(from Czech-Irish Business Association website)
The Tiger and the Lamb
The narrative presented below is a work of fiction. All the characters, events, and organizations are fictitious and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
It’s a new guy, more of a personal assistant. In all the years Michael was wandering here and there and dazzling the world with his opuses, things were going smoothly. And yet he was missing something – direct connection with his roots, breath of true Irishness, which would remind him of his beloved Emerald Isle, of the green filelds where his heart is. (Well, he isn’t sure his heart is anywhere else than in his chest, but admitting this may shatter his whole image.) His loyal imagemakers advised him to snatch some swineherd or a ninety-years old Gaelic speaker to accompany him on his travels, but with all respect to them, he believed they overdid their bit for once. He wouldn’t risk some intelectually-challenged vulgar person treading on his precious toes. Fortunately, fate had a better solution for him in store – a night in Dublin, a bit of misunderstanding, entering a wrong restaurant... and bumping into this guy. Gentleman, obviously capable manager, amusing companion and musician – splendid combination. And on top of that – a whistle player. Michael, who believes himself to be the greatest whistler the earth has ever borne, fully appreciates this quality. Couple glasses of old brand whiskey, couple philosophical debates about Irish cultural heritage, a deep discussion about the intricacies of whistle playing, and the deal was made. With his new assistant in charge, the Prague show will be more glorious than any other, shining like a freshly polished emerald.
Michael smiles for himself, reaches for his mobile and dials a number.
**********
A tiny bit less luxurious suite in the same hotel. Air-conditioning relentlessly and noiselessly pumps out cigarette smoke. Right at one of the windows stands a lone figure – beloved by some, and hated fiercely by many, a man who once roused crowds to start a petition against him. He stands with his hands in his pockets, rocking on his heels. Fuck, couldn’t they choose a hotel without the brownish smelly ditch of a river running below the windows? And that frigging structure over it – castle they call it, but it doesn’t even look like a castle! Damn, Michael doesn’t have a bit of taste. But he pays, so why to argue with a walking moneybag? Pointless. And Joey isn’t one to waste his time with pointless arguing.
He turns away from the window and scans the room. Fucking hole. Hotel named after a pizza. And with that slimy prick Michael constantly breathing on his neck, he hasn’t had time to make himself comfortable here. If the guy hadn’t reeked of money at hundred yards, he would have never never even glanced down his nose at him, let alone reply to his idiotic babbling. But, damn, not knowing whether Shane fired him or not, the chance of getting another client seemed handy. So he jumped at it.
Joey turns and reaches for the curtain to draw it and create thought-inspiring dimness, but before his finger can touch the brocade cloth, the mobile in his pocket starts screeching.
**********
"Take a seat, Joey, my friend, make yourself at home. Will you have soda? Or mineral water? We need to keep our heads clear before today’s big evening. So... how has it been going so far? Stadium has been sold out? Construction built? Tell, tell!"
Joey reluctantly tears his eyes away from a TV screen where a bunch of chicks wave their long bare legs in some step-crap. Why do the geese shake so madly? One’s eyes hurt from watching them. Such a waste of such good legs...
"Uhm, pardon me, Michael?"
"Tickets for the show, Joey, how many sold? Will we be adding another show? How many spectators tonight?"
"Many."
"How many?"
"Very many."
"How many?"
"Very fucking many."
Dazzling smile never leaves Michael’s face. He mutters something like "True Irishman" to himself, then flashes his snow-white teeth at Joey again.
"Numbers, Joey, figures!"
"I know about a thousand."
For the first time a cloud flickers over Michael’s brow.
"The poor oppressed Eastern Europeans don’t have a bigger stadium here? Shattering thought. We’ve chosen a good city to premiere the show, Joey. A truly charitable deed."
Joey mutters an incomprehensible agreement.
"Maybe we could find sponsors to build them a bigger venue..." Michael’s eyes mist over as if the feeling of bringing a torch into a dark corner of the world overwhelmed him. "I will pour my heart into it," he whispers, then falls silent as a worm of doubt creeps into his mind. "You booked the largest stadium in the city, didn’t you?"
"A big one, yes, Michael."
"And the stadium’s capacity is one thousand, yes?"
Joey again mutters something incomprehensible, in a very reassuring tone.
"Speak up, Joey, please! If several dozen more people can be stuffed into the audience, we will print several dozen more tickets right now!"
"More likely several thousand..."
"I beg your pardon, Joey?"
"That’s okay. Just thinking out loud."
"I like numbers, Joey! So don’t stretch my curiosity any longer – what is the stadium’s capacity?"
"Twenty thousand."
Disbelieving smile plays on Michael’s lips. "What?"
"Twenty fucking thousand."
"Have they run out of paper for tickets of what? Of printing colour?"
Joey sighs. Looks like it’s inevitable to force some reason into the imbecile’s head. "Look, Michael, this is success, clear? Look the truth into the eye: you wouldn’t sell even a hundred if it wasn’t for my genius managerial move! I’m glad I didn’t book a larger venue..."
"Larger venue? I told you to book the largest stadium in the city, you foolish man! And you go booking a hole in the middle of nowhere which... Wait. Genius managerial... what did you do, Joey?"
"Secured hundreds of spectators for you, nothing more."
"How?" Michael’s tone drips icicles now.
"Ever heard about a happy hour in pubs? So I organized a happy week in ticket offices..."
"Oh! Buyers of tickets getting some promo materials as a bonus? If there is my photo in the materials, why didn’t you ask me to check it first? What if it needs retouching? Oh my..."
"Don’t worry. Not exactly this kind of bonus."
Michael remains silent, stares into Joey’s eyes intently. Joey meets his challenge boldly, as a true man of action.
"Kinda the tickets were the bonus."
"Bonus to what?"
"To anything the fuc-, the folks sell there."
Brilliant tactics it was. A way to sell out the whole bloody stadium in one day. The problem was that only three hours ago he learnt that tickets offices somehow didn’t have the tickets. Maybe he should have assigned the task of distribution to some well-established company. But the fuckers came demanding ridiculous prices! Laughed into his face with them! Piles of dollars for the simple task of delivering the slips of paper into box offices. Even a trained monkey would manage that. So he assigned the job to one... Well, not to a chimpanzee, just to a roadie. If the idiot hadn’t found the fucking Irish pub during his errand and handn’t gone to merrily murder his few remaining brain cells with liquids, it could have worked out perfectly.
Ponderous expression creeps into Michael’s eyes. He cannot keep his fingers calm – maybe it’s suppressed anger, maybe he’s engaged in the process of feverish soul-searching.
"Didn’t we have posters everywhere? On every billboard! On every lamppost! It’s always possible to see from one poster to another you said!"
"Yes. Always."
Joey won’t go telling the clown about the perfect deal he made because Michael wouldn’t appreciate it anyway. Hiring the cheapest printing works he’d ever stumbled upon. Fellow managers would drop their jaws in astonishment if they heard about the brilliant bargain he was able to make. And the posters looked smashing although he had to include a pic of that dumbbell on them. An incredible feat. Alright, it’s true that first rain melted the colours and turned the paper into a porridge, but that’s a peanut... The fact that a wrong date somehow slipped onto them troubled him more. But he would have fixed this tiny flaw if the fucking posters hadn’t already turned into a slush by the time he noticed!
"I cannot understand it, Joey! They have always loved me here! Girls wrote me love letters! Letters which I – well, my manager – always assiduously answered. I wanted to entrust this highly responsible task to you, Joey..."
Joey smiles the most reassuring smile he is capable of. "Head up, Michael! I know this bitc-, I mean bizzare and truly unique lady who runs a... well, a chain of highly-respectable establishments where the most tasty, I mean the most talented women from the city work. With a bit of her help, I will distribute the remaining tickets among them. True charity, Michael, as you wanted it! Think of the poor Eastern Europeans. Nothing is lost yet!"
Michael is silent for a long, long moment. Joey can almost hear the clock on the wall ticking away the seconds although it is a silent digital crap. Finally an expression appears at Michael’s face – could it be smile? Recognition of the masterly plan? Alas, his mobile chooses this most innapropriate moment to wail Danny Boy into the silence of the room. Michael grabs it. "Yes? Hello... Aha, go on... I see, I see. What? WHAT? And... I see, I see." The mobile falls from his hand onto the sofa and disappears between two pillows. Another long moment passes by, with Michael staring out of the window into the yellowish sunlight. Damned sunlight which stings Joey’s eyes like a hornet. Finally the man speaks.
"Joey, you were in charge of hiring a company to build the construction at the stadium, am I right?"
"Don’t you like the colour? It was the greenest green I could get in this fucking hole."
Well, the other company offered even a bit greener, but it was a heavy massive shit. It would spoil the whole stage. People would be staring at awful green monster instead of the luscious legs of the lassies. Hasn’t Michael claimed from the very beginning that the stage has to be "airy and etherical as my show itself"? So why does the wretched bastard complain about the airy etherical sticks carrying the fucking huge screens?
"They finished building it. Tested the screens. The SCREENS! The crucial thing! The screens which will show my tapping legs! My thirty-five taps per second! Well, with a bit of accelerated broadcast, it will hopefully seem as thirty-five... And..."
"And?"
"It doesn’t work! The construction nearly collapsed when they tried to put the screens up!"
Only nearly? So why is he fuming? When they first tried the screens in Joey’s presence the construction screeched so much that it nearly tore the ears. Nearly. So he just ordered to play the music a notch louder and that was that. Problem solved.
"Take it easy, Michael. We’ll do something about it."
"When? The show is supposed to start in couple hours!"
"So it will start in four or five hours, what ’s the difference? Won’t your loving fans wait an hour or two?"
"And what will we tell them, how will we explain it?"
"We could tell them that... hmm... that the taxi was late... or the organizers hadn’t ensured security in time... We’ll improvise, rely on me!"
"It’s a scandal... a real scandal!"
"Kidding? You do not know what a real scandal is! We could tell them ..."
Violent shaking of the head. "No, no, no. They say the only solution would be to build the whole thing anew."
,No screens, no show‘ shouts from Michael’s face as if he had it written over his brow. Joey knows that there is a time for everything – a time to reap laurels of triumph, a time to make hard decisions. And he has just made one.
"Michael, I request just half a minute of your attention."
"Yess?" It sounds more like a snake hissing.
"It grieves me to tell you but you are sacked."
"What?"
"Sacked, fired, dismissed. Time for you to start looking for a new personal assistant."
With these words and without even turning around, Joey strides out of the fucking tidy room with the fucking irritating view. Good that he hasn’t made himself comfortable in his room yet. The easier it will be just to snatch his bag and head for the airport. C’est la vie. Looks like he will have to find out whether he still has his job with Shane. Striding through the corridor, he silently whistles "life’s a bitch, then you die, black hell"...
**********
"Thousands of fans came to Prague Strahov Stadium in vain, expecting to see the newest dance-show of the Irish tap-dancing champion Michael Flatley. The show was cancelled mere two hours before the beginning due to technical problems. Flatley expressed his deepest regret and promised that the long-expected premiere would be shifted to autumn. All sold tickets remain valid."
photo © unknown