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1.
Kurt Wagner brought a hand to his aching head and almost took his eye out with his heavy unique golden sports watch.
“Ouch!” he exclaimed, then immediately chuckled because it was funny. Well, sort of. He was so drunk last night he had forgotten to take his watch off. He suddenly wondered what else he had forgotten about last night. And where was he? Well, a bed. He was in a bed and he was looking at a ceiling. He half-raised himself on his elbows, feeling the pain in his head rumble like a heavy storm. A room, possibly a hotel room. A room unknown to him, at least. A new room. A discovery, of sorts. He was naked too, or at least he assumed he was, as a sheet hid his groin, but his legs stuck out, bare. Hum, hum. The splitting headache jingled in his brains like a rattle from hell, sending lightning shards into his eyes. He felt like a Hindu deity, Shiva the Destroyer, or rather, in this case, Shiva the Destroyed. He chuckled, sending more waves of pain through his body.
A scent tickled his nose. Perfume. A woman’s perfume. Panicked, he quickly looked around. The pillow next to his was deformed and the sheets more wrinkled than necessary. Had there been someone here with him? In his bed? Had they slept together? He lifted his fingers to his nose. Yes, they definitely had sex. Shit. Who was she? He sat up in spite of the glowing headache, trying to gather his memories in the white-noise storm raging behind his forehead.
He had never experienced such a blackout before and he wondered if she had spiked his drink. A spy? Blackmail? Had she taken pictures? Was she on the pill or was she going to sue him for child support, asking for astronomical sums? He thought of calling his lawyer immediately, then decided against it. No need for unnecessary paranoia. The world was bad and expensive enough already. No need to add a couple zeros to the bills of his existence.
Looking around, a new thought crossed Kurt Wagner’s mind: where were Omar and Jet, respectively his bodyguard and his chauffeur? He slowly got up to pick up his clothes. He worriedly searched his pockets and was relieved to find everything there—the phone, the keys, the wallet, which he opened: nothing was missing. Even the little cellophane package with the two last Synth pills was intact. Synth, the wonder drug. Before discovering Synth, Kurt had tried all sorts of stimulants, from high grade cocaine to low grade meth, but he had always been disappointed. The effects didn’t last long enough, or the drug made him sick, or whatever. Synth was different. Synth was magic. It had all the effects you wanted, modifying your surroundings as you wished, and you could stop it anytime. You could also function with it in everyday life, Synth superimposing your dream on reality in seamless fashion—and nobody would notice. It had appeared out of nowhere, and had conquered the city within a year. There were no known side effects, nor real addiction problems. It wasn’t even that expensive, as a pill could last up to twelve hours. He carefully put back the cellophane package in his pocket and made a mental note to get a new batch soon.
He checked his phone, wondering if he might have taken a picture of the mysterious woman he had more than likely spent the night with. If it had been a woman, that is. He chuckled again, although he didn’t really find the thought so funny. No pictures. Just the usual selfies and crap.
He decided to call Omar. He waited, listening to the tone and trying not to move his head too much. He caught a glimpse of his naked self in a mirror hanging on the wall. A sad, white, suffering body, slightly trembling from alcohol poisoning. The media had nicknamed him “The Emperor,” but right now he felt more like a helpless little shit with a killing headache. My kingdom for an aspirin, forget the horse.
“Sir!”
Omar’s voice sounded both scared and relieved. That was actually how Kurt felt too, but he hid it behind a growl.
“Omar! Where the fuck are you and where the fuck were you last night?”
“I was afraid you would ask this question, sir.”
“Why?”
The rusted mechanism of Wagner’s brains began to move counterclockwise, making him wince. He couldn’t remember a darned thing.
“Because you told me and Jet not to follow you, sir.”
“I did?”
“Yes, sir. Because of the lady. She objected to our presence, sir.”
“So there was a lady!”
The words had escaped his lips.
“How do you mean, sir?”
“Nothing. I was just . . . testing you.”
The conversation sounded more and more absurd, even to his own ears.
“Of course, sir.”
“So you just went back to the mansion? You and Jet?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And . . . where are you now?”
“At the mansion, sir. We were waiting for your call.”
“I could have been killed. Or abducted.”
“You didn’t push the alarm button on your phone, sir. And we could trace it to a hotel. It didn’t move all night.”
“Of course, yes,” Wagner mumbled.
He had forgotten all about the alarm button and the tracking chip inside his phone. And almost everything else, actually—his jackets, shoes, computer, car, plane, what not: all chipped and traceable. Equally reassuring and scary.
“So you have the address, I suppose,” Kurt resumed, sounding impatient. He liked that sound. The Emperor was back.
“Yes, sir. It’s here, on the computer. We can even find the room number, if you want.”
“No need. You and Jet come and pick me up at the hotel.”
His two concrete hands squeezed his temples with all their might, and he was glad there were no witnesses to hear him whimper as he bent over to pick up his underwear.
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