Curry Wingman

The story takes place in the recent past. Chance is on the run from his former colleagues. Funds are scarce. These are desperate times. Chance turns to a place that was believed to be impossible for Wingmen to work.

 

We all need to eat, or at least that’s what I tell myself to stop the pain from consuming me. Until recently, it had been a long time since I had to really worry about things like starvation and exposure. However, once la Confrerie had hung a price tag around my neck, I started thinking about survival a lot.

 

A recap is in order for the newcomers. My name is Chance Ransom and I am a Wingman of some acclaim. I used to belong to the planet’s solitary society of Wingmen: La Confrerie Fraternelle de Wingmen – The Fraternal Brotherhood of Wingmen. When my friend and mentor, Edgar “The Frenchman” D’Aubigne, committed suicide after being crushed by the pressures of Wingman life, I started publishing the sordid tales of our dark profession. This is the most recent installment of a serialized narrative for which I have earned a life of desperation.

 

Like most fugitives, one of my constant tribulations is the lack of ready cash. In the same phone call that it took for la Confrerie to establish the sanctioned murder of Chance Ransom, the Director also had all of my assets frozen. In truth, I did have stashes of currencies in different safe locations around the world that were still untouched, but right now that money might has well have been on Jupiter or Heaven or some other mythical place. I couldn’t reach it right now. Maybe ever. It was just too hot.

 

Gainful employment is also not an option for reasons that extended beyond my immediate predicament. Here are some things that I am not. I am not a barber. I am not a drycleaner. I am not a cook, waiter, bartender, banker, architect, football player…you get the point. I am a Wingman. I have no other marketable skills. Damn this age of specialization. Oh, I’m also not an astronaut. I just wanted to throw that in.

 

So, I started doing the only thing that I could. I whored myself out. No, not in the literal sense of the word. I don’t commit sex acts for money. I do free-lance winging. Just seeing the words “free-lance winging” in print fills me with self-loathing.

 

Freelancing actually takes a lot of salesmanship. La Confrerie – as morally corrupt an enterprise as it is – is a tremendous resource. I used to have a client list, expense accounts, open tabs at restaurants, hotels and bars, automobiles, flats, etc. My clients were selected in advance. If at any point the client was reluctant to hire our services, it was taken care of before I ever spoke to him (all Wingman clients are men).

 

As a free-lancer, I would have to work my way into the correct socio-economic stratus and ply my wares like a shoe salesman. All the while looking over my shoulder for men with guns. In order to reduce that threat, I would have to operate outside of the established la Confrerie hunting grounds. This meant that the wealthier economic regions were off limits. I began to concentrate on the emerging markets: India, Latin America, the former Eastern Bloc, parts of Southeast Asia, etc.

                                   

It was a few years ago that I was trying to generate some work in Calcutta, India. La Confrerie has a field office in nearly every nation in the world so I had to stay clear of any capitals. I chose Calcutta after learning on Wikipedia that it was definitely not the India’s capital. La Confrerie’s work on the sub-continent was infrequent and I had never been assigned here, so it was as safe a place as any for me to operate.

 

Predictably, my first few outings were strikeouts. It reminded me that there was a reason that la Confrerie had never made a serious attempt to establish regular business in India. In fact, I recalled from my Wingman History class that the British Gentlemen’s Society of Their Waterloo? India. La Confrerie had been determined not to follow suit. Our organization withdrew all of its assets from India.

 

On the other hand, that was nearly a half a century ago and there had to be some work here. I was not in desperate straights as of yet, but my cash and grooming supplies were being rapidly depleted. Things were at the point where I was considering down-grading to a three star hotel. As it was, I had already started to cut back on room service.

 

I had located a hot spot on the bank of the Hooghly River where upscale Indians and European tourists would congregate. The most upscale of these haunts was a lounge that was trying to be a chic infusion of American and Indian culture. An endless loop of Ravi Shankar music permeated the air. In my mind, I thought it was a little of what a Hard Rock would look like in this city, but when I actually saw the Hard Rock-Calcutta I realized that it was almost an exact duplicate. The significant differences were the refreshing lack of tee shirts and hanging guitars. This place also had a better liquor stock.

 

It was about 2100 hours Calcutta time, when I went into a large bathroom stall to perform a quarter-grooming ritual. For the uninitiated, a QGR is a thorough, but quick “freshening up” type of grooming that is much more intense than anything that a non-Wingman is capable of performing. However, if an untrained person were to try to clean in such a manner, it would take them the better part of an afternoon. A Wingman can accomplish this in a few minutes. Benefits of a life of demanding training and self-denial.

 

I was onto phase seven when I heard a deep voice of a young native man in his mid to late twenties. He had the quasi-British accent that is so distinctive to that region of the world. I couldn’t see him through the partition, but judging from the voice he was educated, well-bred, approximately 5’9”, swarthy, clean shaven and in reasonably good physical condition. He was talking on a cell phone so I could only hear his end of the conversation.

 

“I don’t know what her deal is.” Interesting.

 

“She is not making any sense.” They never do, kid.

 

“Well, I am not going to beg her.” You eventually will. I can hear your desperation.

 

“Remember, I broke up with her. You know this whole plan backfired.” Plans always do.

 

I heard the door open as he exited the restroom. I felt his pain, but I knew that this scenario had potential that demanded my attention.

 

I was able to catch a glimpse of my subject as he rounded the corner in the small hallway outside of the men’s room. He was well dressed in expensive slacks and a pullover. He stopped to check his phone. I gave him a curt nod as I moved past him. I wasn’t ready to speak to him yet. “Softy softy catchy monkey,” I thought for some inexplicable reason.

 

He walked to the bar and ordered. I saw the bartender pour him a Bombay Sapphire on the rocks. I thought this was a bit odd in that we were in Calcutta, but I’m a scotch drinker so I don’t really know what’s customary.

 

His face was a roadmap to a familiar story. Consternation. Defeat. A beaten man. I made a motion to the bartender to pour him another drink as he was finishing the dregs of his first. He didn’t notice until the lip of the bottle passed the rim of his glass. It didn’t matter. He was just relieved for the refill. By this time I had positioned myself to his left.

 

First impressions can be momentous, but I knew that this would be easy. I was throwing a life preserver to a drowning man. He might question my intentions, but in the end he would believe that he didn’t have a choice, even if I knew that he did. Remember, we always have choices.

 

I spoke in a low voice that would be clear enough for only him to hear: “Plans always fail.”

 

There is no real point in describing the look of confusion that replaced the sadness on his face. We all know what confusion looks like. It looks like pain without an explanation. It’s the thick, sticky look that accompanies the desperate need for clarification that you have when you hear things like, “we decided to go in a different direction,” or “It’s not you. It’s me.” We all know it. In this kid’s face it looked like he had just smelled burning tires.

 

“What did you say?” Agitation and frustration.

 

“Plans with women. They always backfire.”

 

“Thanks for the drink. I’m not really in the mood for advice.”

 

“And I don’t give it. Advice means that I’m suggesting for you to do something. Why would I put myself in a position to have you not listen to something that I suggest and then have you blame me for the outcome?”

 

“Um, it’s kind of a bad time. Not to be impolite, but…” What he was saying was not all that important so I interrupted.

 

“Do you want it to stop being a bad time? I heard you talking. I’m not offering help. I’m offering a solution. The only solution.” I began to feign annoyance and started to turn to walk. “Drinks are on me.” I tossed two US twenties on the bar.

 

“If you have something to say then say it.”

 

“Anything that I can tell you, you already know. You’re “in love,” whatever the hell that means. You think the girl is the one for you, but you’re hidden insecurity is telling you that she is too good.” He put his hand up to interrupt, but I cut him off, “So you figured that you could level the paying field with some sort of power play, but instead of making the impression you wanted, she forced your hand. So you broke up with her and now you are back to square one or worse and trying to get her back. You don’t think you’re desperate yet, but you soon will be. Eventually you will fail.” I paused for dramatic effect; “You’ll become a stalker or something worse.”

 

He looked like he was going to tell me to piss off, but he held his tongue. That bode well.

 

“You’ve got an old story, kid. I can’t give you a card or a number or an e-mail address. This is a life-line that you can take or throw back, but taking it starts with walking out of this bar with me.”

 

Down went the gin and into the street we went.

 

As we walked past the tire burning facility to the north of the club he broke like a Tandoori oven.

 

“She’s a model from Germany.” German model. Yeah, this was going to be real tough. “I’ve had my share of women, but she is different. Really cool. She loves art, movies and travelling.” So far he was describing every woman on the planet between the age of 17 and 70. 

 

“I wanted to get serious with her. I told her that I loved her on the third date and she said it back. We agreed to date exclusively, but I only got to see her one weekend a month. I felt my grip on the situation begin to pull away from me. Have you ever been so crazy about a girl it just got so out of hand?”

 

“No.”

 

“Really? By the way my name is Raj.”

 

“Of course it is”

 

“Do you have a cigarette?” As I offered him one, he continued. “I told her that she had to make time for me. I even brought up moving in together, but she said it was too soon. Since that time she had been pushing me away. So last week, she said she had to cancel our plans due to work.” He took a drag to gather his thoughts. “So, I broke it off. Just told her that I wanted more.”

 

“What did she say?”

 

“Well, that’s the part that hurts. She told me that I was way too clingy and possessive anyway and that she thought we would make better friends.” His lip began to quiver when he said the word “friends.”

 

“I see.”

 

“Look this is a bad idea. I don’t even know your name. I don’t know why I left the bar with you. I must be smashed.”

 

“My name is, Ramses Chunkalov. You don’t need to know me, because I’m not the person you want. I’m the resource that you are going to use to get your girl back. Well, maybe I am. You need to listen to me very carefully.” I stopped and turned towards him so that he could see my eyes under the rim of my hat. “You will have her back. Accept that as fact. If I tell you to do something, it is non-negotiable. Do you know what that means? It means that I am in charge. You are in a bad situation, but trust my word when I tell you that as bad as it is, I have helped hundreds of people overcome this exact same dilemma. If you hold back on me, tell anyone of our arrangement or disobey me, I will walk away and I will not refund my fee, which is considerable.”

 

“My God, how considerable?”

 

“Five thousand Pounds Sterling up front, five thousand in two weeks and ten thousand when she agrees to move in.”

 

“But…”

 

“It’s non-negotiable and I’ve already invested enough free time. If you want to try your guaranteed path to failure, I’ll head back to the river.”

 

“Done.” This was easier than I thought it was going to be.

 

“All right. Show me to your car.”

 

It was pretty routine. Women hate clingers. Situations like these are why Wingmen were made. I had him stop off at the ATM so that he could put a deposit on my services. Raj was a good kid and I hated acting the mercenary, but I know how strange this would seem to him when he sobered up and I figured there was some chance that he would back out. He was only able to get a grand from the machine. At least if he shafted me, I would get a decent wage for a nights’ work.

 

I was correct about Raj being well off. He had a large, fashionable condo overlooking the river and drove a 500 series BMW. He was a real estate broker that had made a significant amount of money in speculation.

 

I made him show me photos of Helga, the target. I also read their e-mails and listened to old voice mails that he couldn’t stand to delete. I was then able to use the internet to gain access to her modeling information and bio. I gained contact information about her agency, associations, etc. I even studied a perfumed birthday card that she had given him. Chanel. Classic. Some of the emails that I read held a faint glimmer of promise.

 

“Okay, Raj, the good news is that it’s not hopeless, which means that my plan should work.”

 

“Should work? You made it sound as if it were guaranteed.”

 

“Shut up, kid. There are no guarantees in life. The “X” factor here is you. You need to calm down before any of this can happen.”

 

He started to walk over to small bar in the corner.

 

“No more alcohol tonight. You can drink when we have something to celebrate.”

 

“How about some music? Do you like Ravi Shankar?”

 

“You need some sleep. We have a lot to cover. Get to bed. I’ll be back here at six AM.

 

“Um, okay.”

 

“Raj, I’m not a fraud.” I took out the grand worth of rupees that he had paid me in advance and threw it on the coffee table, “I’ll get it in the morning, but one more thing: don’t call her tonight or accept her calls. I’m serious about this. No contact. This is the whole key to our success.”

 

I walked back to the hotel to make sure that I didn’t have any tails. I started to wonder if I would be putting Raj or any other client that I may have in any danger. It was a calculated but acceptable risk. La Confrerie sanctions tended to be very surgical. If they came for me, mine would be the only body losing centigrade and it would more than likely look like an accident.

 

I made it back to the hotel with enough time to get four hours sleep. I woke up at five AM, and grabbed a copy of the Times and a couple of cups of tea from a newsstand. When I got to Raj’s place, he looked like he hadn’t slept. His eyes were red and puffy.

 

“You weren’t you crying were you?” I knew that he was. It was a test.

 

“No, Ramses.” He passed. “But I called her…three times…and left messages.”

 

“I see.” I walked over to the table where the Rupees were still laying as I had left them. I put the two paper cups of tea down and collected the stack of bills and put them in my pocket. I then started to walk toward the door.

 

“Wait! I’m sorry. When you told me that I was weak, I realized that I was. I began thinking and then it became hopeless in my head. I…I’m sorry.”

 

“You didn’t take me seriously. At least you saved some money. I’m taking this for my consulting fee.” There was no way that I would work with him. Not a prayer in hell until he said this:

 

“I know who you are. I’ve read your stories on line last night. You’re that Wingman that writes about his exploits. You’re Chance Ransom.”

 

A cold chill went down my spine. I was starting to transition into fight or flight mode and I wasn’t wearing tennis shoes. My hand gripped the razor in my pocket instinctively. I had liked Raj until now, but he was treading on very dangerous ground.

 

Sensing what was coming he said, “I am honored that you would help me. I will do what you say. On my life, I will do what you say.”

 

“I need to put some distance between us.”

 

“I will double your fee and if we are successful, there will be a bonus of enormous value.”

 

I wanted to walk out of there. I wanted to punch Raj in the face, but it wasn’t his fault. I made myself famous. He didn’t. Now we needed each other. More specifically, I needed his cash and he needed my skills. I would have done it for my original fee, but with this new money, I could get a new identity. Maybe even find a plastic surgeon and cut a new face.

 

“What’s the bonus?”

 

“Are you familiar with the Kama Sutra?”

 

“Kid, I’m a Wingman.” Required text in the first year of Wingman Camp.

 

“Do you know of the lost position?” I almost jumped out of my skin when I heard a whistle from the kitchen. Raj had been brewing a pot of tea. “I didn’t know you were bringing some. I know you don’t know it. No Westerner does. That’s why the position is lost or forgotten, more accurately.

 

I took a seat on a pile of throw pillows. Edgar had told me of the lost position of the Kama Sutra years ago. It is one of the Holy Grails of la Confrerie along with the Omega Pheromone and the Hat of Youth. I found it a bit hard to believe that a real estate speculator was in possession of that kind of secret.

 

“You know this secret?”

 

“No, not me. I was raised in a village. My uncle is a fakir. He holds the secret. If you help me get Helga, I will take you to meet him. He can show you.”

 

But will he? It didn’t matter. If there was an opportunity to find someone who knew the lost position, I had to take it. I had forfeited my life a while ago, but with that kind of knowledge, I might have a bargaining chip just in case I decided that I wanted to breathe sweet air for another decade or so.

 

“One more transgression and I’m leaving. I’m taking the sixty thousand Euros all in advance.” He nodded, “Look, this is bad, but we aren’t dead in the water. I’m going to stay with you for a few days.” It was time for me to switch hotels for security purposes anyway.

 

The plan was simple. Never in the history of the world has a woman ever come back to a man lacking confidence. Confidence was paramount, but confidence alone couldn’t seal this deal. He needed a few weeks to let the stink of his desperation dissipate. That was the key and like a Phoenix, Raj would rise from the ashes to which the conflagration of his drunk-dialing and rambling emails had reduced him.

 

He agreed to all of my conditions and for two weeks I slept in the guest room of Raj’s impressive condominium. I will spare you all of the details of the Spartan existence to which I subjected the young Indian man. Exercise, diet, education, rehearsing, culinary training, etiquette. He even took a few weeks away from the office. I couldn’t take a chance at him letting his mind wander at work. Of course, it was all a farce. The idea was to keep him busy and make him tired. Don’t let him think; don’t let him call; don’t give him a minute to make a mistake.

 

People love to fancy themselves as independent. In reality human beings are the most trainable animals on the planet. Once he saw that he could eat, sleep and function in general without his woman, he would realize that there was hope, regardless of what transpired once he saw her again. When he was at that stage, he would be ready.

 

In the mean time, I would learn as much about her as I could without leaving Raj’s vulnerable flank. He was actually a good pupil. Better than I had originally hoped. He did what he was told as I showed him the path that would liberate him from his self-imposed madness.

 

On one evening, I was making him walk around the terrace on his hands while I read a newspaper (like I said, the point was to keep him busy). I tossed the newspaper to the side. I couldn’t read Sanskrit. I was just looking at the pictures.

 

“Tell me about your uncle, Raj.”

 

“When this is over, I will take you to him. He lives in the jungle. He was a confidant of Mahatma Gandhi. When he died, he became somewhat of a recluse. I am his only family. You’d like him. He is a teacher like you.”

 

“He knows the missing position?”

 

“Yes, Chance, but there is something I didn’t tell you.” He hopped to his feet and lit a cigarette. I allowed him a few a day to keep the edge off, “We live in a male dominated culture. Women are still regarded as second class citizens regardless of their caste.”

 

“Yes, I’ve noticed that. It’s not that unusual globally. One day women will eventually...”

 

“Chance, no woman has ever seen the lost position.”

 

“You don’t mean…it’s only for gays?” I had nothing against gays. In fact, they improved the odds for straight men immeasurably by reducing competition. They were just an unknown commodity to us. They didn’t need Wingmen. If heterosexuals could go into a club and know that every person inside was a potential sex partner, la Confrerie would have hung up their hats in the forties.

 

“No, Chance. It’s just a closely guarded secret.”

 

“Yeah, but how is it practiced? I mean, do two guys…Nevermind. We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it. Breaks over. Back on your hands.” I kicked back again and turned on the radio. Ravi Shankar was playing. “Practice your lines too.”

 

In a labored voice he began repeating the lines that I had taught him: “I think our little separation did me some good…I have been too busy to think much about it…Have you been getting enough sleep?”

 

“Stop! What was that last one?”

 

“Have you got enough sleep? I was thinking that it might disarm her with a mild insult that was not too damaging. I wont…”

 

“No, I like it. Keep it, but only use it if she’s being cocky.” I wrote it down in my notebook. “Hit the sheets. You’ve earned it.” He placed his cell phone on the table by his laptop. Every night, I confiscated all of his communication devices before bed. If she called or e-mailed, I would review the message and delete it without Raj’s knowledge. He wasn’t ready to hear from her. It didn’t come up though.

 

Of course, I didn’t have to keep Raj on ice forever, but I had to be a little more aggressive with my agenda due to my personal predicament. It’s bad tradecraft to rush things, but he was ready and he knew it. The strange thing was that I thought that once he had gotten to this point he would have just given up on the idea of her. His habit of loving her was broken, but the actual feelings weren’t.

 

The showdown was to take place at the after-party of a lingerie show that was taking place in Milan. Milan is a hot city for me. If I had gone, I would have come back horizontal and cold. I’d never let him go solo in the old days, but this was a new game and I was inventing the rules as I went along. I only have Raj’s account, which went something like this:

 

“Chance that was awesome. I was so cool. When she saw me she freaked out and started acting weird, but then when I just gave the nod that you showed me. I think she didn’t know what was going on. I waited like 30 minutes like you said and I walked over with a drink for her. She was talking to a dude, so I left. Then she blew him off and came over to me. Now, we’re dating again and I had sex. It was way better than before. I looked so cool in my clothes. I didn’t think you could do it, but you delivered just like you said. She also thought that it was cool that I can do magic now. Why did you show me that again? Nevermind. Hey, if we get married, would you be our best man?” That isn’t an exact account, but its close enough.

 

He was in love so life was great for him. He tried to give me a bonus, but I refused. I was never allowed gratuities when I was working for la Confrerie. It made me feel like I was still a part of something to keep some of the rules. Even though, I knew that I would never belong to anything again.

 

As for the lost position, I went and met Raj’s uncle. He lived in a house in an area that I guess was technically the jungle, but it looked more like a suburb with monkeys in the trees.

 

The old fakir reluctantly showed me the position. He was reluctant, because due to the moratorium on female involvement, the position would have to be demonstrated between him and Raj, with clothes on, of course.

 

It was brilliant and wondrous. It was erotic and wholesome all at once. However, it would prove to be completely worthless to me. For it was in this technique that Achilles discovered his vulnerable heel. After witnessing the grotesquely intimate position being performed by two men of blood relation and extremely remote ages, I could never repeat it with even the most comely of women. If I even try, I lose my drive for want of a better term. Then my body shakes with nausea.

 

I have nothing but the highest regard for Raj and his eccentric uncle, but it is a mental image that will never leave me. A sexual position so ingenious in nature, that if someone were to tell me that was developed by a highly advanced race of aliens, I might be inclined to believe them. However, I’m a skeptic and I don’t believe that there is a God, but if I’m wrong, He’s the b*****d that cooked up this batch of Chance Ransom kryptonite.

 

“Are you going to publish my story someday, Chance?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“What will I tell, Helga?”

 

“Keep her away from the website.”

 

“Chance, I’m serious. She can’t know about this.”

 

“I guess, I can always write it that you were a Russian and leave out the Kama Sutra dynamic.”

 

“No, just write it like it happened. I’ll just tell her that it was another Indian trying to win back a German model.”

 

“You’re a class act, Raj.”

 

“I know you can’t stay, but I want you to have something to remind you of the man that you helped.” He extended his hand and I accepted the contents: a Ravi Shankar CD box set.

 

I am not proud of taking money from people like Raj. In a perfect world, I would just freelance wing because the world is a better place when it has one less miserable occupant, but that had nothing to do with it. I can’t find redemption in merely trying to erase my sins. That would help me, but not Edgar’s tortured soul. My rage fueled my vengeance, but it was money from people like Raj that kept me one step ahead of la Confrerie…so far.

 

Words were meaningless at this point so I nodded my gratitude for Raj, grabbed my coat and hat and faded into the night.

 

http://www.myspace.com/chanceransom  

  

E-Mail: [email protected]

 

 

 

Author's Note

This was based on an actual conversation that I heard from a bathroom stall. The story was written around it. My editor is a little busy these days, so please read for content and grammar.

Reviews

[JC]

As a follower of Chance's escapades, this one didn't have the same charm as previous installations.
I have questions about some of the historical references. Gandhi died in 1948, so Raj's uncle being a confidant and still alive seems a bit off in comparison to the rest of the story. I believe the original was set in the 60's so I would caution how many decades you expand the stories to.

The flow is good and still engaging, its just not my favorite.

JC

[Greg the Bard]

The story continues but this part seems anti-climatic. Still I follow Chance and the worlds most elaborite games. Good stuff.

[Nicole (Carpe Diem)]

oh this is a great story... is there going to be more to it? i would hope so...

[Jennifer Ryan]

I guess I was a bit confused due to I am not clear on what a Wingman is but I dont' belive I have read the other peices either. I think writing was fantastic and greatly appreciated you sending me the request for this. Thanks again.

[Angel's Lady]

You still kick a*s, Michael! haha Another great Chance Ransom story! Well-done. Thanks for sharing it with me.

[Jason Nuciola]

i love it

[TL Boehm]

I have seriously missed this character. It's been awhile since I've read about Chance. Love the dialogue and the humor of this piece - it is a fast read, unencumbered by filler narrative - you keep the tone going throughout the piece. Wonderful reading. So glad you sent it to me.

[None]

A perfect title embracing your entertaining story with Chance Ransom as a free-lance Wingman. Chance may not admit it but they say India brings out the best in people. Your story was very enjoyable and you kept the mix up with Kama Sutra and with your skilled writing bringing the reader in wanting more. Only one thing that stood out was when Raj was describing his victory with Helga saying, "I had sex." This may be less perplexing with "We had sex" in that paragraph. It's fine as is though as well. There are many extraordinary moments. Since I've read all your Wingman stories, this one forces Chance Ransom to use his head and his heart. The mix is incredible. A wonderful story! I think I'll make some tea.

[Flame DM]

This is just utterly amazing! Chance as a narrator is just hilarious. I could go on praising, but this piece is self explanatory on that department. Loved it, great write. Hope there is more Chance the Wingman

Flame