A Fantasy Dynasty
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Doomed Dynasty Pt. 07 free porn video
CHAPTER 14
In the spring of 1986 local body elections were held throughout the country. There was more than usual interest in the mayoralty contest in the Miranda District, a two-candidate race.
Anyone coming into the town could have been forgiven for thinking the incumbent mayor was being elected unopposed. Posters of an artist-enhanced photo of him were visible throughout the commercial area and were scattered around the rural district as well. A huge banner of Mayor Rowlands was stretched between the two-storey dry cleaner’s shop, that he owned, and the three-storey office building opposite, that he also owned.
There was nothing promoting Matt’s campaign anywhere in sight.
To the dismay of his self-appointed campaign committee Matt asked them ever so nicely, to disband. ‘Please, just do what I ask. You’ll read about my reason for this request in my one and only advertisement in The Bugle.’
‘But Matt,’ whined Josie Landers, committee convenor, ‘Rowlands is spending all day and into the night phoning folk, calling in old favours. And his campaign committee has people organising a door-knocking campaign to extol his virtues and emphasising why he needs another three-years to complete the initiatives he began introducing two terms ago. And yet you’re insisting we do nothing.’
‘Absolutely. Do nothing.’
Matt was going to add, gently, ‘Or else.’ But thought it best not to say that. It didn’t matter, though. The stern look on his face gave the message loud and clear.
He was very aware everyone knew manipulations occur at election time, and then general apathy sets in until its election time again. People do some stupid things as election campaigns enter their final stages, like throwing missiles at speakers or toppling candidates’ ‘Vote For Me’ signs.
Late one Friday evening, a week before polling day, someone fired two rifle shots in the middle of town. A parked taxi driver hopefully waiting for a fare to appear, heard the shots and called the police. They rushed to the scene, batons, handcuffs and their notebooks at the ready.
Nothing was found. That is nothing until Sergeant Chivers happened to look up at the man he despised Mayor Rowlands, depicted on the banner gently moving overhead in the night breeze.
‘Cripes,’ he said. ‘Hey everyone, I found where the bullets went through.’
‘Everyone’ consisted of Constables Ted Jakes and Alan Hunter plus Sam Smith, who slept above the hardware store and who had rushed up to join them, swinging a pick-axe handle and the night watchman at the timber yard, Phil Dumpster accompanied by his ugly brute of a dog. Silently the men admired the precise execution of the rifleman. Both eyes of the depicted mayor had been replaced by neat circles, bullet holes.
As one, the men looked beyond the scene of the ‘assassination’ and saw that the bullets would have travelled on to harmlessly fly into undeveloped land on the rocky outcrop across the river because the main street veered left at that point where the river curved towards the town wharf.
‘Bloody great shooting,’ commented Constable Jakes. ‘Think it was Matt?’
‘Don’t believe so,’ replied the sergeant. ‘Matt fights fair unless he’s out-numbered. There are only two candidates in the election for mayor so he’s not exactly out-numbered, is he?’
‘Matt’s wife. Can she shoot?’ inquired Constable Hunter.
‘She’s too much of a lady to do this sort of thing,’ replied Sergeant Chivers.
‘Vikki.’
‘Whose Vikki and what’s her connection?’ inquired Constable Jakes, who recently transferred to Miranda.
Sergeant Chivers made a direct order: ‘Put a sock in it Jakes.’
‘Misfit Jones?’
‘A likely suspect Phil and his boss Max more likely so. But let’s leave sleeping dogs lie.
A photographer from The Bugle arrived out of nowhere and seemed to be remarkably well briefed. He conferred quietly with Sergeant Chivers.
‘Boys, stop any traffic that comes along,’ he said to the two constables.
The photographer moved his vehicle into the middle of the street, parking a little back but parallel to the banner. He limbed up on to the roof-rack and exposed half a film taking shots.
One hour before The Bugle was to come off the press, the Mayor stamped into the editor’s office and slammed the door behind him. Shouting could be heard.
Minutes later the editor called in the news editor and chief photographer and said to hold the front page. He wanted the photo of the gunshots through the Mayor’s image pulled.
‘But Tony, we’ve only got crap left,’ said the news editor.
‘Well pick the best piece of crap to replace it with, ‘ snarled the editor. ‘If we’re more than ten minutes late you’ll be held responsible.’
The photographers gathered around their chief, searching through rejected photos and looking for something useful that had come in from overseas. But there was nothing of relevance.
‘What about this one?’
The group looked at the photograph of Matt, the white of one eyeball showing vividly, as he looked up entirely devoid of expression from under his cupped hand.
‘Great photo Spud. Could win you an award,’ said a colleague.
The chief photographer took another thirty seconds, drumming his fingers on the table.
‘Let’s go with it,’ he barked.
‘It’s our replace. Go, go! Matt will kill us for using it, but our blasted editor will kill me if I publish crap. I’ve decided to postpone my execution!’
‘Bugger me,’ said Mayor Rowlands, looking at the big photograph on the front page.
‘My photo was removed but they have replaced it with this awful one of Curtis. Bloody awful of him, isn’t it? It will cost him the election, although I have it won already.’
The executives gathered around him obediently nodded in unison.
At that stage none had read the caption, written by the news editor who once worked on a London tabloid newspaper where everything was written with a twist.
Ten minutes later Isobel from the hotel reception counter delivered Matt his copy of The Bugle.
‘Bloody hell,’ he thundered. ‘I’ll personally castrate that bloody photographer and tar and feather the frigging editor.’
‘It isn’t a great photo of you Matt,’ said Isobel nervously. ‘But I suggest you take a look at the caption first before completely getting off your bike.’
She turned and fled.
Although not accustomed to doing what he was told by females, especially one from reception who was all lipstick and little else of note, Matt started reading the caption. He winced at the typos (he called them spelling mistakes) and being unaware they resulted from the replaced page being rushed into print.
The time saved by not reading and correcting any errors allowed the newspaper to just make the scheduled services waiting to deliver the country edition to outlying areas. Corrections were made in the 2nd edition, commonly called the town edition.
The uncorrected first version read:
‘Mayor candidate Matt Chj-urtis completes a prayer, a request to his Maker that, if elected, the good people of Miranda will not crucify him for getting things done, reforming the way in which the council relates to its ratepayers, and kicking butt if Council staff fail to measure up.
Matt has a reputation for spilling blood and guts when he’s angry. He’s angry and ready to spill his own bllllood and guts for the people of the Miranda Dustrick.
We on the Bugle would like to root for Matt, but understandably our management does not allow us to express political opinion. Never mind.
We also cannot express the opinion that his lovely wife Courtney has the qualities to be an outstanding mayoress.
But what we can say is that we on the Bugle believe absolutely our communityii can spot a White Knight when they see one. – Peter Reynolds, News Editor.’
Matt’s mouth fel
l open. ‘Read this, he said to Courtney, who had just walked into his office, ready to be taken to a cocktail party at 5.30 at the library sponsored by the Universal Travel Agency that was pushing a ‘Visit Marlborough’ promotion.
She reacted instantly, ‘God, what a horrible photo of you, Matt. You ought to be able to sue them for thousands for this.’
‘Read what it says underneath the photo.’
Courtney read some of it, glanced up at Matt, and quickly returned to devour every word. ‘This is great, in fact marvellous except for the typos. This Peter bloke has a delightful cynicism to his style.’
Matt phoned The Bugle and asked to be put through to Peter Reynolds. He wanted to thank him for his sly piece of writing.
‘Why thank you, Mr Curtis but we shan’t be speaking again. I’m presently cleaning out my desk. I have been fired for acting in complete disregard to editorial policy, insubordination and using the newspaper to achieve my own naked ambitions, whatever that is suppose to mean. I’m history Mr Curtis.’
‘Listen Peter, stay at your desk. Just give me one hour and I’ll have a rescue effort underway.’
‘But Mr Curtis er Matt. I’ve been told to clean out and clear out as quick as I can.’
‘Stay at your fucking desk Peter. The cavalry is on its way.’
Not waiting for Peter’s confirmation, Matt phoned his own solicitor but he was away in Nelson and his backup man who occasionally dealt with Matt was home with a migraine.
‘Another lawyer? Another lawyer?’ fumed Matt.
‘Why don’t you try Liz’s husband, he works in law,’ offered Courtney, fascinated to watch Matt acting like this. He was acutely focused and she could almost feel kinetic energy radiating from him.
‘Who the hell’s Liz?’
‘The woman I told you about who has entered on of my paintings in a national awards competition. Reggie King’s wife.’
‘Bingo, he’ll do, although he isn’t the best at watching his back when engaging in a courtroom stoush.
‘Here it is, found his firm’s phone number.’
Within two minutes the two men had exchanged pleasantries and were down to business.
‘Know anything about unjustified dismissal and other employment stuff, especially where to find loopholes?’
‘Y-e-s. I once specialised in contract law. But why do you ask?’
‘I need you to help a gutsy journo from getting bowled out the door. Can you meet me outside The Bugle in fifteen minutes?’
‘Well, no. I’m sorry, but I have a client waiting outside my office right now and two more appointments after that. I could fit you and your distressed person here at, say, 6:00.’
‘Look Reggie. We don’t really know each other and I recently beat the crap out of your in the courtroom.’
‘You did not,’ said Reginald, indignantly. ‘I was aware that three of the charges were shaky, but the Mayor insisted we go with them. But we lost because we faced a Judge known for coming out a batting for the little guy.’
‘Reggie, that’s crap, and you know it. Cancel your appointments and get the hell over to The Bugle. You have enough grey matter in that handsome head of yours to know that you sure as hell cannot afford to refuse me on this. Need I say more?’
‘See you in fifteen minutes. Bye,’ said Reginald King, picking up the phone again and telling his PA to come in with his appointment book.
Shaking her head, Courtney looked at her husband. ‘Matt, you cannot roll people over like that. People have feelings and there has to be give and take in business.’
‘You are so right, dear. But I find that rolling people over, as you put it so suggestively, works best for me. I’ll be back inside thirty minutes and that gutsy fellow at The Bugle will be sitting safely at his desk again.’
‘Well, good luck Matt. And something tells me that you’ll be back here within thirty minutes with a big smile on your face. You’re in your element Matt. But I don’t understand why you operate your business dealings when you come into town from this rather grotty old building. Why did you shift your town office from the hotel?’
‘Some of the stuffy people I deal with don’t like going into hotels.’
‘Oh, I can understand that. My you do have a hidden streak of sensitivity plus sensibility don’t you?’
‘Huh? Oh, didn’t I tell you. I now own this block of buildings, having taken up old options dad negotiated when taking over the mortgages. Take a look at the file over these while I’m away. It came in yesterday from the architects. We’re going to clear the site and rebuild a department store, just a small one, with a men’s outfitters, women’s dress department, women’s lingerie, china department, kitchenware department and baby and child’s department. It will be three floors with the town’s first lifts being installed. I was going to ask you to take charge of the décor and furnishings. The architectural team seem to think we’re a Wellington suburb and their sketches are crap. We’re small town and over here and need design to reflect that. Would like your ideas. Must rush.’
Courtney regained her composure. Matt Curtis owning the hugely valuable site without saying a word to her until now and having the foresight to pick exactly the type of retail development so lacking in this town. ‘Your secrets, your secrets Matt,’ she mused. ‘What else should I know about you, your habits and your dealings, dear husband?’
She fetched the file, got behind the desk, hitched her black cocktail dress above her knees and sat down.
‘Courtney Curtis, interior decorator and furniture and fittings consultant to the rich and famous.’ She repeated those words that should be on her business cry again out aloud.
She regretted that Matt hadn’t taken her out, wined and dined her and to the sound of some romantic music had gently asked her if she would consider adding her considerable talents to his growing business empire. He would have ended that proposal, kissing her hand, by saying that she would be on a considerable salary with a guaranteed five per cent, no make that ten cent, of gross profits Matt’s company made on projects in which she was directly involved.
‘But oh no. He simply says, ‘Here, take a look and see what ideas you can come up with’. He adds, ‘By the way, I own this entire site since heavens knows when. Was going to tell you about it but it just slipped my mind. Bye’.’
‘Blasted men,’ snapped Courtney, picking up the file and throwing it at the door.
The door opened, and a surprised young woman in one of the jackets they wear in reception of the hotel looked at the mess on the floor, and looked at Courtney with concern.
‘Everything all right in here Mrs Curtis.’
‘Oh, yes, oh hi Isobel,’ smiled Courtney sweetly. Matt asked me to look over this file. I picked it up and it fell from my grasp. Silly me.’
‘Here, Mrs Curtis. Let me pick these plans and papers up for you. I really like your dress. Are you taking Matt out somewhere?’
Are you taking Matt our somewhere? ‘You’re my kind of girl, dear,’ said Courtney, giving Isobel a dazzling smile.
Matt trailed by Reginald King stormed into the editorial offices of the Bugle at 4:30 pm.
‘Just a minute, sir, You can’t go in there,’ cried a young blonde woman behind the reception desk. ‘You need an appointment.’
Ignoring her, Matt pounded once heavily on the door conveniently marked ‘Editor’, flung the door open and walked in.
The startled editor, writing his editorial for the next day’s paper at a side desk, swung round in his swivel chair to face the intruders.
‘Mr Ludlow, I’m Matt Curtis …’
‘Yes, I know who you are. Good afternoon Reginald. Now, perhaps you can explain the reason for bursting in here like this?’
The receptionist called from the doorway, ‘Do you need assistance Mr Ludlow?’
‘No thanks Penny. Please shut the door.’
Penny sat nervously at her desk, the shouting behind the thick door gave littl
e clue about what was being discussed.
Five minutes later the two men emerged and walked off, both smiling at her.
Outside the building Reginald said to Matt, ‘Well, he folded pretty quickly once he accepted that he was on shaky ground over that dismissal. You’ve got what you came for Matt, reinstatement for Mr Reynolds.’
‘I guess so.’
‘You guess so? Couldn’t you be a touch more enthusiastic,’ laughed Reginald.
‘Play a lot of poker Reggie?’
‘Goodness gracious no. I’m not into that sort of thing. Why do you ask?’
‘That editor prick had the look of someone who thought he was holding a winning hand.’
‘Oh, come on Matt you can’t read people like that.’
‘Whatever you say Reggie. Let’s grab a cup of coffee. There’s something I want to talk to you about. it will only take ten minutes,’ said Matt.
Reginald looked at his watch. ‘Right but only for ten minutes.’
That late afternoon and evening, readers of The Bugle mostly mirrored the reaction of both Matt and Courtney, recoiling at the picture of Matt, but chuckling when they read the caption.
Inside readers found a half-page advertisement about Matt and his election policy.
‘ELECTION NOTICE: MATT CURTIS AS MAYOR’
‘If you vote me in as your new Mayor I promise to eliminate procrastination from all Council activity and that the Council will publish its own quarterly newspaper to inform ratepayers of recent developments and regularly provide an updated schedule of upcoming areas of Council spending.
The time had come to convert the Council from being a political gathering of mostly old yes men by voting in men AND women candidates AND some younger candidates to create the Council into a model business operation with emphasis on performance and giving ratepayers good value for their dollars paid to the council.
Change and progress will not occur overnight, but it will occur: I promise you that.
Promises are one thing but one person alone cannot maximise Council performance. It takes a team. I urge you to elect a team of councillors that have the desire to take administration and the delivery of works and services in this neck of the woods into a big leap forward.
I leave it to your judgment, as voters, of which of the two candidates seeking the mayoralty position is best qualified and focused to lead that renaissance.
Other than this sole election notice, I will not be wasting time and money becoming involved in waging a mayoralty election campaign.
If you want me, elect me.
Matt Curtis, known for widening the river mouth and saving the town of Miranda.’
Shortly after dark that evening Matt received a telephone call from Peter Reynolds, thanking him for arranging ‘a stay of execution.’
‘What do you mean?’ demanded Matt. ‘When King and I left your editor’s office less that four hours ago we had an assurance that you would be reinstated.’
‘I’m afraid it’s not quite like that, the editor’s cancelled his instant dismissal after taking me back on as he had undertaken to you that he’d do. But an hour later he issued me with the required one month’s notice, declaring me redundant.
‘The position of news editor will no longer exist from that time and I’ve been informed that no suitable alternative vacancy exists and so I’ll be paid off along with redundancy pay.’
Matt’s voice went husky as fury gathered within him. ‘I’ll call Reggie King now we’ll fight this.’
‘I’ve already been to see Mr King and handed him the letter of termination. He told me we can fight it but it will be a long fight with probably only a slim chance of winning.’
There was a long silence. ‘Are you there Matt?’
‘Yes Peter. Sorry I was thinking. There’s something else to try. I’m really going after that lily-liver editor of yours.’
‘He’s been around the traps Matt. He’s no push-over and always has lawyers in sorting out problems.’
Matt laughed. ‘Lawyers tend to get in the way of finding a quick resolution Peter. They are basically conservative and concentrate too much on not losing, which is not quite the same as concentrating on winning. I’m about to try to fire a rocket up the trouser leg of your Mr Swanson Ludlow.’
A fortnight later Matt called on the owner of The Bugle at her home.
Mrs Ingledew enquired about how his election campaign for the mayoralty was going and asked if he was seeking financial support. His negative responses to both questions surprised her, making her curious why then had he sought the appointment to call on her.
Mara
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