THE ARMS MAN

It can be dangerous being in the arms trade....

“I always knew,” enthused Wiley Gunbarrel (his own name as a consequence of him having it changed by Deed Poll a dozen years earlier because he’d felt anonymous being called John Smith), “I always knew that war was great!”

“I wouldn’t say it was,” muttered Fairy Godmother (her own name as a consequence of having it changed by Deed Poll at roughly the same time as he had because she’d felt awkward being called Ophelia Hole), “I’d say it was horrible, with people dying and stuff like that happening all over the place.”

“But there’s money in it!” boasted Wiley. “Look at my lovely house! Or mansion, rather, with all those bedrooms complete with en suite, a maid to make my bed and be there at my beck and call ... and a butler, I mean, who else do you know with a butler? I’m one of the richest men on Earth and all because I sell armaments to half a dozen middle eastern countries who can’t make enough bullets for themselves!”

“I don’t care so much for money when it’s been conjured from the blood of the dying,” spat out Fairy. She was scowling, which Wiley thought was most becoming, so he carefully placed one hand on her knee as an indication of what he had on his mind for ten minutes’ time.

“That knee belongs to me!” raged Fairy, and she slapped the back of his hand with a knitting needle, fortunately not point-first.

“It belongs to you for the time being, but I always get my way,” he perved, rubbing his hand and wondering what he’d said or done that was wrong. “I only want you to be impressed by by fantastic wealth,” he went on to say, “I only want you to beg me to allow you to bathe in my Olympic sized pool filled with A*s’s milk, or let huge carat diamonds drip through your fingers when I give them to you!”

“It will always belong to me,” she told him firmly, “and I don’t want you to touch it because your hands are soiled. They’re absolutely filthy. They’re the most disgusting hands I’ve ever seen and I don’t want you to touch my knee with them. Or any part of me!” She said that last bit as two fingers started walking across the settee towards her skirt.

“But we were made for each other,” he purred, “and as for my fingers being soiled I can assure you that they’re not. I shower at least twice a day and I use expensive oils from the east to moisturise myself all over. You’ve never seen such expensive oils, nor ever will, not even if you live to be a thousand because I heard only this morning that the only factory that makes it was bombed to complete destruction last week and the secret of what’s in the stuff has been lost for ever!”

“That’s terrible,” flared Fairy, “and you’re only bothered because your moisturiser might run out!”

“I like my skin being soft and tender and aromatic,” sighed Wiley, “but I didn’t drop the bomb, you understand. It’s not my war and the workers in the factory were certainly not my enemies. I merely manufactured the weapon, and to an enormously high standard so that its effect would be pretty massive over a wonderfully large area. Yes, the factory that made my moisturiser was, if your don’t mind me mentioning it, atomised! It was turned into dust! It is no more, and all those within a wide range of it reduced likewise. It’s the ultimate bomb of destruction and it will win the war.”

“What war?” asked Fairy, sadly, her face pale.

“Oh, I don’t know what war!” crowed Wiley, trying to approach her bosom without her noticing with his little finger. “Why should I know what war? It’s enough to know that there is a war raging there and my bombs are dropping all over the place, and each one a huge plus to my bank account. And the very best thing is that both sides have bought them from me, so both sides are equally capable of destruction!”

“You’re immoral,” she said, bashing his little finger away with a thimbled thumb. “And if you think I’m going to let you touch me you’ve got another think coming! You’re like a carrion bird hovering over a dying child, beak bloody with gore and talons like razors blunted by splintered bones! You exist solely on the profits of death and blood being spilt...”

“It’s never spilt!” crowed Wiley, “blood gets vaporised! That’s what happens to it! Turned into a cloud of vapour that blows away on any old wind! My weapons guarantee total war and total death. It’s the only decent thing.”

Fairy was weeping. Huge tears cascaded from her eyes and ran down her cheeks to splash on her lap, wetting her pretty little dress. “And you really think it’s right profiting from it?” she sobbed, questioningly. “You really think you’re a good man?”

“Of course I am!” he snapped, plunging one hand up her dripping dress and almost reaching his desired destination. “I make enough money to buy whatever I want, and I pay my dues! Why, only last week I made a considerable charitable donation!”

“What? To war orphans?” she spat at him, stabbing his intrusive hand with her sewing scissors.

“Ouch!” he exploded, “Not orphans! Of course not! No, my charity is political. I pay my dues to the Conservative party so that they can continue to support me in my charitable supply of armaments to those who need them, and there was no need for you to make me bleed! After all, b***h, I own you! I own every atom of your body and I want to play with it!”

It was at that moment two things happened at once.

Fairy Godmother stood up and ran, screaming, from the room, calling him a very rude name that she’d just invented.

And at precisely the same moment Wiley Gunbarrel realised that he obviously wasn’t God’s gift to womankind any more, and suffered a massive coronary infarction as the shock of it numbed his brain.

And many, many miles away, a war dragged needlessly on.

© Peter Rogerson 02.06.17