Part One - Chapter One

Part One
Thursday
Chapter One

1

“I can’t believe this is happening,” Vincent said, mumbling into his mango-kumquat smoothie as he gazed up at the television screen inside the lounge. “I’m just glad the General’s not around to see this!”

He licked his mustache and set the slender glass back down on the bar, where for a moment it teetered on the brink. Nikolai, the bartender, was quick to slide it back to safety. (Under the circumstances, Nikolai was being extra-attentive.) Vincent, meanwhile, kept his eyes fixed on the television monitor. A big story was breaking on cable news, something profoundly disturbing to those gathered inside the Twisted Tulip lounge.

* * *

The Twisted Tulip was Vincent’s favorite hang-out in all of Kings World, although Vincent wasn’t what you would call a “regular.” He was partial to Little Amsterdam to begin with—he and the General had spent so many memorable times in Holland together during their younger days—and the Twisted Tulip stood right in the heart of it. Inside, the lounge was especially dark and cozy, and Vincent usually was able to relax in relative obscurity, out of the limelight and away from the hubbub of the bustling amusement park. And since the use of mobile phones was expressly prohibited inside the lounge (all signals, in fact, were blocked), Vincent could enjoy his visit there without interruption, well knowing that the World would keep on twirling, as it were, without his intervention. But there was no enjoyment for the moment.

According to the news story, a small airplane heading south out of the States had crashed into the sea just north of Kings World, with one of her wings clipping a tourist-packed cruise ship as she went. Fortunately, no one on the ship had been injured, but the airplane (and whoever was on board) had disappeared into the sea. Already—not two hours later—deep-sea salvage teams from both the States and Kings World had begun mobilizing to recover the sunken wreck.

As usual, in deference to the mostly foreign clientele, the TV monitors around the lounge were tuned in to a popular cable news broadcast from the States, which for Vincent was really the only drawback to visiting the place, at least at that particular time of day. Ever since the botched presidential election in the States, the news programs originating there had become almost too painful to watch. It had been bad enough that the supposedly impartial media had practically colluded in getting the hapless buffoon elected president, but now that he was in office and mucking things up everywhere (even worse than the opposition had predicted), the media were now sitting right up on his bandwagon, cheering him along--still trying to make their dismal choice look good, Vincent lamented.

And not only had the media lost all sense of objectivity (even what little it once had), the airwaves were now filling up with a new breed of “journalist” who were going so far as to trade in the ideologically charged lingo so dear to the regime’s most loyal contingent. Plain, dispassionate description would no longer do. It was enough to make Vincent’s skin crawl, or worse.

As reported, the now-lost airplane had been on a so-called “rescue mission” to drop “pro-family” leaflets over Kings World—alas, nothing new. It occurred two or three times a year, ever since Kings World opened. To certain self-styled religious types in the States and elsewhere, Kings World was Sodom and Gomorrah rolled up into one, and as such, a prime target for preachers and others bent on crusading and proselytizing in the name of their god. But aside from the fact that Kings World was an amusement park and resort dedicated primarily to adult entertainment and edification, owned and operated predominantly by gays, the place was, in a word, enchanting, and all the more so for being a real place where real people lived.

Ever since the enormously successful “Adults Are People, Too” advertising campaign, people from the States had been flocking to Kings World in droves. It was a place where they could bring the kids and still have plenty of good, grown-up fun. Where else in the world could they—say—drop off the kiddies at the Slumber Party Pagoda and then go out for a night on the town in the Forbidden City, where positively no one under the age of twenty-one was allowed! And the kiddies loved it. Hence the park’s universal appeal.

The leaflet-dropping forays went usually without incident. Except for the airport, the seaport, and the beaches, most of the island of Palmyra—including the urban area that encompassed the amusement park, and the outlying suburbs and industrial areas—was enclosed beneath an air-conditioned, geodesic dome. Moreover, the airport and seaport terminals were themselves fully enclosed and connected directly to the dome by light-rail transit lines. The leaflet-dropping campaigns thus accomplished little but to produce extraneous litter, which the army of groundskeepers and dome workers were more than happy to dispose of.

But now, with the loss of an airplane—the first such occurrence in all the years the drops had been going on—certain religious leaders in the States were accusing Kings World of intentionally shooting the plane down.

Vincent could feel the hair at the back of his neck beginning to stand on end. And what increasingly riled him—though admittedly it didn’t surprise him—was the way the media in the States were so shamelessly feeding into the hands of these “goddamned fanatics,” giving them large blocks of valuable air time to publicize what was merely speculation, fanning the smoldering fires of fear and hatred in the process. Vincent was seething.

“As if the facts by themselves weren’t sensational enough!” he fumed. “What a fucking show!” Vincent knew full well that Kings World had nothing to do with the airplane’s going down.

Or could he be so sure? “Well, we better not’ve had anything to do with it,” he grumbled, dabbing his slightly foaming mouth with a Bev Nap. “And if we did!” (No, he had to rely on his advisors.) Now he was just hoping that the folks up in the States, who in fact comprised the bulk of Kings World’s business, would also be savvy enough to view this so-called news as the show that it was, and not be discouraged from spending their hard-earned vacation time, not to mention their hard-earned dollars, down in Kings World. But things weren’t looking terribly good.

If it weren’t bad enough that the unctuous Rev. Beau Farley, media pundit and founder of Jus’ Jesus Ministries Worldwide, was being “consulted” every five minutes via satellite from his flower-bedecked pulpit, calling the incident a “massacre,” there was the running commentary by anchorperson Holly Rawling (the “Anchorwhore,” as Vincent called her), raising questions—along with her eyebrows—over the “peculiar” policies at Kings World: the established freedom of and from religion and the laws restricting evangelizing and proselytizing on the island—all based on the “quirky” (read: “queer”) right to be left alone. Vincent gasped and rolled his eyes. Finally he stuck his tongue out at Holly and gave her a big raspberry. (Now that felt good!)

Meanwhile, Vincent could at least console himself in knowing that ultimately, when the “black boxes” were finally recovered from the aircraft, however long that might take—weeks perhaps—Kings World would be exonerated and its reputation, however dimly viewed by certain religious types in the States and elsewhere, would be restored.

Vincent finished off his smoothie, took a deep breath, and looked around the bar. He was feeling better now. Nikolai was presently staring right at him, smiling warmly, reassuringly. Vincent took another deep breath and removed his yellow-tinted glasses, closing his eyes for a moment and massaging them between his thumb and forefinger. Then he looked up.

And what was that nasty-looking stuff Nikolai was pouring into the blender? Yuck, skim milk—Nikolai was making him another smoothie. “Nik, make that a gin and tonic, please,” Vincent called out. “On second thought, make it vodka.” Under the circumstances, Vincent figured it best to abstain from his usual Bombay gin.

“Yes, your serene highness, right away,” Nikolai said, stressing the word serene as he flashed Vincent a gat-toothed grin. As much as Nikolai liked to kid around with the big boss, right now he was more concerned with keeping him calm.

2

Vincent detached his gaze from the TV for a moment and glanced around the bar. The other customers—a half-dozen or so, and counting—were also staring up at the monitors and looking considerably rattled over the news reports. Momentarily another half-dozen straggled in: passengers from the cruise ship, Vincent reckoned. They took seats at the bar in a loose-knit group and began ordering drinks. In between cutting limes and washing glasses in preparation for Happy Hour, Nikolai had been right there to greet them. They looked frazzled, stressed-out, as no doubt they were, considering they could easily have been killed in the “rescue mission incident” (as the news reporters were calling it now).

Vincent sipped his vodka and watched in amusement as the new customers laid their freshly-exchanged “funny money” out on the bar and began fumbling through it to pay for their drinks, cracking little smiles as they went. Vincent would gladly have bought the whole bar a round—he felt so sorry for the bunch—but, as always, he was loath to attract attention.

At last, Vincent’s vodka-and-tonic was beginning to exert its intended effect. The television screen slowly receded into the background—where it belonged—and the magic of the Twisted Tulip began its work. The rich, mellow Rembrandts and other Old Masters, meticulously reproduced and framed in brilliant gold, shone in sublime radiance against the deep ocher satin on the walls. The bold, colorful bunches of tulips and pots of scarlet amaryllis lent their own vibrancy to the room. The flickering electric candles, ensconced among the paintings, animated the scene, while the clever roving eyes in “The Night Watch” added a dash of humor.

Vincent smiled and lifted his glass to one of the last of Rembrandt’s self-portraits, hanging nearby. How he loved the Old Dutch Master. Yet much as he loved him, he swore nonetheless that he would never abide such wrinkles, not on his face, at least not with the help of modern medicine. And, thankfully, the giant dome blocked the most harmful, skin-damaging forms of sunlight.

Vincent then paused to watch Nikolai, who was busy slicing up lemon twists down the bar. Of average height, Nikolai was slim but sinewy, dark and handsome, with a heavy five o’clock shadow that encompassed his shapely, bald-shaven head. On his back, which was momentarily facing Vincent, a patch of curly dark hair sprang up at the base of his neck and disappeared beneath a white, ribbed-cotton tank top, which itself disappeared into a pair of tight black jeans secured by a gleaming studded belt. All solid bones and muscle, Vincent was thinking. And a solid personality, too. Vincent was very pleased with Nikolai. Not all of the bartenders had turned out so good.

Out of the corner of his own roving eye, Vincent soon noticed that one of the newly arrived patrons was staring at him. When Vincent momentarily stared back, he quickly cast his eyes down to the copper-clad bar, where sat his little pile of crowns, coronets, sovereigns, sixpence, sesterces, and sous, each with their own humorous portraits and mottoes. A moment later, the guy looked back up at Vincent. Vincent raised his glass to him and nodded.

Nobody ever stared at him any more, Vincent lamented. Even under so-called normal circumstances, nobody even much looked at him, except for women, that is. Women of all ages and descriptions. Vincent found it somewhat ironic that the older he got, the more attractive he appeared to women, while the less attractive he appeared to his gay brethren. Well, he figured he had to be doing at least something right. And then, of course, there were the drag queens. Somehow he had always attracted them—much to his chagrin.

Anyway, gays were too obsessed with looking young, Vincent thought, himself included, of course. Being young, actually. But—alas—the human body was designed to hold up past age thirty-five and (with the help of modern medicine, at least) even forty. “Heaven forbid,” Vincent mumbled, taking another slow sip of vodka. So then, why was this guy staring at him?

“Uh-oh,” Vincent thought, fumbling with a cigarette before he lit it. “I hope it isn’t so.” Yet he feared it was.

Vincent took a deep puff and nonchalantly looked around the bar. Yes, indeed, he was quite pleased with the recent redecorating job. He’d about had it with the floor-to-ceiling mirrored walls, even though the warped mirrors from the old Fun House, hung at random among the regular ones, had always been a big hit with the customers. (They helped put the twisted in the Twisted Tulip.) And so by popular demand, Vincent had had the Fun House mirrors re-installed in the long hallway leading to the restrooms.

As it was, Vincent had simply grown tired of sitting there watching himself grow old—from every conceivable angle, no less, not to mention in all manner of unseemly distortion. No, at this particular stage in his life, Vincent preferred a more traditional setting in which to sit and relax. And as much as Vincent disliked watching himself grow old, watching Rembrandt grow old—on the other hand—didn’t bother him in the least. Quite to the contrary, Vincent took great delight in the watching: so flawlessly had the Master depicted his own deterioration. Meanwhile, Vincent noticed he was still being watched by the young tourist.

Presently the young man held up a one-crown coin in one hand and a cigarette lighter in the other. Then he lit the flame, examining the coin closely in the flickering light. He then turned to whisper something to his traveling companion sitting beside him, and now both of them looked over at Vincent.

Vincent squirmed in his seat and took another sip of his drink. So he’d been spotted, again—from his silly little picture on the coin!

“How the hell do they do that?” he wondered. The portrait was ten years old, at least, and hardly looked a thing like him anymore. Back then Vincent was clean-shaven, with a full head of hair; now he was bearded and balding. The portrait also showed him wearing a laurel wreath (one of the General’s old things). And encircling the portrait were inscribed the words “Vincent Rex”: “Vincent the King.”

“Damn! How do they do that?!” he moaned, downing the last of his vodka.