Prince Of This World

By George Simeran

Set in contemporary Los Angeles, alcohol, drugs, and sex lubricate the plot of this poignant satire. George, the narrator and prime mover, is a well-to-do libertine who's got the libido of a satyr but can't do anything about it––not since he buried that hooker up in the Angeles National Forest seven years prior; the love of his life, Gene, is the liberated and sexually aggressive 21st century woman who's engaged to a coke dealer yet still sleeps with whomever she wants; and best friend Mortimer Plotz is an Adonis of a man who's dim as a cardboard box and whose sudden literary success isn't everything it seems to be. There's Phil the coke dealer who's engaged to Gene; Rock the billionaire's leaving his wife for prostitute Afroditie Jones; the well-endowed Fatima's days of busting fiancé Mortimer Plotz's balls are numbered; and late arrival Reggie Waters who's cool as the menthol cigarettes he smokes drops into town just in time to come along for the ride.

• Language: English
• Publisher: George Simeran
• Release date: Mar 3, 2011
• ISBN: 9780983430100

George Simeran

George Simeran is the author of "In Love with Sin" and "Prince of this World." His early literary career was interrupted by a scorching addiction to mainlining the bourgeois life and to anything made by Tom Ford. He takes his recovery one day at a time and lives and writes in Los Angeles.

Book preview

PROLOGUE

The dig's a messy affair. I use the back of the shovel to smooth the dirt out some more while Rock walks Phil up out of the gulley. Phil's gone all weepy again and Rock's got his arm around him.

There aren't any streetlamps up here in the canyon but we're able to get her into the ground just fine once our eyes get used to the starlight and to whatever municipal amber leaks in from beyond the horizon. Downtown Glendale, I think.

I toss some stones and shrubs over it and the whole thing looks pretty good. Not that any of that matters. The odds of anyone stumbling onto our plot way out here in the Angeles National Forest are too slight to be calculable. And besides, Phil was right. No one ever comes looking for a girl like that. Girl like that's got no one to worry about her anymore.

The whole thing was Phil's idea in the first place but when that moron finally got it through his head that it was his dope that did it, he went all to pieces. Fucker keeps this up, he'll get us pinched for sure.

Neither of them hears me climbing up the embankment on account of Phil's blubbering. We're all alone up here but sound carries like a motherfucker in the canyons so I grip the shovel with both hands and double-time it up to the road and when Rock spots me coming up behind Phil, he shoots me his big, rheumy eyes and gives me plenty of space.

It's almost two in the morning when we arrive at the Indian casino, the big one they've got out in the desert where all the degenerates too lazy to take the four-hour drive or the one-hour flight out to Viva Las Vegas go to blow their retirement funds or burn through their credit card cash advances. We get inside and right away Rock says we ought to spread out until breakfast. I ask him how seven o'clock sounds but he makes like he doesn’t hear me and heads out onto the casino floor without answering. He's still pissed about how I handled Phil and has been shining me ever since we left the canyon.

I spend the next five hours gambling like a mook, trying to blend in, and at seven A.M. I'm bellying up to the breakfast buffet in a banquet room that looks like a converted high school gymnasium. Only thing missing are the basketball hoops at each end. All those Indian joints are like that.

A dozen TV monitors hang from the rafters and the buffet table stretches out to nearly a third of the room and despite the early hour, they've already got the table piled wide and deep with grub, an unlimited supply of free food serving as the primal antidote to what usually ails patrons after an all-night gambling binge.

I'm not hungry despite not having eaten since before we’d torched Phil’s car but I pile onto my plate as many pancakes, sausages, smoked meats, and bread as will fit and I'm in line waiting for my turn with the omelet chef when the screens switch over to CNN all at once. The sound's off and the closed captioning is full of errors but it's clear that one of the towers is gone and that the other one's on fire.

I break out of line and search the room and spot Rock just before he slides into a booth. His plate's full of fruit and he’s holding a thick beige coffee mug up to his lips when I slide in.

Dude, says Phil. I shot dice like a bitch last night. Fucking hate these tribal casinos.

Phil's not weepy anymore. I look over at Rock and he raises his mug to me before taking a sip.

They’ll blow this shit all out of proportion. Phil's talking with a mouth full of food and he's nodding his greasy head in time with his mandibles. We oughta get outta here after breakfast, before the roads get tight. Hey, George. You gonna eat all those pancakes?

I shake my head and push my plate forward and when I look over at Rock he's picking grave dirt out from under his nails with the players' card the pit boss gave him when he'd bought his chips. Phil stabs his fork into the center of my plate and swings the pancakes over to his dish. He's covering them with what's left of the maple syrup when the second tower collapses.

CHAPTER 1

HAPPY BIRTHDAY, MORTIMER PLOTZ

It’ll be fun, I told Plotz. We can drive out to Ventura before dawn, be back by nightfall. Get you back in touch with your Hebrew roots.

Oh, no, no, George, said Fatima. We couldn’t possibly do that.

It was Mortimer Plotz's thirty-third birthday and his fiancée, Fatima, was throwing him a luncheon at the Baca Valley restaurant in West Los Angeles. Sitting with us at the table was a TV producer, a daytime soap actress, and a middle-aged lesbian couple who'd developed a hit sitcom in the late nineties and who after that had never had to work again, which for them turned out to be a good thing since success seemed to have cured them of any sense of humor they may have had previously.

There were some cable people there, too. From the premium channels. Contract writers waiting for their big break to develop and run their own shows, and sitting at the far end of the table was a well regarded Assistant Director who'd just signed on to direct his own feature. He'd made a name for himself as the First AD for those actors who insist on directing their own vehicles but who wind up delegating nearly everything to their senior AD's and had spent most of the luncheon staring at Fatima's best features as they spilled out the top of her tank, looking as if he'd expected their overflowing mamormity to overcome their containment at any moment.

Mortimer, said Fatima. She was the only person I knew that still called Plotz by his first name. Do you remember that time two years ago when you made me get on that awful boat to Catalina? Said you were still too nervous to fly. Skies have been safe now for years, I told him, but he insisted. Even now, he won’t fly unless he must. It's been ages and ages since all of that mess with the towers and he still has a panic attack every time we get near the airport. Isn’t that right, Mortimer?

Well, I—

Unless we’re on a large ocean liner, Fatima said. A cruise. A cruise on the Caribbean. I should think that wouldn't make me sick. Those things are enormous. Now, that’s something we should look into, don’t you think, Mortimer?

Oh, no worries, Fatima, I said. I meant it as a boy’s day out. Just me and our award-winning writer, here. Why don't you pack him a lunch and when we get back you can have a warm bath waiting for him. Afterwards, maybe you can have him try on some of those leopard silk thongs and skintight he-ho clothes you’re trying to get him to wear. Sound good to you, Plotz?

That cracked them up. Even the lesbians laughed at that one. Not Fatima, though.

'Tima, Plotz said to Fatima. It's perfectly safe. George has done it before. You’ve done it before, haven't you, George?

Sure. In fact, last time out, I had a great time. Absolutely phenomenal. Caught myself a big-assed squid, too. Apparently Global Warming is turning them into mutants straight out of Jules Verne.

Wow, said Plotz. It all sounds like a real Men Only kind of a thing. Can't imagine women wanting any part of that, right George? He kicked me under the table.

Depends on the women. Last time, the cappy filled the boat with a bunch of middle-aged lawyers from Thousand Oaks. They were all right. A little too heavy on the Protestant side, if you know what I mean. But the time before that we had these heavy-set Bavarian chicks who took off their tops and kept bitching about the weather. It's like they were expecting L.A. to be like Miami Beach or something. I dunno. Maybe it was primal but by lunchtime I was seriously jonesing for a big soft pretzel and a stein of milk.

The group wheezed a collective chuckle. I grinned up and down the table in acknowledgement of their generosity and when I looked back to Plotz, he wouldn't give me his eyes, not then and not for the remainder of the lunch. That night he sent me an email saying that the fishing trip was of course out of the question, that it would be irresponsible for him to take that sort of risk, and that besides, my picture of Teutonic Orgiastic Bacchanal—his exact words—was inappropriate lunch conversation for such an esteemed group. He ended by adding that with a mouth like mine it was no wonder I couldn't keep a woman.

Fucking Fatima was always writing his emails for him.

CHAPTER 2

ME LOVE YOU LONG TIME

Three days after the big lunch I treated Plotz to a shoot at the gun club near the Van Nuys airport. He'd had a thing for the martial arts and shooting guns since his days on the kibbutz and whenever cocktail conversation turned to Plotz's kibbutznik days, I'd say that Jews and sadistic violence went together like pork and beans or ham and cheese. That usually got a laugh.

After the shoot I took Coldwater back over the hill and halfway across the canyon I noticed the dope hadn't buckled up.

What the fuck, Plotz.

What.

Seat belt.

Isn’t that what air bags are for?

A thousand risky things you could do to make your dick hard and you pick that.

I can’t get comfortable with anything tight on me. That’s why I wear boxers.

Thanks for sharing, Plotz. What’d you think of that gun you shot?

What, you mean the wheel gun?

Nah. Not the .357 snubby. That one’s mine. Used to be my carry gun after the riots. I mean the other one.

Nice, said Plotz. It looked brand new.

Yeah, but did you recognize it?

Sure. H.K. P-something.

And?

Nine mil. Nice balance. Squeeze cocker’s cool.

Handle all right?

Yeah, George. Handled real nice.

And?

Uh, classy, George. Real classy. Nice pocket pistol.

Bingo. Happy birthday, baby. It’s yours.

No! You’re kidding.

Enjoy. They’ll move it to their shop in Hollywood this afternoon. Pick it up 10 days after you sign for it. Be sure to bring your driver's license.

God, George. I—it’s—that was really great. You’re a great friend. It means so much to me to—

You’re welcome.

I turned onto Wilshire then took a right on Dayton and stopped at the valet parking post in front of The Grill. Plotz stepped out of the car and stretched his six-foot-four frame as if he'd just woken up from his kinder-nap then tucked his blue oxford shirt back into his khakis and put on his blazer. It was one of those navy blue ones with the brass buttons.

We installed ourselves atop the cushioned stools at the bar and ordered draft beer and appetizers. I asked for the toasted garlic bread and a large cup of gazpacho, extra spicy, and Plotz ordered the cut vegetables with a side of ranch dressing and two hard-boiled eggs. The lunch crowd was just leaving.

Hey, you know, Plotz said, chewing. I was thinking.

I bit. Oh, yeah? What about?

WorldTrek.

You get your ticket yet? We leave in less than three weeks. I dipped the bread into the soup and used it as a spoon.

Yeah. Well, yes. I mean, I have to call the agent back with my passport and credit card, but that’s all. I was thinking, though, maybe we can alter it slightly.

What do you mean, alter? There's nothing to alter. They’re 'round the world tickets. As long as we keep heading east, there's no problem.

Yeah, I know, said Plotz. But––but, it's just––I mean—

But, but. But what?

Well, do we have to keep moving around so much?

Keep moving around so much? Jesus. That's kind of the whole fucking point, Plotz. You want me to explain it to you again?

No. I mean––what I mean is, what if we just went to a couple of places. Maybe just in Southeast Asia. You know, sort of spent all thirty days there.

Oh, I said. I get it.

I'm just saying.

I know what you're saying.

I just mean—

You know, I said, if all you wanted was to get a little yellow tail, you should have just told me before we left the valley. I know a lot of places over there. Safe places, too. And you get a good massage on top of everything else.

I'd left myself a dry corner to hold the bread. My other piece had gone soggy with spicy tomato puree. I leaned way over my plate and took a large drippy bite.

No way, George. It’s not like that. I just need to see how people live, you know? Like, on the ground floor. Absorb it for a while. I never got to travel like you.

Uh huh.

And who knows when we’ll get another chance to be young and brave and rich at the same time.

Who you calling rich? I still work for a living.

I’ll make all the arrangements, said Plotz. I got a line on the clothes, the packs, everything. I've done all the research. You’ll have to come with me when we get your boots, though. You know, to get the proper fit.

And Fatima, too? I said. What about her boots?

Plotz looked down at his beer. It was still at half. He fingered his cauliflower and used it to push a carrot slice around his plate like a hockey puck. I signaled to the bartender for two more rounds and Plotz piped up.

She doesn’t get me, George.

How’s that?

I said, she doesn’t get me.

Anymore, Plotz. She doesn’t get you anymore. That’s what you mean, right?

Yeah, George. Anymore.

Look, you’ve been with her since before—you know, for a long time. Just find her a place, put her in front of your new Hollywood buddies, then sayonara. Don’t drag it out. That's bad karma. If you’re done with her, then just break it off clean.

I never said I was done with her.

Well, that's what it sounded like.

His phone was jingling through his pocket again.

You going to answer that? That's, like, the third time in twenty minutes.

He reached into his coat pocket and powered off without looking at the screen.

It's just, you know, just that she treats me as if I haven’t done anything. Like I’ve never achieved anything. She acts like I’m still––like I'm still—

Substitute teaching?

Yeah. Exactly. She just needs to understand that I’m accomplished now, that I’m on my way, that I’m–that I'm—

Going places. Are somebody.

Yes, he said. Exactly. That's it.

She should accept the new you. New and improved.

She should accept me for the man I'm becoming.

So she won’t get it if you tell her you want to go to Southeast Asia for a month.

Or three. Or four months.

To see how the real people live.

Live amongst them. Right there in the villages.

Working with lepers, I said. Writing a blog. Changing the world.

Yes! Changing the world!

Finding out who it was that put the Cunt in Third World Country and fucking all the slanty twat you can buy for the Baht equivalent of ten bucks apiece. Plotzie, baby, you want to chase the dragon, you can do it right here in L.A. Hell, most of the time you won’t even have to go to a pay to play joint. This town is sick with little yellow ass dying to ride whitey just once more before they settle down to squeeze out mini-Manchurians with some pudgy, buck toothed little pecker, hand picked by her dog-faced father himself. All buck-twenty-soaking-wet of him.

I gave him a little jerk-pump in the air with my fist and made that squinty, buck toothed face. The big fucker went pale and blotchy all at the same time.

Jesus, George—

And, I said, "these long-torsoed hump monsters, they never stay long enough to become a burden. They never want to come home from a date and tell their fathers they’ve been out all night balling a gwailo and to please excuse them while they go back to the kitchen to put an ice pack on their sore slots. It’s like they’re brought up to fuck you blind with their slanty little grippers but to leave by morning before all their dead ancestors disown them."

Plotz leaned his elbows on the bar and covered his eyes with his hands. I can’t believe you said that.

It’s all true, buddy. All true. Wanna do a shot of something?

You got it all wrong. I’m not—it’s not why I want to go to Asia. It’s not that at all.

Two double Sambucas, I told the barman. I turned back to Plotz. So, what, you don’t like Asian girls?

No. I mean, yeah. Yes. Of course. Sure, I like them. I mean, it’s just—

Look, we’ve all got inner demons to slay and whatnot, but you can't do this kind of thing with me tagging along. Not with anyone from home tagging along. We’d just get in your way. You've got something you need to do and that's fine. Take that journey regardless of the consequences. But you've got to do it alone, Plotz. Believe me when I tell you this. I picked up my shot of Sambuca. Gotta be alone. That way, you don't have to worry about anyone judging you while you interact with the natives and exploit their poor ignorant women for sex. Salute.

I raised my glass to him and threw back the shot then put it down empty and reached into my pocket.

I’ve never exploited anyone in my life, George. I mean that. I would never do that.

That’s up to you, buddy. I peeled a pair of hundreds off my wad and set them on the bar. Come on. Let’s go.

Plotz followed me outside. The inside of my mouth tasted like a Spanish alcoholic's cunt so I slipped two Listerine strips onto my tongue then gave the valet attendant my ticket and put on my sunglasses.

All right, Plotz, I said. Time for me to go to work. You can walk to your car from here, right?

Plotz made a twisty face.

What.

Do you mind if I tag along with you, George? Go to the office, I mean. I don’t have anything to do until tonight.

I don’t know, Plotz. I’ve been out all day with you. Probably got a stack of messages up to here waiting for me.

I won’t get in your way, he said. I promise. Besides, aren't the markets closed already?

I’m not going to be any fun. Seriously. Why don’t you just go home? Take a nap or something?

The valet pulled up in my sedan. I looked at Plotz's squinty face then gave the valet ten dollars and told him to keep the change. It was an oppressively cloudless day and Plotz had on such a squint he looked as if he were in pain.

You know, I said, you really ought to think about getting yourself a pair of sunglasses.

CHAPTER 3

PLOTZ AND GEORGE

Back while he was still in college, Mortimer Plotz had managed to get a novel published by an honest to goodness publisher but it was so awful and sold so few copies that you couldn't really have called it a success. After college, Plotz had gotten a handful of short stories published in some obscure literary journals that paid writers in subscriptions, which would have been all right had the journals been any good.

It wasn't until after his wife Claudine had died from breast cancer a few years back that Plotz put out the three stories in quick succession that received all of that praise. All three went on to win bona fide literary prizes and earned him a lot of attention, especially from that hot young producer-director known for converting artistic literary themes into movie gold.

Plotz got paid just over two million for the rights to the three stories, plus a small piece of the back end, plus another three hundred thousand to participate in the writing of the first screenplay. That wasn't how these things were usually done.

Ordinarily, production companies have no use for the source writer once they've bought the rights to the story, but part of this one producer's shtick was to keep his source authors close enough to justify adding their names to the writing credits thereby imbuing his films with greater artistic credibility. Plotz was happy to participate and attended all of the writer’s meetings except for the ones they didn't tell him about which were all but the first.

All three stories were written in the first person and all three centered on a female radiologist. In the first story, she'd just turned forty and was married to a man fifteen years her junior and although she wanted to have children, she knew better than most that at her age she was approaching the end of her birthing time.

Her conflict was that she was very much in love and in lust with her young man in that way certain older women can be and that her career success was too hard-fought to suspend. The underlying theme of all three stories was how modern women lose their joy of life in the chase for what happiness is supposed to be, and each story was fresh and stood alone and tapped into what one widely syndicated reviewer called the Career Woman Zeitgeist. The movie premiered at Sundance and received tremendous reviews and soon Plotz began receiving a lot of positive attention from The Crowd in general and from its women in particular.

The Crowd’s women are especially attractive and perennially young, new ones cycling in at the right times, and they're all of a handful of basic looks so that it always seems as if it's the same un-aging women year after year. They're always new and young and lovely and willing and Plotz is built like a twenty-first century quarterback––long limbed, broad on top and narrow in the middle—and he's got the kind of face that some women find handsome, which he is, although it's that Jewish kind of handsome with the narrow black eyes and weak chin and head a bit small for his wide shoulders.

One time a popular movie reviewer wrote that Plotz was one of the few true artists writing for cinema today because, according to the reviewer, Plotz transformed himself into his characters in order to write them. The reviewer came to this conclusion when during their interview Plotz repeatedly referred to himself in the third person feminine. After that, Plotz took to referring to himself that way whenever he spoke about those stories.

When I met Plotz I