The Baker, The Butcher and The Brewer, Part Three – The Butcher 5
The father and husband who traditionally must be the last line of defense wasn’t. Instead of lending a warm hand and some of his time he saw the situation as an opportunity to spend more time with his mistresses. Which took a toll on his nerves for he increased the intake of brown spirits almost to brain destructive levels.
How did the Butcher know all this?
As the boyfriend he was the only breath of fresh air in this ecosystem of tears and whiskey. He was compassionate, understanding and sober. That was all they needed. They were too busy emotionally to register his sincerely brutal plan to take over the castle and use it as headquarters for his rabbit army.
He dressed in pink and he had access to the catapult. All other pink castles and some of the blue ones were in range.
However, it was not time to attack it was time to strengthen the foundation. With his ‘beloved’ girlfriend’s disability to run the gallery, naturally, he was put in charge with the blessing of her parents. She was to rest for some time and then return to work. Rest in the pink language apparently meant institutionalized. With her locked up, the father drunk and the Butcher all loving and working hard the mother found a tree to lean on.
At first all she needed was to talk. He was like a bottomless pit where she could pour out all her negativity. He didn’t mind or care, most of the time he didn’t even listen. He just sipped on his tea and served as audience to a troubled mind. She would go on about her parents how they were never there. How they send her to pink shrinks that gave her pink pills. How they told her that blue was wrong. She would have probably turned out fine if her mind wasn’t speeding on uppers and downer for the past twenty years. Not only this but they forced her into a marriage with another pink heir. She couldn’t even choose what color clothes to wear it was forced on her. Guess what! She had to wear pink.
It was amusing to him.
Besides that she was a well-kept trophy of forty. For some time she was the only regular acquaintance he had. Her exercised body and well-fed breasts grew appealing to him. He took a strategic decision to take his assault a notch up.
Compassion, red wine and time were his only weapons on this campaign. With her family away and her feet deep into the cold water she saw an opportunity. She could take selfish cold comfort in the warm pleasure of sex with a young man. He didn’t blame her.
Two hours after the first time it happened he was lying on satin sheets gently blinking and breathing the air of her soft skin. It was the first time since he had known her that she had a naïvely peaceful smile over her sleepy face. He looked about the master bedroom. Its contents cost more than everything he owned. His and her garments were scattered and hanging from various antique artifacts. Two giant abstract statues stared at him like sentinels from the sides of the double door. His naked arm was extended to the side cabinet with his thumb gently rubbing the family picture resting on it. The picture told the score two to one, the Butcher versus pink. He smiled.
For the next few months he went in and out from both mother and daughter. He liked to think of them as one four legged instrument of pleasure with a communal head in the shape of a giant strawberry. His favorite fruit. With his personal life in perfect order he could focus all his energy on charming the art world.
Within a year of his corner office tenure he had learned the ins and outs of this frivolous business. The great city was a world center of gravity and corner stone in art and a foster for emerging and contemporary talent. Among other things he realized that talent had nothing to do with it. It was way more important who did artists slept with. The network of galleries worked on the favor system. Curators and directors made deals over tequila and guacamole. Those business agreements were usually in favor of their favorite mistress or the best fellator on the block. They switched and traded mistresses and confused homosexuals. They organized orgies for themselves and shared a pool of dirty little secrets.
The quality of the art was the last thing on their minds. They preached that everything could be art as long as it evoked a feeling. They had the advantage of a syndicate that controlled the media and dictated the trends on the market. There were very few independent galleries that valued true art. And. Under the pressure of the big ones they were gasping for air.
As a smoke curtain of nobility and goodwill every gallery organized an annual competition open to everyone. The events were managed individually for a greater authenticity and marketed to emerging and amateur artists. For a fee anyone that could splash paint on canvas or the likes could submit his or her work. The jurors were known names in the industry and attracted a large number of participants. Which in turn generated handsome profits. There were literally no expenses. It took a couple of hours for an intern to draft a webpage for submissions with serious sounding guidelines and a shiny bottom that could channel plastic money right to them. The submissions were rarely even looked at. The pronounced winners were again the victims of sexual abuse that drowned in vodka and chain smoked in the closets of the people in charge. The profits, they just sponsored debauchery. After every such scam it was like a holiday season. The art world just put its pink underwear on and bought condoms. The pink life. There were events from that sort every other week. The entire year went like a single moment of chewing pork fat. Being a fat rabbit had its advantages.
more by PETER ODEON
photograph by Daniel Santalla