Frank blustered through the gilded revolving doors that led to his temporary New York accommodation. He hated this city, and its vulgarity was pronounced that much more this morning. His tongue still burned from the volcanic coffee he was served over breakfast, although the pain distracted him from what he had to face today. Frank & Furter, the gourmet hot-dog joint he had opened with his German cousin, was due to undergo its IPO on the New York Stock Exchange. It was time to break into the money.

The company had been valued at $6.74 billion. Frank was not interested in the money however, the thought of vast wealth turned his stomach inside out and brought a dense sheen of moisture over his weathered eyeballs. Money is not the motive, he would tell himself whilst crossing the Atlantic in a multi-million dollar jet emblazoned with a Frankfurter, juicy and crimson as the blood of his fallen friends.

Frank De’caan had been a revolutionary in the IRA before defecting to pursue a life away from permanent conflict, though his time in the ranks had had an irreversible effect on his appearance. The skin on his forehead contained no wrinkles of amusement while his nose appeared to take a 45 degree turn at the bridge where he’d been hit with a nightstick in ’84. His eyes, though attentive, bore the look of a man drowning in negative self-reflection; The blue of clarity had faded into an almost grey haze of regret and belligerence.

He ran bony fingers through the little hair left on his angular head, remembering momentarily the thick black locks he’d once been the proud owner of. Just as he stuffed the memory back into its safe deposit box, he bumped into the man responsible for pushing his company’s IPO on the traders who would make him filthy rich, ‘Andrew? What are you doing in my hotel?’

‘Oh! Frank.’ stumbled the obviously surprised stock lobbyist, ‘Hi, I was just, erm, having breakfast with a friend of mine. Gotta dash though, I have a few more people to speak to before your IPO.’ Andrew began to stride on past Frank before he’d even finished his sentence, wishing him luck and vowing to call him later from the other end of the hallway.

Odd man, Frank thought to himself. He could tell that Andrew was a man with his finger in many pies but he couldn’t help feeling that there was something different about this particular lobbyist.

Written by RJP

Freelance writer of fiction (poetry, short stories and - one day - novels) and non-fiction articles. To date, the majority of work on display has been random items of practice that seek to test the limits of imagination whilst attempting to weave various ideas on society and the pursuit of understanding in as cryptic a manner as possible. Stay tuned.

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