|
------- ------- ------- ------- ------- It pleased Xavier Nilko to see the walls and ceiling of his giant empty warehouse fade into the distance. Unfortunately, selling the company’s only major asset wouldn’t cover the debt to Ivanovsky and his thugs. -------“Turn it into an art gallery, boss?” ------- “Takes money, Arky. We’re broke.” ------- “Trashed s’more like it. I’m leaving town.” ------- Ex raised his eyebrows. “A trash museum.” ------- “What do you mean?” Sheila asked. ------- “An illusion with a frisson,” Ex explained. “Bonnie and Clyde’s bullet riddled car, an oven from Auschwitz, the burnt out shell of Soyuz 10, medieval torture apparatus. We’ll bill it ‘Mayhem of Times Past.’ One month only, twenty kopecks, cheap.” ------- “Who’s Bonnie and Clyde,” Arky asked, “and where do we get this crap?” ------- “American banditos, and as you say, a junk yard. We’ll need to borrow a truck and a laser-printer. With a few baby spots, the ambiance is perfect. Let’s make it happen, comrades.” ------- ------- The result charmed even Ex, as he strolled among the cleverly arrayed exhibits early on opening day. The challenge had brought out unsuspected creativity in his torpid crew. They’d done him proud. -------Lady Di’s Mercedes was the feature exhibit. Bonnie and Clyde’s thirties Ford turned up beneath a pile of dead bedsprings. The Auschwitz crematory could even have been original. Ex was particularly pleased with Marat’s tub, the guillotine, and other remnants of The Terror. The rocking chair and shower from the Bates Motel were billed as cinematic history. -------Tushenkov’s Salvage Yard supplied the ersatz trappings of ancient conflict, the swords and shields, siege engines, catapults, and rams. The Great Patriotic War was represented by a flak-infected Messerschmidt and a burned-out tank. ------- Bringing in the vagrants and their barrels was Ex’s touch. He’d scrounged a load of splintered lumber, and the fragrance of burning cedar filled the hall. The barrels provided light and heat, and their scruffy attendants added to the general tone. The red hot grill, lately of the Spanish Inquisition, further helped to warm the massive room. -------Public interest had been high, and with two hours to opening there were tailgate parties in the lot. It was just the cheap thrill Muscovites adored. ------- Ex’s only worry was the bums. They’d been less tractable than he’d hoped, given the generosity of their promised pay. “Promise” was the sticking point. He was cash poor until the rubles hit the till, and the bums were hungry. -------“Hang in, bozos,” he’d assured them. “I’ll send out for sweet and sour chicken.” But delayed gratification wasn’t in their nature, and the grumbling increased. Perhaps he’d better run a tab at a local eatery. Oh, oh! Man Mountain Trashsky approached anon, not looking pleased. -------“Hey, hey, my tatty friend. Big day, n’est pas?” ------- ------- When The Mayhem opened at twelve sharp, and the great unwashed surged through the gates, one last creative touch had been added to the spectacle. Instead of Ex’s neatly dressed assistants, a dozen grinning bums stood arms akimbo, and the tasty smell of shashlik rose from Torquemada’s Grill. ------- 7 August 07 |