(eng) Mick Farren by The Feelies

Author:The Feelies [Feelies, The]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

THE SUPERSTAR WAS FAR FROM HAPPY. He slumped petulantly in the deep leather armchair and dug the pointed toe of his handmade Spanish boot into the thick, white pile of the wall-to-wall carpet. The double glazing of the hotel's penthouse suite presented an uninterrupted panorama of the city. Above the brown air layer the sun was warm and bright, and the sky was a perfect blue. A needle-thin rocket liner floated in the clear part of the sky. It was almost at eye level from where the superstar sat. Its wheels were down, its wings were out, and it was drifting in for a landing at Metro-4 airport, the one that handled the big sub-orbitals.

The superstar wasn't interested in the view, the sky, or the passing planes. He was being hassled by his manager in a one-on-one conference. He had already told his manager no way, four times. His manager wasn't inclined, though, to take no way for an answer.

"Listen, no way, Tom. I'm not going to do it."

"That's fucking dumb."

"Dumb or not, I don't like it."

"You're turning down ten million."

"It doesn't feel right."

"Don't you feel you're being a tiny bit irrational?"

"Sure I'm irrational. I'm a genius. If I was an accountant, I'd be logical, but I'm not and I ain't. Okay?"

"Jesus Christ, do you seriously expect me to go back to Combined Media and tell them that the deal's off?"

"You can tell them what you like. That's your problem."

The superstar hooked his leg over the arm of the chair and swiveled around so he was facing away from the manager. He stared out across the city. The rocket plane had gone, but otherwise it was exactly the same. While the superstar sulked, the manager marshaled himself for another attempt at persuasion. He loosened the collar of his fashionably casual lounging suit and ran his fingers through his long gray hair.

"Shall we try again?"

The superstar continued to pout. He was dressed in what amounted to a costly, spangled parody of the uniform worn by the gang kids from the welfare sections. They were, after all, the main solvent honking nucleus of his fans-the ones who consumed his tension tapes and fought their way into his live shows.

The manager's voice was comfortingly soft, more like that of an analyst than a businessman. "You want to discuss it?"

Still the superstar refused to acknowledge him. The manager's voice hardened. "Can you hear me?"

"No."

"You don't want to discuss it?"

"I can't hear you."

"Aren't we being a bit childish?"

The superstar jabbed a heavily ringed finger at the manager. "You might be being childish. I'm not."

' 'What I'm primarily trying to do is to make you very rich."

The superstar didn't say anything, although this time he didn't look away. The manager pressed home his slight advantage.

"You want to be very rich, don't you?"

"I am very rich."

"You could be a lot richer."

"Not this way."

"How long is it going to take to convince you?"

"It's going to fucking take forever. My mind's made up. I won't do it."

"Have I ever pushed you into a wrong direction?"

"Sure you have.

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