are many times more intelligent than any other
game..."
"True, but also capable of wishful thinking and hence self-deception. What's needed is a
cleverer trap. One tailored to the needs and proclivities of the prey. A trap that the prey might
enter knowingly, in the hope or belief that they might take the precious bait and evade the
snare. And one other thing, but that will wait awhile." John smiled. "But I do hope I'm not
boring you. More brandy?"
Hiram was not in the least bored. "My dear fellow, I'm quite enthralled. And I'm tempted but I
think I'd better not. Perhaps something lighter to keep my head clear?"
"Wine?"
"I wondered if you might have any decent beer?" Hiram suggested tentatively. He was well
aware that some philistine snobs disdained the beverage.
John's smile took on a waggish twist. "I'm afraid I don't have any Budweiser or Miller Lite...."
"Good Lord, I should hope not." Hiram shuddered at the thought.
"...but I do have a few bottles of passable ale. Samuel Adams, from Boston. American, yes,
but I find it quite excellent. Samuel Smith's, Timothy Taylor's and Theakston's from
Yorkshire, a selection of good German beers, or if you prefer, I have an actual cask of Hook
Norton bitter from Oxfordshire."
"Cask conditioned? Impossible." Hiram felt like a kid in a candy shop. This was the ale
afficionado's notion of heaven. Could it be true?