The Little Book of Insults Chapter 1

 

 

 THE LITTLE BOOK OF INSULTS 

          A fairy tale for adults by E. E. Paxton

                           with Dr Larry Buttrose

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

                                                     

 

 

 

        

 

 

 

        FOREWORD

 

 

 

This fairy tale for adults is intended to follow my first (also with Dr Larry Buttrose), The *Tallageda Vision: The Alternative Facts of the Presidency of Donald J. Trump. The introduction and appendix in that book describe our “process” and “working relationship”, and contractual arrangements, for anyone who might happen to be interested in such obscure, technical matters. Should any readers have come to this book without reading that first one, I refer them to my brief Afterword in this volume, which provides a curt summary of these matters. It will also prove useful if that first one proves to be tragically unpublishable for any number of good reasons.

 

As with the first book, we anticipated the publisher would insist for some reason known only to them that the annoying editorial exchanges between Dr Buttrose and me on the manuscript in progress be included. I assure the Reader that in this volume these are mercifully fewer and briefer, which I can only put down to a gnawing suspicion Dr Buttrose believes I may be learning how to write, as you will see from our final exchange. (Please do be patient, and read it when you get to it, not now, as that would be cheating, or something.)

E.E. Paxton

(All other details withheld)

 

 *Not a typographical error for Talladega.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

        PART ONE

 

                              An Absence of Absinthe

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

    CHAPTER ONE

 

 

ONCE upon a time, there was a far-off magical land called “Europe.” But despite what one might suspect of a fairy tale, Europe turns out to be not entirely imaginary. As pioneering airfarer accounts truly attested, it was and is a real place. Nor is it a “fairytale kingdom”. Travellers described it as more of an “entity” composed of smaller ones, drawn together in some of kind of mystical union. The set-up is perhaps more complicated than our purposes require here, so let us simply call Europe a “realm”. I find that a nice, rounded five letter word with a satisfying “lm” ending, and I hope you concur, and perhaps derive as much weird pleasure from it as I do.

            Over time, our knowledge of Europe grew. Some hardy souls even began journeying there. More eventually made the arduous trip, and a picture emerged. Almost all concurred that Europe is nice: in fact, it is the kind of place people who don’t live there hope they’ll go when they die. That’s how nice it is. Those journeying there nowadays, if still enduring the most terrible privations of space and appalling food en route – although the rum ration is always generous – mostly undergo things there called “holidays”, or as some insist on quasi-scatologically terming them, “vacations”. These can be adventurous, pleasurable, even educative “experiences”, but for many they can also prove as near-death as one can go without actually “passing”. [No! Not even parenthesised, in jest, ever, EEP! LB] [Sorry, Dr Buttrose. I must have been watching television.] These return exhausted, fleeced of their savings, and bearing crude and valueless trinkets they were assured would impress their friends, who snigger behind their backs. Despite that, we still know in our hearts that Europe is very nice, and if there is any fault to be found, it must be in us, and our own lack of a proper appreciation of all the fine things it has. After all, it is we who bought the trinkets, as surely as it is the Chinese who made them. For some other people, visiting Europe can also be “transformative”, leading to a “deeper understanding” of “one’s self”, and so on. And while this fairy tale might not be about that kind of thing at all, it sounds pleasant, and mild as one of those soaps made from goat milk. I think it is always nice to find pleasant, harmless things in life, as they don’t require “trigger warnings” and 1800 telephone numbers. “Transformation” and a “deeper understanding of self” are rarities in not requiring those, and so are the goat milk soap of human experience.

            As you might have suspected by now, dear Reader, our fairy tale takes place in this Europe, although it begins not with a princess, as one might consider tradition, but a contessa. This term is used to denote a countess of Italian origin, and such is our heroine, the Contessa Isabella Gattonero de’ Medici. Now I know those of you who bother to search such things on Wikipedia will see that the line of the “big” Medicis of Florence has long died out, and the Medicis who are left are not of the banking dynasty, but dentists, accountants, nurses, clerks, sex workers, cleaners, tattooists, garbage collectors, and even politicians and journalists. But the Contessa is from a forgotten sub-twig of that great, near-extinct dynasty, and so continues the line into our times. But she is the very last, and were she to die “without issue” (as the Baron will surely mention in a subsequent chapter), that would be the end of the line for the genes of Giovanni, Cosimo and Lorenzo the Magnificent. So as you can imagine, a certain reproductive imperative may have been seen by others as resting upon her shoulders, even though she had not yet had any children. Perhaps the Contessa didn’t care a fig if the line died out: we do not know at this point. 

            We find her aboard a tram, rumbling through the streets of Brussels, the capital of Europe. She is dressed for a ball, and as with all her wardrobe, the style dates from the 18^th Century. The reason for this quirk, shared by others we shall meet from the decadent European aristocracy, will become apparent as we proceed. Being our Heroine/Princess Trope, she is beautiful, in her case to a psychologically disruptive degree, so that women, men and children alike often have to avert their eyes for fear of sensory overload and possible psychotic reaction. Her hair is “coal black”, naturally, in both senses of the word, her lips are “ruby red” and eyes “flashing green”, and so on. And as you can imagine would be the case in a fairy tale in the rubric of the ruling paradigm, her skin is so translucently pale that were one to be so privileged as to see her unclad, one would see her kidneys and liver at their work, and unblemished as the soul of a nun who has not yielded herself to the predations of a pious priest or a “fallen” sister, but for the alluring beauty spot to the right of the left lip, or left of the right lip if you were looking at it, I think. Her corporeal profile is the socially-repressive idealised female form, but as this is a fairy tale for adults we may hazard to permit ourselves just this much more: full busted, narrow waisted, with a trim behind. Her legs are elongated, and slipped into heels of modest elevation, as she already has an adequacy of same, and would never be seen in the crass vulgarity of high heels at any rate. Her ankle-length “midnight blue” silk gown is adorned with strings of pearls and gilt-encrusted with gems and so on which passers-by and other riff-raff may assume to be of the costume variety, and for reasons that will also presently become apparent, it is only because she inherited this sublime garment and others in her wardrobe that she can afford to wear such prized and sought-after mineral deposits upon her person. 

            She is seated beside a “pixie-cut”, bespectacled woman of mature years in a grey business suit who is busy texting as she is late for a hastily-convened after-hours meeting concerning delays in her company’s importation from Thailand of PVC joints used in domestic electrical ducting. A life such as hers, dear Reader, is one to which so many of you thoughtlessly consign yourselves, but enough of my feeding the narcissistic needs by which some of you may be challenged, and we shall leave the businesswoman to her personal Purgatorio. Two wattle-throated gentlemen of years more mature again sit behind them, in polyester “leisure suits” of vivid, outlandish colours, discussing recent cruise trips in loud voices one naturally screens out. Across the aisle two young male Goths sit, heavily made up, presumably going out to a “rave”, or upon some similarly arcane mission, and their conversation was muttered, and thus audible.

            ‘Shit. I forgot my eyeliner.’

            ‘Norbert, you’ve got heaps on already.’

            ‘Can I have some of yours if I need a touch-up?’

            ‘No.’

            Although we hear this exchange, the Contessa did not – and please note that here we make the momentous leap, from the present to the past tense, so if you are easily upset by abrupt change, please look away here or seek counselling, and if in doubt at all, do check your blood pressure - as she was peering out the window at the sights of Brussels, a city that never ceased to surprise her by having them. She liked architecture. It was reassuringly solid, cool on a warm day, but also affording reliable shelter from winter snow and wind and other weather difficulties during the less considerate months. Parks were kind amenities too. But while the Contessa’s inner life might be occupied with the “built environment” and/or “green spaces” in that moment, her favourite thing to think about, read and recite to herself, was poetry. She loved it dearly, and wondered whether one day she might fancifully choose to waste the rest of her life with a poet. This passion was inconvenient for her many suitors, who were forced to engage private tutors to learn at least enough about it to conduct a conversation with her. This did tend to make for a less than easy flow of chat, and she often found herself inadvertently working out who had tutored them, from their faked poetic preferences from Donne and Pope to Plath and Ginsberg. And oh how they struggled with the Sonnets, with Dickenson and e e cummings, with Ozymandias, the politics of Pound, Four Quartets and the death of Hart Crane! There was so much for the poor young fellows to learn! It was poetic trial by torture. But they undertook it because they found her mind-alteringly alluring, enchanting etc - but if one can forgive here a contraction to “lure”, they still could not “hook” her, much less “reel her in”. Despite personal “challenges” that will become apparent in this fairy tale, she remained a “free agent”, akin in a way to a “free radical”, something seen as dangerous in its own manner, and thought by unexamined, unreconstructed types as in need of “taming”. [Enough with the parentheses. It taxes the eyes. LB] [Sorry, Dr Buttrose. But it’s hard being correct.] [Don’t try. Drink more. LB]  

Yet despite the best efforts of an army of suitors and their sorry tutors, the Contessa remained solo, much to their brow-knitted, clenched chagrin. That is not to say she had never married. She had done so thrice. But now she considered these more “flirtations” of her racy twenties, and comfortably installed in her thirties now, she was happily and determinedly single. Or at least, so she thought. The heart, as we know, is always hungry. [Hungry Heart? LB] [What, Dr Buttrose?] [Nevermind. LB] [Oh. Nirvana. I do know them, Dr Buttrose.] [Take me there, Sweet Jesus. Now. LB]

            At last the tram trundled to a halt near an imposing, potentially baroque structure lit up for the Ball, the Royal Palace. Alighting light of foot and long on elegance, she joined others who were converging upon the fairy-lit entrance like killer wasps on a bee hive. Such was her renown she did not even need to show her curlicued invitation, but was waved through by the otherwise horribly officious posse of Officials, who from experience shielded their eyes. 

            She entered a Ballroom of such beauty as to delight the eye even of the most cynical person. [I thought of you when I wrote this, Dr Buttrose.] [Always nice to be recognised. LB]. We don’t need to go on here about the mountains of caviar and champagne, the ice sculptural marvels created by a Japanese wunderkind, the Dutch masters lining the walls like portraits of Managing Directors of yore, the extravagant dresses of the ladies and the gay dinner jackets of the gentlemen and so on, that greeted her gaze. I am sure you can imagine it perfectly well, and if in any doubt I refer you to the Ball scene in Cinderella. [Ah. Good move. LB] [Thank you Dr Buttrose.] [Don’t rest on your laurels, you’ll crush them. LB] All eyes naturally turned to her, and lingered there as long as humanly possible. But her eye fell upon the Archduke Frederick Savoy-Truffle, Ruler of the Realm, as he sipped champagne at the room’s epicentre  in the company of one of his less simpering councillors. The Archduke was wise, very wise, and white-haired, very white-haired, both beneath his very white-haired wig. He was thin and angular, but oddly “cute” as well, and although aristocratically lofty, stooped democratically. He looked most splendid in his Archducal get-up, the vivid Vyes Klein Blue frock-coat and matching cape, both resplendent with the gold stars of Europe circling their wagons upon it, and in all his frills and buttons and bows and stockings and leggings and buckles and so forth, such as befitted an 18^th Century man of his rank. You could call him a man for all seasons, but particularly autumn, mid-late, yellowing but not quite shedding. He was the one man the Contessa truly loved, if not like that. 

He kissed her dainty hand with a moist flourish. ‘My dear Contessa.’

‘My dearest Archduke.’

‘But did no-one greet you with champagne?’

‘Let’s not speak of the times, Freddy.’ 

“The times” were things people of their class and others too spoke of a good deal, and endured rather than enjoyed. The endless conflicts in the east made things even harder, so that a glass of champagne was neither there nor here now. 

[You are teasing the reader to read on. You don’t need to do this. Just write well and truly. LB] [How Earnest, Dr Buttrose.] [You should perhaps read him some time. LB] [Is he as good as Lovecraft, Dr Buttrose? He was my education for my last book.] [Our last book, EEP. And yes. Read him.] [Some of my fellows at my Wednesday fortnightly cheese, wine and book group swear by him, but others swear about him, Dr Buttrose.] [Then you have no choice but to read him and form your own abusive opinion. LB]

At this moment a suave, handsome, well groomed, impeccably tailored, tall, tanned-cheeked, trim, sexually attractive young man bulging with cocky self confidence but perhaps not radiating such intensely deep intelligence, entered the room, and as with the entrance of the Contessa, almost all eyes fell upon him, this “almost” not including hers. 

‘Ah,’ said the Archduke. ‘The Baron.’

The man we now know as the Baron swept two glasses of champagne from a passing tray and strode toward the Archduke and Contessa. He bowed, well but not obsequiously, and presented the Contessa with one of the glasses. She nodded thanks, with a smile best described as “nano”, although whether even any instrument could have detected and confirmed that remains moot.

‘Do I take it you are already acquainted with the Contessa Isabella Gattonero de’ Medici?’ the Archduke said.  

‘Tragically not, Freddy. I merely saw a damsel in distress devoid of Dom.’

‘Contessa, may I introduce the Baron Fritz von Schnauzer.’

As per protocol, she once more extended her dainty hand, and he enfolded it in his 

meaty mitt and looked into her eyes like a puppy in awe of a bone. 

            ‘Contessa,’ he whispered, in a deeply hoarse, actorly whisper, then with a curlicue of pomp and circumstance pivoted to the Archduke. ‘And my apologies for my unfashionably late arrival, Freddy. My driver was on a crib break, delivering for Amazon.’ 

‘My staff are all off screwing on something they all call “Tinder”. I prefer a good old-fashioned bed. And I do wish they’d fuck on their own time. Like we did in my day.’ 

‘I’m told you went well into overtime, Freddy,’ the Contessa said.

‘And... ah... if only I could spend just one hour more of it with you now, my dear.’

‘My dearest Archduke, I take that as a perfectly indigestible condiment.’ 

The Baron meanwhile nakedly Tom Jones-eyed the Contessa, with both Toms. ‘Your repute as a wildly ravishing beauty criminally devalues you, Contessa.’ 

‘Oh? And there I was, thinking all that nonsense was well and truly…’ and here she glanced around at her bottom, ‘behind me.’

‘On the matter of behind, yours may I say is sublime to the eye,’ the Baron continued. ‘Firm, I’m sure, yet silky to the touch as a Moroccan apricot.’

She reached out and gave his behind a squeeze. 

‘Yours seems in need of six solid months of squash Baron. But if I drink enough champagne and the time inexplicably comes, do try to think of my cunt as a rent boy’s arsehole, and you should be fine.’

The Baron chuckled unruffled basso profundo indulgence at this. ‘Mere society gossip and tittle-tattle. The stock in trade of social capitalists with no options.’ 

‘Mm. They say things about me too,’ the Contessa said.

‘I’ll have them pistol-whipped. What do they say?’

‘That I’m poor. Which though, is true.’

‘Poor? How can you be poor?’ 

‘Her daddy was a gamblin’ man,’ the Archduke said.

The Baron nodded sagely as a sage at this. Being a man of the tables himself - and as we know, what else do the brainless rich do but gamble and race cars and horses and loaf about on large yachts - he had seen enough of his fellows leaving the casino shirtless at dawn, unable even to afford the services of a sex worker to balm their wounds, to understand and sympathise with this. But nonetheless, it still challenged his reason that a woman of such troubling beauty could somehow be impoverished, when there were so many paths to wealth for her, and even more so being titled. It also suggested a door perhaps a little ajar to him. That gave him cause for optimism about tossing his hat into the proverbial ring, as had the Contessa’s remark about where an over-sufficiency of wine might lead, if couched in rather less than delicate terms.

            ‘I’m so poor I don’t even have the pox,’ the Contessa said. 

‘Fortunately I have more than enough to go around,’ the Archduke said. ‘Noblesse oblige.’  

‘Somehow I’ve missed out on the pox too,’ said the Baron. 

‘Your wife or favoured concubine must be pleased about that,’ she said. ‘At least.’  

The Baron’s face contorted with something he hoped would read as emotional hurt. ‘My dear wife is departed.’ 

‘Oh, dear,’ murmured the Contessa.   

‘Skiing incident,’ the Baron said. ‘Well, apres-ski. Impaled on a Russian. Bare.’

The Contessa regarded him and nodded, as sagely as a sage.