Blood Painting.
Part 1
“The academic, nay, historical context of the pieces that grace this side shanty alone...rival that of any museum on the planet. And that isn’t insolence, pompous babble, but the honest God-forsaken truth.”
The highbrow man was selling the room on a few antiques that sure looked odd, nothing you would find roaming the streets of any modern city, they curved in ways that you wouldn’t expect. One was a vase that curved upward, then abruptly back down and connected to its base in a strange tennis trophy like design; a comment that I would keep to myself, fearing the connoisseur might blow a gasket if I compared the piece to something as trivial as a sports award. The other was a minute piece of French Art that told less with more, this meant splotches in every surface area that was splotchable, you would think it was a kindergarten project made by your nephew if it wasn’t backed by those who knew better. There was always someone who knew better; it was a shame that what they knew was always a price that rivalled small fortunes, wealth that the modern layman would only dream of owning.
And here they were, a room full of them, walking around, mingling and discussing prices of objects that weren’t absurd, because they themselves were absurd; thus, they cancelled one another out. If you rave with empty pockets they call you a looney and kick you to the curb; now, if you rave and your pockets are so full that you’ve hired other men purely for their pocket space; well, then you’re simply an eccentric and are given an ear to shout said ravings into, that is, as long as the economic river never runs dry. Stay wealthy and you’ll always be able to have these sorts of men around you.
The problem being...why would you want them?
The babbling continued. First came the history, the importance, the age, the technique; last came the craftsmanship that has been lost with the passing of time…
"Modern engineering has spoiled man of true beauty, it is a degeneration of the soul of artistry, of what man should aim for. Culture has been polluted and sadly," the man with the guant face and hawkish nose looked across the circle of men that had formed around him, he seemed to mentally note that there were enough of a crowd for the words that followed,
"Sadly, I don't see us recovering."
Gasps, groans, nods of agreement resonated throughout the circle of men that knew only what they were fed. The doom and gloom was on levels that would incapacitate anyone that didn't love the smell of their own odors. Antics sold and these men hadn't come for the antiques, but the stories that came with them, and better yet: the culture they were preservaving in perservaving a Baroque street lamp that was for all intents and purposes, purposeless.
Once enthralled, the prices came. This was all done systematically of course, they had to be injected with a sense of cultural patriotism before unveiling the prices that would have before seemed ridiculous, but now, regardless of the price was deemed a trifling cost for preserving something much larger than their ostentatious selves.
Members of this spendthrift club began to disperse carrying, wrapped in careful brown parchments, whatever it is they paid ever too much for. Yet, oddly enough, they all left bearing the same smiles that crinkled the face in ways that marked you as full of mirth and some large sense of pleasure for being a part of something more. Humanity is showcased at its finest in this vaulted ceiling, gratuitously adorned, artistically grotesque ballroom of bombastic ballyhoo: in these halls of the superfluously wealthy, materialism and idealism bash into one another creating an amalgamation of pure human extravagance. Not only do these men have more money than one should possibly have, but they have ideals much grander than any person should believe in. Great people believe in great causes because they have come to the terms of how far they can go, so they decide to enrich themselves in ideas they find of infinite scope. They champion cultures that they deem worthy of their efforts, making it more about themselves than the culture.
The bumbling and mumbling continue. For hours these men with their big hats and bigger selves parade the room, teetering, looking, never touching. Fingerprints were the last thing anyone wanted; the ghastly sight of another human's touch, a tiny smudge, the faint inkling of presence brought shivers down their corroded spines. A part of me wished I could yank the cane right from under one of them, sending them toppling, only for them to climb up and see the carnage a few seconds of a man with a cane can do in a room like this. Security would rush in, but by the time they crossed the elongated hallway, the damage would have already been done. A smile touched the edge of my lips, my fingertips spasmed, tingling with want of action. But, I didn’t. There was a bigger fish to fry and these guppies would soon leave me to my cooking.
As the evening progressed my thoughts of annihilation and the sorts began to dissipate with the introduction of serving boys who appeared younger than the drinks they served. Many a hackeyed look peeped corners, momentous men with momentary stares. What was it with powerful men and young boys? The world may never know, but it will continue as all things do, you don’t have to understand it for it to be going on after all. Hell, if that were the case, the great creator wouldn’t have ushered in a game that seems impossible to unravel.
Gathering a boy on his tour across the room, I deftly snatched a drink off his golden platter, the ones with the little umbrellas that shielded the liquid from the spittle of men who talk too much, and they were quite cute as well. But men in here didn’t bother themselves with things of the cute nature, unless they were told that they should, by other men, by men who knew; then they would be out and about buying up everything that was cute, ushering in a wave of culture that focused on aesthetically pleasing teenage girls but backed by the pockets of mens whose fathers were once barons or tycoons- monstrous men with handlebar moustaches who kept generals of great wars as company, not these prancy men who talked much too fast and fancy for those that truly knew. The days of loud and clear had gone without a sound. Now men confined in the shadows, whispered tones became rumours that slithered from one ear and transformed through the mouth of another. Even now, throughout the few hours that was this evening, a man had gone from another buyer, to, “that man”. The one who stole the fortune of another through underhanded means and lost his fathers shares of what was left to him at the racing tracks. So, in a handful of hours, the man that I knew nothing about, other than he must’ve had a bountiful wealth to throw away; from gathering the whisperings and hushed tones of multiple different circles, the backhanded compliments, the sly looks, I gained a new perspective on a man I never knew by people that only knew of him.
Soon those around the man began to flock away from him, like he was a leppard in a room full of immunodeficients. He became like a plague. Where he walked, others fled. Feeling some parts bad for the man, and more parts drunk off the expensive wine. I made my way over to him as he inspected something we both knew nothing about.
“Don’t know what that is, but if it’s in here it’s gotta cost a small fortune.” I said with all parts slur and words alike. A combination of alcohol and English made for a decoding drill for the other party.
The man looked up and met my eyes with a grin. At least he wasn’t the kind who would look at you with eyes void of light and faces lacking a tell. Some of these men had the faces of card players; they couldn’t be read, at least, by their expressions alone. They held information in high regard, so they were keen to not give any away for free. To give a morsel of thought away for free is the equivalent of passing your wife to another man: simply something only the lunatics that dance to the rhythm of fire do to pass the time. And these men don’t pass time; they spend it.
“You’re talking to a man that is marked as a social death, you know that, right?”
“These aren’t my people,” I took a large swig of whatever strong concoction had floated its way into my hand, “Besides, these people are as fickle as their investments. The moment you look profitable again, or better said, the moment a relationship with you is beneficial to them, they’ll be muttering that they never agreed with shunning you, they simply went along because of the atmosphere or because of their wife, they’ll most likely blame it on the wife, the scapegoat of all men, the crux, the buck always starts or stops at the wife.”
He smiled, took a swig, and said, “Well, that is awfully observant of you. For not being a part of these people you sure know them well.”
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Part 2
The two men shared drinks and talks that felt unwelcome in a room surrounded by men who talked not in order to build a bond of any sort, but to display where they stood in the world; preferably, above the other. They both laughed, aided by the drink, but nonetheless they found each other's company enjoyable. The man that came in with intentions of destruction found a friend in the flames, and the man whose reputation had gone from bad to worse, had found comfort in a man who knew nothing of his situation, only judging him for the words they shared in the dim light of a room who's bulbs cared more for the paintings than the partisans.
Then the damned line came, the line that damns the best man into a cage composed of birthright and destiny.
"So, what do you do?" the plague said to the madman.
This was not what you do for fun, what do you do in your free time, or what are you passionate for. This was the dreaded, how do you make your coin, and not just any coin, mounds of the damn thing.
You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.
"Just like everyone else, one at a time, and I go from there." the madman responded.
The plague laughed in turn and said, "Then you don't know many of the men in this room. For one coin at a time is a practice that is dreadfully slow, they would rather die than only turn one coin of profit.”
“I know, I've seen the wages they pay their workers first hand.” suggested the madman with a look that told of the other side of this world, the underbelly, the one that is not to be looked at for fear of it looking back and seeing that the upper level is eating and living far too well...
The plague stopped, crinkled his eyes, and as if for the first time, took in the madman who he had shared a nice conversation with. Then it hit him.
“It’s not that you don’t fear the social repercussions of speaking with me, it's that there won't be any... Why are you here if it isn’t to buy anything? God, I can’t believe I’d been so blind. Your coat can’t be worth more than half a silver drop and your shoes look like they’ve never seen a polisher's rag. Security must be run by the invalids if they couldn’t sniff the scent of poverty that runs through the nostrils like a train in the dark.” He grinned, nothing had been meant as an insult, but as a surprise that caused an appropriate reaction.
“I play the role of an asshole quite well.” grinned the madman in turn
“To a tee.”
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The crowd began to move in a precession as the glum and enthusiastic patrons gawked and already began to talk highly of their newly acquired pieces, as if the men hadn’t just seen it and been capable of buying it for themselves. Within a matter of minutes the floor was empty and the plague who had figured him out for the common man joined his people once again. The madman was left alone in a room that was now more barren than before. Empty patches filled the walls where crude paintings once hung. Marble pedestals lay bare. The scuttling young boys with their tight jackets and even tighter bow ties were no longer drifting around the room, flowing and figure-eighting and manoeuvring through men who would have caused an uproar if bumped; they were not men who were, on no condition, to be bumped.
Footsteps from down the hall become louder and louder, echoing and bouncing off walls that were not used to the tones of silence. Oddly the madman had forgotten what the sound that a foot makes on marble, the chatter that filled the rooms didn’t allow him that sound, it was a pleasing thing he thought. And just as he was finding the sound more and more enjoyable, losing himself within it; it stopped.
“Can I help you?”
He turned and met the hawkish nose of the man who had arranged the whole swaray; the man he had come for.
“I didn’t come for the paintings and lamps and bullshit you peddle the gimps. Show me the real shit. The Victorian pieces, the historical landmarks that I know you have behind there,” he pointed towards the large room encased in large white doors that would bring a soul delight if seen after death: I did good they would think to themselves as they crossed the pearly gates.
“Not for sale. I’ll escort you out.” replied rather curtly the man with the nose of a hawk.
The man then bristly walked past him in a manner that assumed the man would follow.
“I wasn’t asking.” said the madman as he pulled a bludgel from out of his coat pocket and brought it fluidly down on the back of the smug man’s skull in one, nice, stroke.
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Part 3
He awoke bound to the marble pillar of what he knew was the treasure room. What had happened, he thought to himself. With thinking came a rush of pain from the back of his head. Then it came back to him, not all at once, but slowly. It had been a great night. For every two visitors he had sold a piece that he had bought for, when compared to what he sold them at, a trifling cost. Everything had gone without a hitch. The speech had sent the men in a buying mood and the drinks and boys had eased the clamp on their wallets.
Midway into the night he had run out of receipt paper and had gone to the back and torn up a painting that he had bought in a village by a cripple that he had failed to turn into the next Van Go. You win some and you lose some.
Nothing could ruin the night, not even the boy who had made a scene after that big oil tycoon had grabbed his ass like a starved man at a food stand. They simply ushered the boy out with a few coins to buy his silence and a few more to get him back on the floor, serving drinks and smiles to those men and their nasty desires.
And just as quickly as they showed up, they left. Nothing but kind words and promises to do this again. Nothing could have made the night any more of a success. Then, the man happened. He had asked to be let in here, in the room that no one enters, where the real things worth buying were never sold. Real collectors, the ones that know the worth of their treasures, hardly ever show, and never do they sell; they’re like dragons that sit on their piles of gold. It’s only ever for them, no one has to see their treasures for them to know their worth.
The night had made him so filled with mirth and incredulity about his success that he had not been on his toes. A con-man is to never let his back be revealed to anyone, let alone a stranger in an empty room. He had mistakenly turned his back and trusted that this man was like the rest of the meek men he prayed on.
“Are you awake yet?” came a voice from the shadows.
“Who are you and what do you want? If it’s money, underneath the desk in the foyer there is a small wooden box that holds everything I made today. Take it, leave, and I’ll forget your face. We can both move on.”
The man laughed a laugh that shook the room, causing vases to wobble, and the tied up man to fear for the first time in what felt like forever. Sweat began to trinkle its way down and onto the marble ground before him. What was with that laugh? Who was this man? All these thoughts raced through his mind faster than the perspiration that they caused. He, a man that made a living on the edge, one false step and he offended some of the most powerful, wealthiest men in the world, was frightened by what looked to be any man that walked the common road.
“You sure have your lines figured out. This ain’t your first robbery, I assume?”
“When you work in this line of work for as long as I do, you get fleeced from time to time. But you don’t die. You give the man the money and he lets you live. At least, that’s how it usually goes.
“Well, this ain’t gonna be just like those times.”
Those words hung in the air and he didn’t know how to respond. The man was serious, his eyes told of a hurt, not only of his own, but of what he wanted to do to him. He squirmed, but the knots were tight and they only burned his hands, making matters worse.
“Do you remember a fellow by the name of Jakob Blacke, a young man who painted houses by day and canvases by night?”
It took him a little while to put the name to memory. Between the sweat, the fear, and his newly acquired rope burns, his mind moved like molasses. But, he was able to find something in the end.
“You mean the Swedish artist that hung himself last Winter?” he said as he remembered the young man. He was a youth full of life and hope for his future. It was a shame what happened, an even bigger shame that his story never took off, marking him as a wasted investment, but what did the boy have to do with any of this.
“Yes...him.” The shadowy voice walked up closer, revealing himself, and bending over meeting his eyes. In those fiery green eyes he saw a rage that caused his heart to pause and remember something important. The green, the emerald green painter, the boy by the name of Jacob Blacke. These were the same eyes. Not only that, the mouth and shape of the man's head was awfully close to the boys.
“You’re his brother.”
“Bingo.”
“I’m sorry for your loss but what does that have anything to do with me?”
“It has to do with the shit show you run. With the way you and others like you manipulate the people into believing the rubbish you spout. You aren’t in it for the art, you’re in it for the coin. My brother was great, but he was born in a world in which you are not judged for how great your art is, but by who gives a shit about it. So, you and your fellow schemers attempted to build a story around him, tried to build him up. Calling him the mad green-eyed genius that paints landscapes gently and gorgeously. You really had him riled up. Then, nothing. The shit didn’t hit the wall and you forgot about him, threw him to the side. He was a dancing monkey whose jigg didn’t match with the beat of the art scene. So my brother painted and painted until his fingers bled, giving his very soul into his works. And still nothing. His art was rejected from galleries because some random people who knew nothing of art had marked him as unprofitable. They didn’t even bother looking at his pieces. He pleaded, he grovelled, on his knees like you are now. Still. Nothing.”
“You don’t have to do this. It won’t solve anything.” The man was mad and he knew that begging wouldn’t help, so rationalising was his only choice.
“No. I do have to. I have to make it so you and those bastards that call themselves connoisseurs of art don’t take someone else's brother from them.
“Please…”
The man produced a pistol from his sleeve, levelled it, and fired. The blood of the critic cascaded and fell across the killer's face in a splatter that resembled the art that his brother had loved most.
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Finale
A call had awoken him earlier than usual. Gregory Thompson had wanted to know if he could come over at around noon for some tea and discuss what had happened at the art gallery. He said that he wasn’t in his right mind and wished to talk things over. Man to man, or so he said. He had agreed and thought of the strange man he had met at the gallery, he had been right. These men, like Gregory Thompson, were as fickle as their hobbies and would be back begging before long. Damn, he should have given his card or some way of communication, but that was that and he doubted he would ever hear from that strange man again.
Putting on his pants a leg at a time, he made his way down the long spiral staircase. His butler handed him the morning paper and a cup of coffee as they passed one another, one going up to do more work, and the other going down to think of work. The morning was off to a good start. His children weren’t awake yet and they wouldn’t be for at least another hour, that meant he could enjoy the morning paper in peace. He hoped there would be something interesting today. Maybe an accident of some sort to spark some excitement into his rather monotonous life.
Sitting in his favourite chair overlooking his front lawn that had been built with what society deemed fit for the aristocracy. The fountain was surrounded by a circular driveway that was as long as you could get away from the main road. People were astonished by how long it took to drive up your driveway. Counting in their heads the grand cost it must have all been, from the land, to the gravel, to the cost of labour. Everything was a matter of cost, even the driveway.
Opening the paper he found a headline that brought his heart to a stop.
ART CRITIC KILLER STRIKES AGAIN. SLAYING MAN IN ONE STROKE.
He closed the paper and decided that today was the day he began the tradition of kissing his children good morning.
FIN
AUTHORS ENDNOTES: I am a fan of hyperbole, so when events tend to skew towards the extreme; know that this is simply my proclivity, or simply: what I like to write.
Everything has been said already, that much is true, but that does not mean something old can not be told in a new manner or style. I am a copycat, a thief, and a swindler. Selling stories that should be free in a world that costs. Don't look too deep into them, or do. I leave that completely up to you. Because after all, these tales are as much mine as they are yours.
Read with passion, discourse and discuss; whatever you do- don't stay silent. Let your perspective be heard, even if it's the minority in the room. If you have no backers, speak louder and with more passion than the crowd of followers. And, if you have been proven wrong, accept defeat as gracefully as you would have victory.