And so it was that we arrived at Town Hall, where a local captain of industry was being awarded some kind of medal in recognition of his contributions to the economy. And much to my surprise, it was in fact Cotton Karat who was the recipient of this award as doled out by Mayor Butterwick.
The award ceremony was a boring and long-winded affair, with plenty of speeches by the Mayor as well as several council members. Politicians may be chosen for their eloquence as well as their managerial qualities, but that obviously didnÆt apply to the can of council members theyÆd opened today, as the only purpose their particular oratorial set of skills served was a soporific one. I only woke up to watch Cotton Karat, who was a handsome man in his early forties, being offered his medal and accepting it gratefully.
The man was dressed in a snazzy suit, his hair was neatly coiffed and his face bronzed, but when it finally came time for him to launch into a speech of his own, a man with thick, heavy brows stepped in, and said that Mr. KaratÆs time was precious, and unfortunately he had a prior engagement that needed his urgent attention.
And so the playboy businessman was whisked off before he could entertain us with his words of wisdom and his business acumen.
Once outside, we watched as he descended the stairs en route to his limo, but as he reached that safe haven of luxury, suddenly a woman tore herself away from a pack of spectators and approached the business leader. She was holding a can of some substance in her arms, and before anyone could stop her, she was hoisting it in the direction of Mr. Karat, dousing him with some sticky red liquid that looked a lot like blood!
ôMurderer!ö the woman was screaming. ôAnimal slaughterer! Nazi butcher!ö
And suddenly out from the crowd, more people sprang forward, hoisting banners scribbled with slogans that echoed the blood-throwing womanÆs incendiary cries. They were like a flash mob from hell.
æMeat is murder,Æ read one, and æDucks are people, too,Æ another, while a third announced that æFoie gras is a crime against humanity.Æ
It all seemed very staged, somehow, as if it wasnÆt real. But then suddenly two familiar figures popped onto the scene, also hoisting a banner. They were Gran and her best friend Scarlett Canyon! And the banner they held aloft read, æCotton Karat is a mass murderer!Æ
ôIsnÆt that Gran?ö asked Dooley.
ôYeah, it is,ö I said, much surprised.
ôWhat is she saying?ö
ôSomething about ducks,ö I said, though it was hard to make out exactly what it was she was shouting, since a lot of people were shouting a lot of stuff, not least of whom were the two bodyguards Cotton had brought along with him, and who were now ushering their charge into the waiting limo. But before they could whisk the man away to safety, he held up his hand to wave at his attacker for some reason, and give her a kindly smile.
Not exactly a hard-boiled business shark, I thought as I watched the scene unfold. More like Santa Claus giving the children whoÆve come out to greet him a friendly wave.
While the limo drove off, the two bodyguards shouting something into their wrist mics, and jogging alongside the limo, not unlike the Secret Service when the President comes to town, Gran and her cronies kept screaming abuse at the departing tycoon.
ôItÆs going to be very difficult to clean that upholstery,ö Dooley remarked.
ôYeah, especially since I have the impression that it was paint, not blood.ö
ôYou think?ö
ôOh, absolutely.ö
Plenty of the fake blood had ended up on the sidewalk, which now looked as if a minor massacre had taken place there. We approached and took a sniff and indeed determined that it was paint.ôOdd,ö said Dooley. ôWhy would they pour paint on that poor man?ö
ôI think itÆs a symbolic thing,ö I said.
ôSymbolic, how?ö
ôThey seem to think eating meat is tantamount to murder, and to emphasize the fact, they canÆt think of anything better to do than to pour a few gallons of fake blood on the person they deem guilty of this murder.ö
ôMurder!ö my friend cried.
ôIt is a fact that the chickens, turkeys, cows and other animals killed to provide nourishment to a large cross section of the population, are killed without their written approval. So in a sense you might consider this a crime against the animal kingdom.ö
This gave my friend food for thought, for I didnÆt hear from him for the next ten minutes.
The protesters, now without a target to direct their protest at, were rolling up their banners and quietly conversing amongst themselves. Odelia, who had strolled up and was interviewing a few of them, wanting to get their view on the recent events, kept a keen eye on her grandmother and Scarlett, and I could sense that a rebuke trembled on the intrepid reporterÆs lips. ItÆs one thing to strictly forbid your son-in-law to eat meat, but quite another to be arrested for causing damage to public property. And that an arrest was imminent became obvious when the constabulary suddenly arrived on the scene. Belatedly, one might say, but to compensate for their tardiness they had arrived en masse.
Moments later, the protesters had been taken into custody, Gran and Scarlett included, and carted off into several paddy wagons, dispatched especially for the occasion.
And thus ended GranÆs first protest.
ôI wish I was a fly on the wall,ö said Odelia, ôlistening in when Uncle Alec discovers his people have just arrested his mother and her friend.ö
For some reason the prospect seemed to provide her with great joy, for she was grinning with obvious delight. I guess Odelia isnÆt much of a vegetarian herself.
The one thing I found myself wondering as we made to leave, was what had happened to CottonÆs girlfriend the supermodel. If I had understood correctly from the news report, those two were inseparable. And receiving a signature honor like a medal doled out by the town mayor would be just the event for this Ebony Pilay to grace with her presence.
So where was she? Or had Cotton already dumped her and replaced the model with a newer model? Judging from the manÆs track record the notion wasnÆt a far-fetched one.
Chapter 7
Ebony was staring at her phone, her mind a whirlwind and her chest ravaged by a storm of emotions.
æI think itÆs time for us to take a break,Æ the text said. æIÆm sure you understand. Cotton.Æ
SheÆd read it three times already, and by the time she reached the end once more, that whirlwind raging in her head suddenly became focused and hot like a laser beam.
Dumped! The bastard had dumped her! By text, no less!
Gritting perfect teeth, the supermodelÆs perfect face spelled the perfect storm. And as her nails furiously clicked on her phoneÆs screen, typing out an appropriately fiery response, she suddenly halted and made one of those quick decisions she was so famous for with anyone from top designers, photographers to fashion show stage managers.
Five minutes later she was zooming along in her silver Mini Cooper, making a mockery of the townÆs speeding laws, and another ten minutes later she pulled up outside the main offices of the Karat Group on the outskirts of Hampton Cove.
She waltzed into the building, paid no attention to the receptionistÆs annoying yapping, and immediately set foot for her boyfriendÆs office, her high-heeled Louboutins clacking on the marble floor. The receptionistÆs shouts in her rear were like background noise as she steeled herself for the upcoming confrontation with the bastard. Then she threw the doors wide and stormed into the manÆs office.
Cotton was in conference with that weaselly lawyer of his, but she didnÆt care.
ôHow dare you!ö she screamed as she placed her phone on his desk. ôHow dare you break up with me by text!ö