Free as a bird, the flat man waves his elegant wrist, displaying an expensive timepiece, of the kind that you might buy on business-class flights or lift from high-class hit-and-run victims while pretending to check for a pulse. I am here, he announces, to congratulate myself on my triumph during difficult times. He gestures to a PowerPoint slide of cartoon cops with billy clubs and whistles, huffing and blowing in the wake of a version of himself that’s twenty pounds lighter and has sharper cheekbones. And I am here, he says, to tell you that everything’s fine. There’s a brief disruption as a slight woman in the back row – I think she might work in the kitchen – is tasered and dragged out by three burly guards. Now, back to business! His watch rings like a country wedding and a cuckoo springs from its face to announce the hour. We all, of course, have questions, but already the flat man’s sliding beneath the door. The PowerPoint shuffles to a photo of a stretch of golden sand, in the foreground of which is a gaudy cocktail bristling with fruit, bendy straws, and umbrellas. The lights go out, and I feel a cold, firm hand at my wrist.
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Oz Hardwick
Picture Nick Victor
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