‘It’s safe,’ I lie. ‘It’s all legit. This place is within the legal safety guidelines.’
I’ve got real trouble with telling the truth. I don’t understand the concept.
Some local Del Boy sold us a van filled with fire extinguishers, illuminated exit signs and crash barriers. It’s not all bullshit. Me and my business partner have made sure fire regulations were implemented and anything flammable was removed or sprayed with fire-resistant chemicals.
Although the interior can’t be faulted, this old git still isn’t happy about letting the event take place.
‘I know my legal rights,’ I tell him, blagging my way out of this. It’s what I do. ‘In fact I’m within my rights to ask you to leave the building and only return with a court order or warrant — but I’m not gonna do that. You know why? Because I understand you’re just doing your job.’
The first rule of lying is tell the truth, as near as you can. So I tell the inspector we’ve a thousand especially invited guests from the world’s music industry, ranging from celebrities to major record company MDs. Stepping on our toes could lead to massive law suits and huge compensation fines.
An icy wind rips through my suit and my hands are frozen to the clipboard I hold tight to my body. My blag involves moody celebrity guest lists, band schedules and other fake info. My adrenaline is pumping as I get high on the lies.
We enter the warehouse, where my lighting technicians are running through their routines. I wonder if the fire guy is prepared to take a bribe, as I tell him all about the strict fire regulations at our events. Our illuminated EXIT signs are clearly visible, as is our variety of fire-extinguishers. I don’t tell him they’re stolen. Cutting costs means more wonga lining my pockets.
After forty-five minutes of me giving out the biggest load of bullshit anyone’s ever heard — my blagging skills are legendary — the chief says, ‘Everything seems fine to me . . . Just make sure all the fire exits are clear.’
‘Will do, Inspector.’ I flash him my best smile. Fake, plastic. My smile reeks of so many lies.
Lying to Amy that I’m a shrink will probably go down in history as the worst thing I’ve ever done. And that speaks volume. I’ve already got a nasty rap sheet to my name. Nothing compares to this lie, though. I know that. I feel it.
I watch the inspector leave, make sure he drives off. An hour later, The Wicked Witch is rocking on this Friday night. The air is thick and heavy with aftershave, perfume and vaping.
When I emanate from the jacks, I see a redhead zone in on me, like a target. She leans into my ear, whispers, ‘I want to show you how much I love coming here.’ Her breath stinks of rancid wine.
Redhead puts her hand on my thigh, squeezes. I look at her. Smile. Remove her hand.
‘Meet me in the upstairs men’s in five. Knock twice.’
She follows my orders. I wonder how long she’ll wait in the jacks. I wonder how long it’ll take her to realise I’m fucking with her — not in her. My cock doesn’t salute chicks whose sole purpose is to fuck their way into the pot of gold. Besides, if I wanted another girl, I'd already be picking my teeth with her bones.
I only want one girl.
Fucking Amy isn’t just fucking. You can’t fuck a girl like Amy then leave. She’s the rare forever girl you read in fairy fucking tales.
Strolling out into the packed warehouse, I scan the bar and the dance floor. Always buzzing, the club is a steady stream of barely-legal cocktail-drinkers. I slide my eyes to the corner booths. The booth I’ve chosen is occupied with my kind of clients. Ranging from eighteen to twenty-five years old, cash on the hip and mostly chicks, these are definitely my target market. They’re young, full of themselves, and have money to burn. Whenever I join their company, I’m welcomed with open arms. I’m their Prince Charming dealer.
I’m worshiped by these people. But it’s all based on a lie.
A year ago, I told them I had access to some of the finest pharmaceutical substances. I’m not a drug dealer. These pills I’m dealing — they’re just vitamins.
My clients are too high on other drugs, and too drunk to know the difference. Too fucking self-involved.
‘Hey, Shepherd. Sooo great to see you, babe.’ Portia Sinclair gets up and air-kisses both of my cheeks.
I hate that insincere bullshit and note it down as another reason to dislike Portia. I’ve plenty already. From her plastic look, to her annoying middle-class tones and ‘educated’ bullshit opinions, Portia bores me rigid.
Portia’s been chasing me for too many years. I know I’m a handsome man. My strong muscular body is built from training hard as a blackbelt in mixed martial arts. My thick dark hair, now cut into a trendy military style, and my dark eyes mask the fact that I’m actually a warped lying bastard. But Portia is a big-deal Instagram influencer, so as usual, it’s time to turn on the charm.
‘Alright Portia?’ I give my most sincere, most dazzling smile, the one I’ve practiced for hours to get right. My own natural smile is too filthy, too predatory.
I sit down, flash my best smile again and pass more kisses around the table. I subtly exchange the fake drugs between handshakes.
It’s not like I’m pissing the money on drugs, gambling and whores. I don’t need the extra cash in my wallet. My enterprise gives me all the wealth I need. I do it because I’m bored shitless. I do it because it amuses me
