Prompt 20: New Horizon
Prompt 20: New Horizons
Lew Ashby
Warnings: This is Lew, and maybe he’s a little stressed, so bad language is a given,
Disclaimer: I don't own these guys (worse luck) and I don't really have any money, and this is just for fun not profit so please don't sue me.
His Accountant and his publicist thought it was a terrible idea. But Lew’s answer to that was, “Fuck off mother fuckers, you’re just worried the meal ticket is leaving town.”
Most of the other people he mentioned it to also thought it was a terrible idea. But Lew‘s answer to that was, “I don’t really value your opinion, so fuck off.”
Hank had laughed when he told him. Karen had smiled and squeezed his hand, He didn’t even try to call Janie, but it had been her idea, in part, her and Becca really. And they were the only people whose opinion he trusted. Mainly because they were the only four people in the world who didn’t seem to want a piece of him. So he said “Fuck it, I’m doing it.”
The polite Canadian on the phone believed the idea needed further exploration, and invited Lew to an appointment at the Consular Building on South Hope Street in three days time.
Lew, made an effort to be smart for his first introduction to Canada. He didn’t wear his fuck off and die mother fucker t-shirt, and he chose a couple of expensive Tom Ford suits to go with, one had his accountant in it and the other had his lawyer.
The suits actually had a little bust up in the back of the Bentley on the way to the appointment. Lew almost found it touching that they were bickering over his alleged sanity, or lack of, but he straightened them out fast saying, “Listen bitches, my head is no more fucked up now than it was a month ago. Yeah sure I died, but that was like a holiday for brain cells.” He banged the side of his head with the heel of his hand for emphasis, these guys were all about emphasis, then continued. “I probably been without oxygen longer savouring an exceptional snort of Columbian candy, or a sweet lung-full of some fine mellow smoke. So shut the fuck up with this diminished capacity shit. I got scans from the Hospital Showing it ain’t diminished any more than it was before.”
Lew winked at Betty, his driver, when he saw her looking at him in the rear view mirror, then shut his eyes to enjoy the blessed quiet in the back of his car for the rest of the drive.
The Canadians were hard to read. Lew imagined he didn’t look good on paper. Some arrests, although they were mostly bullshit and no charges were brought, but when you saw how long the list actually was, it was a lot of list. He could see the Consulate Chick was giving him a look like she might be re-evaluating just how big of an asshole she thought he was. Lew figured women always thought he was an asshole, but sometimes they were willing to overlook it at least long enough for a fuck. It didn‘t look like he‘d be melting Miss Canada though.
But once the accountant got started everyone was suddenly smiling. That made Lew smile too, but it wasn’t such a good feeling, knowing that Canada was just like everyone else in his life. It just wanted a bigger slice of him than most before it was willing to make time with him.
Lew let his gaze wander away from the papers on the table. There was some art on the walls, some of it looked original. He stood up to take a closer look. No one at the table missed him, they were all having some kind of group orgasm over the amount he was going to invest in a youth arts foundation the Lawyer and the Accountant had proposed as his get into Canada ticket.
One picture drew him in and he stepped closer. It wasn’t a big painting, a landscape worked in shades and textures, delicate and skilfully done. High snow covered peaks and a pale sky beyond, and in the foreground two tiny figures one dressed in red and one in black.
“It is a fine painting isn’t it, Sir?”
Lew jumped. The Mountie who just spoke to him had accompanied Miss Canada into the meeting but had then taken no part in the discussions. He‘d stood at the back of the room not really paying any attention but still seeming watchful. Lew thought he might be a body guard for the Consulate chick. Maybe they looked at his rap sheet and figured he could blow at any second.
Both of them were peering at the small painting, and now the Mountie was right beside him when he said. “But perhaps you prefer a more modern, less representational art form?”
It really pissed Lew off the way people made assumptions about him. Like he wasn’t the kind of man who could appreciate art, unless it was made out of crap, and had fuck off world sprayed across its ass. Most people didn‘t bother to look further that the t-shirt and the jewellery, or the tattoo. “No I like it. The tonal white on white makes it almost abstract, then the shading lifts it. But I don’t see a signature.”
“No it wasn’t signed because he gave it to us as soon as it was painted, so of course we knew the artist.”
“He’s well known then, this Canadian artist?”
“He was a colleague for a time, and since he left The Force he has achieved a certain notoriety, yes.”
Lew would have asked more but the Consulate chick called him back over and he was caught up in the details of the foundation he was apparently going to set up in Vancouver, once he moved here. But as he was settling in the back of the Bentley getting ready to leave, the Mountie leaned into the car and said. “He did a series of those paintings called The Borderlands, they are quite well known. Oh, and this may be of interest.” He shoved a glossy magazine into Lew’s hands. “ There are some interesting articles about the artistic community and notable locals in the Vancouver area.”
Lew didn’t have time to read the magazine, because who knew it took that much time to sell a house, and pack up your shit and move to a different country? Plus he and Hank had to figure out his escape plan.
The rumour that spread on the internet that he had died, kept resurfacing. Not that Lew wanted to actually pretend to be dead. He didn’t want to go to the trouble of changing his name or cutting all ties with the only way he knew to make a living, should he ever manage to piss all his money away. But he realised he had to do something.
He finally understood that if he didn’t make some kind of break from the life he had been living then he would end up permanently dead on his bedroom floor or a hooker hotel in Las Vegas or the pavement outside the Viper Room. Maybe it was trite, and trite just wasn’t part of his fucking vocabulary, but there was no way of denying that dying had been a wake-up call.
Hank had already decided that he was going to write Lew’s biography as if it were fiction, It was going to be an in joke that everyone got, the un-authorized biography of a fictional record producer, and it would finish as Lew died. To add to the rumour Lew decided to buy a plot at the Hollywood Forever Cemetery, and he spent several very amusing and drunken hours with Hank and Karen deciding exactly what kind of monument would be a fitting epitaph to his empty grave.
Then, just like that time passed and Lew was ready to move. The mansion was sold to a property developer who was going to knock it down and build some luxury apartments. He gave his two Bentleys and the Maybach to Betty, his driver, along with some seed money to start her own limousine business. He’d let most of his stuff go to auction, and the things he couldn’t part with were in storage.
They had one last night in the old place, Lew sharing a bottle of the most expensive cognac he owned with Hank, and knocking golf balls out into the night, while Karen and Becca over-cooked some Wagu and shrimp on the Hibachi. They had fallen asleep by the pool in a jumbled mess of legs and arms, and when Lew woke the next morning it was the first time he could remember waking up feeling truly rested, when sex hadn‘t been involved.
Lew Ashby
Warnings: This is Lew, and maybe he’s a little stressed, so bad language is a given,
Disclaimer: I don't own these guys (worse luck) and I don't really have any money, and this is just for fun not profit so please don't sue me.
His Accountant and his publicist thought it was a terrible idea. But Lew’s answer to that was, “Fuck off mother fuckers, you’re just worried the meal ticket is leaving town.”
Most of the other people he mentioned it to also thought it was a terrible idea. But Lew‘s answer to that was, “I don’t really value your opinion, so fuck off.”
Hank had laughed when he told him. Karen had smiled and squeezed his hand, He didn’t even try to call Janie, but it had been her idea, in part, her and Becca really. And they were the only people whose opinion he trusted. Mainly because they were the only four people in the world who didn’t seem to want a piece of him. So he said “Fuck it, I’m doing it.”
The polite Canadian on the phone believed the idea needed further exploration, and invited Lew to an appointment at the Consular Building on South Hope Street in three days time.
Lew, made an effort to be smart for his first introduction to Canada. He didn’t wear his fuck off and die mother fucker t-shirt, and he chose a couple of expensive Tom Ford suits to go with, one had his accountant in it and the other had his lawyer.
The suits actually had a little bust up in the back of the Bentley on the way to the appointment. Lew almost found it touching that they were bickering over his alleged sanity, or lack of, but he straightened them out fast saying, “Listen bitches, my head is no more fucked up now than it was a month ago. Yeah sure I died, but that was like a holiday for brain cells.” He banged the side of his head with the heel of his hand for emphasis, these guys were all about emphasis, then continued. “I probably been without oxygen longer savouring an exceptional snort of Columbian candy, or a sweet lung-full of some fine mellow smoke. So shut the fuck up with this diminished capacity shit. I got scans from the Hospital Showing it ain’t diminished any more than it was before.”
Lew winked at Betty, his driver, when he saw her looking at him in the rear view mirror, then shut his eyes to enjoy the blessed quiet in the back of his car for the rest of the drive.
The Canadians were hard to read. Lew imagined he didn’t look good on paper. Some arrests, although they were mostly bullshit and no charges were brought, but when you saw how long the list actually was, it was a lot of list. He could see the Consulate Chick was giving him a look like she might be re-evaluating just how big of an asshole she thought he was. Lew figured women always thought he was an asshole, but sometimes they were willing to overlook it at least long enough for a fuck. It didn‘t look like he‘d be melting Miss Canada though.
But once the accountant got started everyone was suddenly smiling. That made Lew smile too, but it wasn’t such a good feeling, knowing that Canada was just like everyone else in his life. It just wanted a bigger slice of him than most before it was willing to make time with him.
Lew let his gaze wander away from the papers on the table. There was some art on the walls, some of it looked original. He stood up to take a closer look. No one at the table missed him, they were all having some kind of group orgasm over the amount he was going to invest in a youth arts foundation the Lawyer and the Accountant had proposed as his get into Canada ticket.
One picture drew him in and he stepped closer. It wasn’t a big painting, a landscape worked in shades and textures, delicate and skilfully done. High snow covered peaks and a pale sky beyond, and in the foreground two tiny figures one dressed in red and one in black.
“It is a fine painting isn’t it, Sir?”
Lew jumped. The Mountie who just spoke to him had accompanied Miss Canada into the meeting but had then taken no part in the discussions. He‘d stood at the back of the room not really paying any attention but still seeming watchful. Lew thought he might be a body guard for the Consulate chick. Maybe they looked at his rap sheet and figured he could blow at any second.
Both of them were peering at the small painting, and now the Mountie was right beside him when he said. “But perhaps you prefer a more modern, less representational art form?”
It really pissed Lew off the way people made assumptions about him. Like he wasn’t the kind of man who could appreciate art, unless it was made out of crap, and had fuck off world sprayed across its ass. Most people didn‘t bother to look further that the t-shirt and the jewellery, or the tattoo. “No I like it. The tonal white on white makes it almost abstract, then the shading lifts it. But I don’t see a signature.”
“No it wasn’t signed because he gave it to us as soon as it was painted, so of course we knew the artist.”
“He’s well known then, this Canadian artist?”
“He was a colleague for a time, and since he left The Force he has achieved a certain notoriety, yes.”
Lew would have asked more but the Consulate chick called him back over and he was caught up in the details of the foundation he was apparently going to set up in Vancouver, once he moved here. But as he was settling in the back of the Bentley getting ready to leave, the Mountie leaned into the car and said. “He did a series of those paintings called The Borderlands, they are quite well known. Oh, and this may be of interest.” He shoved a glossy magazine into Lew’s hands. “ There are some interesting articles about the artistic community and notable locals in the Vancouver area.”
Lew didn’t have time to read the magazine, because who knew it took that much time to sell a house, and pack up your shit and move to a different country? Plus he and Hank had to figure out his escape plan.
The rumour that spread on the internet that he had died, kept resurfacing. Not that Lew wanted to actually pretend to be dead. He didn’t want to go to the trouble of changing his name or cutting all ties with the only way he knew to make a living, should he ever manage to piss all his money away. But he realised he had to do something.
He finally understood that if he didn’t make some kind of break from the life he had been living then he would end up permanently dead on his bedroom floor or a hooker hotel in Las Vegas or the pavement outside the Viper Room. Maybe it was trite, and trite just wasn’t part of his fucking vocabulary, but there was no way of denying that dying had been a wake-up call.
Hank had already decided that he was going to write Lew’s biography as if it were fiction, It was going to be an in joke that everyone got, the un-authorized biography of a fictional record producer, and it would finish as Lew died. To add to the rumour Lew decided to buy a plot at the Hollywood Forever Cemetery, and he spent several very amusing and drunken hours with Hank and Karen deciding exactly what kind of monument would be a fitting epitaph to his empty grave.
Then, just like that time passed and Lew was ready to move. The mansion was sold to a property developer who was going to knock it down and build some luxury apartments. He gave his two Bentleys and the Maybach to Betty, his driver, along with some seed money to start her own limousine business. He’d let most of his stuff go to auction, and the things he couldn’t part with were in storage.
They had one last night in the old place, Lew sharing a bottle of the most expensive cognac he owned with Hank, and knocking golf balls out into the night, while Karen and Becca over-cooked some Wagu and shrimp on the Hibachi. They had fallen asleep by the pool in a jumbled mess of legs and arms, and when Lew woke the next morning it was the first time he could remember waking up feeling truly rested, when sex hadn‘t been involved.