Emperor Fabulous

Emperor Fab

He laid across the purple, designers guild chez-lounge like a movie star (of the pornographic variety) adorned in nothing but his pink fluffy dressing gown.  His designer glasses made from only the finest ebony rested on the very tip of his nose and he puffed out a sticky cloud of Hash smoke, emanating from his glass pipe that he was taken drags from.  The ex-teacher Mr Paddy McGowan thought to himself, he knew his teaching days were over, the spark had gone, he found no enjoyment in teaching thankless little brats anymore.  He definitely knew he couldn’t revive his singing career, the band even though still touring, had found a replacement and were nothing but an outlasting novelty, bound forever to be nothing but a part of a cheesy disco set, a throwback to camper days.

                As he pondered on his future, a topless and well toned young man walked through the door.  He was tanned with jet-black hair and had a somewhat continental air to him.  McGowan shot a glance his way.

“What am I to do Giuseppe?  What can I possibly do now?”  His distress was obvious; he buried his head in the chez-lounge and began to weep.

“Do not-a cry-a, why not-a write-a?”  It was clear from Giuseppe’s accent that he was Italian, McGowan liked his foreign men and at least this one was useful.   Paddy’s head jumped up at the suggestion and after a brief moment of thought, he smiled.

“Brilliant, I could write!  I was the head of English for Christ’s sake of course I can write.”  He paused for a second.  “But what kind of books?  Hmm...”

                Paddy thought on his chosen genre of novel constantly, he would walk about his supremely decorated detached house and mumble to himself, screwing his face up in thought.  All this time he hardly talked to Giuseppe, only before they went to bed, but still only that was brief, he did nothing but think.  It was after a week that he finally decided.  An expression of enlightenment seemed to dawn on his face.

“The erotic novel!”  He shouted it at breakfast without warning and Giuseppe began to cough.  “And my pseudonym shall be Emperor Fab!”  Giuseppe continued to cough and it was only after a few minutes of coughing, wheezing and inaudible attempts at speech that it was realised he was choking on his Crunchy Nut due to the surprise.  Paddy or Emperor Fab as he would now be called in his writings had to perform the Heimlich manoeuvre to dislodge the mischievous flake that was obstructing Giuseppe’s airway.  After a few minutes laid on the floor trying to regain his breath he stood up recovered and opened his mouth.

“Sounds-a good,” he said.  Fab had all he needed, his mind, a good grasp of English and his beloved Giuseppe behind him.

                He started that afternoon with a good quart of hash and an old type-writer, again in nothing but his fluffy dressing gown, he went at it all day without pause and only stopped at one in the morning.  The next day he started at nine in the morning and again didn’t stop till the early hours, he went on like this for days until Giuseppe had grown lonely and approached him one dinner time.

“Paddy, can I have a word-a?”  Giuseppe asked Fab who was typing quickly, with every type a loud clicking sound reverberated around the room.

“Just a...”  He carried on typing not even looking up at his tanned, Italian lover.

“I want-a to help-a,” said Giuseppe.  “Let me type-a for you-a,” Fab looked at him and saw the pleading on his face, he looked so young and innocent, he couldn’t help but give in.

“Ok,” Fab replied.  From then onwards Giuseppe did all the typing, the Emperor would lay on his couch in a dramatic position reading his smutty lines for Giuseppe to click, click into the retro type-writer.  This suited Fab tremendously who could now smoke and procrastinate without the need of typing himself, which hindered both of the all important processes of writing a quality novel.

                After several attempts at a novel and many a sulk by the Emperor, he finally came up with the concept for what he named his “classic”; ‘Mincemeat’, the tale of an in the closet butcher and the love, and lust he had for his apprentice.

“Wearing nothing but his red and white striped apron, the hunk of a man slowly sidled up to his young apprentice,” Fab dictated the soon-to-be classic to his own young apprentice who clicked away on the type-writer getting down everything he said, Giuseppe’s face was alight all the time, he liked nothing more than helping Fab.

“What do you think then, Giuseppe?  Is it a classic?” asked Fab.

“Tis-a great-a,” Giuseppe answered with an eager grin, eager to hear more.

“Yes it is, isn’t it,” Fab reassured himself.  “Anyway time for a break,” Fab got up from his expensive sofa and walked through the exceptionally clean and tidy house to a locked door, which he unlocked and went through.

                The room was an odd one, it was dark and there was a glass case at one side of the room with what looked like a builders costume in it and framed photographs all around the walls, in one corner of the room was huge black sack, which seemed to be full with something.  Fab shut the door behind him and switched on the light, illuminating everything in the room, the glass case and the photographs, which turned out to be of the Village People, through various stages of their career. 

“Ahh, the old days,” Fab sighed and looked at the photographs fondly.  “I did look good back then.”  He lifted his finger up to the builder of the village people, which up close was unmistakeably Fab himself.  He turned around and looked at the sack in the corner of the room and strolled up to it, he opened it and took out what looked to be a letter.  He read it and spoke to himself.

“Oh, the fans, how they adored me,” he said to himself and smiled.  The sack was actually full of old fan mail from Fab’s days as the builder in the village people, days he looked back on warmly.

                After giving the letter another peruse, he placed it back in the bag tenderly and walked over to the glass case containing his old costume.  Fab stopped and stood in front of it, pulling out his pipe and some Hash, which he placed in his pipe and lit.  He stood there, puffing away, inspecting the hard-hat and overly short denim jeans, looking back in his memory to the days of the ‘YMCA’ and ‘In the Navy’. 

The End

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