Strange Fiction or Bizarre Reality?

More Mat journal ramblings...

11.11.04
ps: the headline on AOL news today read: Should Police Tazer Kids? I didn’t read the article, but the answer, of course, is YES. They should. Often. And by the way “tazer” is not recognized in the dictionary as a verb, but I’m all for it.
Posted by Mat at 11:14 PM

Date: 11.08.04
Climate: crisp
xbox: Halo II limited edition
Reading: the onion
Watching: wild west tech
Listening to: BT
Eating: toast
Drinking: red bull
So… with the latest round of government defense contracts, my family’s status and already impressive net worth has grown to preposterous levels. I guess my title of ‘sole heir’ carries certain significance, because I now qualify as ‘high risk’ for abduction for ransom or whatever. The subject is especially sensitive with my mother because, as everyone knows, last year (bad timing) I actually faked my own kidnapping, and it got in the papers and everything. A big patch of her hair turned permanently white from the stress, and she’s never forgiven me. Ever since then, she and I only communicate via personal courier. (She once described email as ‘chilling’) so this was the card that I found wedged in the candelabra next to my tea service Tuesday morning:“FROM Dodecanese Islands, Greece: Matthew, by now you have met Vince. He is a French assassin. Because you insist on living off the estate, Father has assigned him to you for your protection. 24/7. Since the arson incident at Lake Winnipeg the family just doesn’t have the patience to tolerate any more of your bullshit stunts. He is MORE than qualified, and will make sure you stay out of trouble. Ps. Scandal isn’t "sexy" as you wrote in your last correspondence. It’s actually quite pathetic... and now at your age, so are you. Arrivederci. Your Mother."
WTF. Vince? Is she serious? What, like a bodyguard? Whatever. I threw the letter on the pile and went about my day. -Sure enough, around suppertime, I’m out on the veranda smoking a joint and this fucker dressed like a stormtrooper parachutes on to my lawn and damages one of my favorite sculpted hedges. I didn’t even hear a plane. Technically, what he did is called H.A.L.O. (high altitude low open) and although it is quite impressive, what’s the point? The front gate is always unlocked. Anyway, he packed up his chute, walked up to me, lit a cigarette, and in French said, ”Asseoir et être calme.” (Sit down and shut up.) Such began our first meeting. Just like all my childhood fencing tutors I could tell right away that this guy was predisposed to resent me on the grounds of my rare combination of youthful looks and obscene wealth. –so I tried to thaw him with gregarious small talk and light humor, but couldn’t penetrate. He refused to answer any of my questions about his weapons or his family. My French isn’t exactly fluent yet, but from what I can tell, his three main points were something about 1. how he’ll be watching me at all times, 2. that he’s not hired to be my friend, and 3. that his robotic attitude and emotional detachment gives him the edge he needs to stay alert and focused at all times. Great. Ok predator, you can sleep in the guesthouse. What a Dick.
The next couple days went all right. I’m getting used to being shadowed by highlander all the time. -Guess it’s like how the contestants on reality shows say that after a while, you just don’t notice the camera crew anymore. –But going to nightclubs is a drag 'cos he’s always checking my drinks for poison and shining his penlight in the eyes of the people I meet.He refuses to speak any English, which is alright because it’s forcing me to learn the translations for more obscure words like stealth (Furtiveté), concealment, target acquired, and shit like that. I’ve never seen him sleep or eat, but check this out: last night I woke up at 4am and guess who was at the foot of my bed all sweaty, doing lines of cocaine, sharpening a throwing star, and blasting trance music in his ear piece? I mean, every great athlete has a ritual that works for them, so I don’t want to judge his methods, but c’mon. What’s French for ‘creepy’? i just tried to lay still, but Bruce Lee knew that I was awake, 'cos without even looking up he goes, “You sleep like puppy. No one ever touch you. (sniff) This promise to your father I make. Go back sleep. (sniff. Sniff!) Go back sleep.” Ok. First of all, privacy? Secondly, I’m calling my fucking father. -starting to wonder if being kidnapped isn’t really that bad of an alternative.
Posted by Mat at 11:13 PM