Thursday, December 13, 2007

Themed fiction by Michael G. McLaughlin

Fung Shui Seduction
by Michael G. McLaughlin

It was her very first overseas assignments for the Times and Debra was excited about the job. There was a division chief in Hong Kong, a Mr. King, who wanted her on a special assignment. On arriving in Hong Kong, Debra was met at the airport By Mr. King in a white limo. He was an odd mixture of Canton and Tutor. A tall, lanky man with black hair and light skin. He had a very long English face with slanted blue, Chinese eyes.

After two days of research and writing on the declining economic impact of Hong Kong in China it was dinner with Mr. King. Dinner was lots of champagne, caviar and some incredible curry chicken that was cooked right in the office by an Indian chef with a huge black mustache and maroon turban. The man wore a small knife on his belt and had very hairy arms. From overhead, a reed whistle played soothing gentleness and far below in the Hong Kong harbor was a Koi pond of slow moving ships and shadows. Above it all, the full moon hung like a shinny ingot against the dark cuddling mountains surrounding the harbor.

“Debra, we are just willing players in times before Visigoths, really controlled by the Fates.”

“No, it is not prearranged by the Fates themselves.” She countered with a mouth full of chicken. She wanted to explain to him that the Fates were a creation of the Greeks, well before the times of the Visigoth’s, but her tongue was tied up by something, and her thoughts too fleeting. The third glass of champagne was Ambrosia.

“Our meeting was chosen by the Fates and randomness of life itself.” Mr. King then said with certainty. “Two random events can make one boiling pot of no shame.” Mr. King had a way with words. That was why he bureau chief in Hong Kong. ”

As Debra reached for her glass, she was unprepared for hand-to-breast combat and quickly found herself pushing away Mr. King’s fingers from unbuttoning the rest of her blouse. “Mister King, stop. I don’t share your fantasy!”

Mr. King pressed hard to finish. He was committed now. The play set, the actions in motion.

Debra tried to stand, but Mr. King leaned against her and held his arm over her legs.

“Don’t you feel it so, Debra?”

“No. You brought me here under false pretenses!”

He lowered his voice in a stage whisper. “Debra, I knew there are many reasons we have been brought together. It is truly much more than the Fates.”

Debra forced herself up and out of the chair as Mr. King tried to hold her down with his arms and words.

Debra struggling to stand yelled, “You’re nuts! Let me out of here!”

“Debra, you are the one! We will immerse ourselves in the flame pyres of ecstasy.” Mr. King shouted, “I can make you most happy. I may be a crazy old man, but I know what I feel!”

Debra twisted her body and stood up; Mr. King hung on to her arm and one leg like a twister game player.

“It is in the stars. We are both born on the same day. I looked it up!

“What does that mean?! Let go!”

He let go suddenly and the counter force sprung her backwards, stumbling foot over foot across the room until she caught herself, turned and bounced face-first off the door. Her knees buckled, but she didn’t go down. She staggered back toward Mr. King and the couch in an odd two step, holding her face with both hands.

Mr. King jumped up. “You have come back to me! It is a full moon, the highest tides this year and our names match perfectly in numerology!” He lunged at her and with a quick turn of the hand got part of her bra open and half of her breast exposed. Debra pushed him off with both hands.

She talked out of one side of her hurt mouth. “No, no, Mr. King.” Debra refused to call him by his first name. “Numbers, stars, fates or three glasses of champagne. It’s all over. I’m leaving. I’m sorry I didn't’t fit into your pantheon of mad reasons!”

Mr. King in one last attempt said, “But it is fatalistic expressionism we are creating! Take my lance and we will die in a battlefield scene, our bodies come together in an ecstasy of shared passion!”

Debra thought she was now struggling, life and death, with a mad man. “I don’t drink so.” She said stupidly and again tried to button her blouse. Her hands didn't’t know which hand had the button and which hand had the button hole. A quick count of button holes was futile.

Mr. King noticed Debra’s struggle and calmly said, “See, the Fates will not let you put your clothes on. No matter what you do. Can you not see it so?”

The Fates indeed had made her actions slow and clumsy. Her hands were apparently in on the seduction.

Mr. King laughed and pleaded with both arms as a mother calling her lost child. “Debra, you are the one. There can be no doubt. I can take care of everything.”

Debra, with her back to Mr. King said, as she was opening the door, “Leave chance and the gods and the Fates out of this and...” She abruptly stopped and said softly, “Why am I even talking about it?”

Mr. King pleaded with heavy breath and knew this was his last chance. “Let me be the glove upon the hand. We are just two foolish mortals.” He knelt on the rug floor motionless and vanquished like a Greek bronze. Mr. King knew only silence would work now.

Reeling from alcohol, physical struggle and ambush, Debra turned slowly around toward Mr. King. With devil in her eyes, she smiled and slowly unloosed her blouse and two large breasts hung and filled up the room with their gleaming whiteness. “So near, yet so far away.” Debra laughed, swung around and pumped full of spirits, threw the door open with a loud thud. Stumbling sideways for a step or two Debra aimed for the center of the doorway. When she passed through the door, as an athlete scoring a goal, she threw her arms up in victory. She weaved down the hallway to the elevator.

Inside the rapidly descending elevator, Debra rearranged her disheveled clothes and hair in the shine of the elevator brass. Around the 17Th floor she noticed she only had one black shoe on and frantically looked around in vain for the other shoe.

The elevator door opened to downtown Hong Kong and a shoeless, large breasted woman stepped out. The brave expose more skin in battle.

Author bio:

In 2005, Michael sold most of his worldly belongings in California, moved to Lake Chapala, Mexico and never looked back. His days are now filled with perfect weather, time to write and Spanish language lessons. OK, maybe a Margarita or two. While a captive in the United States he founded, directed and performed with a small comedy theater, appeared in television commercials and worked in many lackluster jobs to pay the bills. His short stories have appeared in the Orlando Sentinel newspaper, Barfing Frog Press, Piker Press, The Harrow, Write Side Up, New Graffiti, Shine, and Sun Dog. Presently he performs with an improvisational comedy troupe Spanglish Imposition---The only English speaking troupe between Tijuana and Terra del Fuego. He can be reached at But not promptly.

1 comment:

Anonymous said...

This story is one of the best I have read for sometime. Completely original.
And amusing, to say the least.