Citizen Kane Pt. 04

WOLFMAN Kane went to Hollywood to see if any of it made sense. As he took his coffee on Santa Monica Boulevard, wave after wave of images flickered through his mind. Charles Laughton snacking on shit sandwiches. Bob Mitchum banging some producer's wife. Jean Simmons making the filling for a sandwich between Stewart Granger and Richard Burton. And speaking of the Welsh windbag, here he is stumbling out of a bar and telling a pal who asked him why he was looking so smug: "I just fucked Elizabeth on the back seat of my Cadillac." Elizabeth Taylor, retelling the story to Michael Jackson, says: "Rich had nice eyes when they weren't bloodshot. But to be honest, he was usually so pissed by 11am that he couldn't get it up." That made Jacko giggle.

So Kane sits and wonders which of the vacant-eyed humanoids passing by has current celebrity status. He doesn't think he would know any of them and really has little interest. A few years back he had rescued a couple of young things from Harvey Weinstein's cesspit, but he can't remember where they went.

Kane wants a woman. He is a strapping handsome big lad and could probably easily pick one up if he trawled a couple of nightspots. But the game is the thing....

He spotted Margot shopping along Rodeo Drive and tracked her back to the Hollywood Hills. A good-looking woman wearing cream slacks and a white silk blouse. Forty something, gym-bunny body. Momentarily he had lost her in the swirl of scents when she went to the perfume counter, but he soon picked up her natural odor. When Margot left her home later that afternoon, Kane expertly picked the back-door lock and entered the sprawling mansion. He liked exploring houses, the secret nooks and crannies of suburban lives. In the laundry he fished a pair of Margot's panties from the basket and pressed them to his nose. The musty whiff pleased and aroused him. He explored the rest of the house and helped himself to a bottle of Petrus from an oak sideboard. The vintage wine relaxed him. "Oenophile," he muttered. "the guy's an oenophile." Kane thought Walter Robertson probably didn't know the meaning of the word. But Kane knew. He knew a lot of things. He collected university doctorates and studied the constellations. He was contemptuous of human murmurings about UFOs. There was no such thing. His own travels through time and space required energy resources which were undreamed of by the earthlings.

On the sideboard were family photos, a wedding snap of Walter and Margot, a couple of their kids. The kids would be away at college, Kane thought. And another photo caught his eye. It showed Margot on safari in Africa with a dead lion. She was wearing jodhpurs and brown riding boots, a red bandana knotted around her tanned neck. She was kneeling beside the fallen beast, rifle in hand. And she was smiling, a huge happy smile. Kane snarled. His lips curled up over his fangs. He hated hunters, mindless morons who killed for pleasure. He decided to have a word about it with Margot later. His distaste for her grew. A woman who would be happiest firing bullets into rhinos and Ragheads.

By about 5pm, Kane had thoroughly researched the family and had a good handle on their finances. Walter was a corpulent corporate lawyer who spent most of his time at home watching old clips of Donald Trump rallies. He was out of shape and owned a lot of guns. There were no sex toys in the bedroom.

Kane lay on the bed and watched Tucker Carlson on TV. Usually when the smug cretin appeared he would lift his leg against the TV. But the wine had relaxed him and he contented himself by sending his mind on a flash into the future. A shitstorm like no other awaited Carlson. He had no idea what was coming.

Kane smiled and rolled off the bed. He stripped naked, tucked his clothes under the bed, then found a snug space where he curled up and went to sleep with Margot's panties pressed to his nose.

When Kane woke up it was dark outside. He hadn't heard the couple return home but now they were in bed, arguing in urgent low voices. Kane could smell that they had been drinking Scotch and soda. They were bickering about money. They always talked about money. He listened for a while and grew bored. A soft light from bedside lamps lit the bedroom.

Suddenly, Kane could take no more.

He emerged, naked and tumescent, from under the bed and confronted them both. Margot's eyes popped when she saw the size of the thing. She hauled the sheets around her and sat frozen with fear. "Do something, Walt!" she screamed. But Walt wasn't about to do anything. He had more guns than guts and anyway the weapons were locked in a cabinet downstairs.

Kane handled Margot roughly. He hauled her out of bed and ripped off her nightgown. She struggled briefly but Kane's assaults were nothing like the ones you see in the movies. If a woman fought back, he would quickly subdue her with a hard punch to the stomach. He gave Margot a serious whack, knocking the breath out of her, and tied Walter's hand with bedsheets. There was no need to gag the roly-poly sap because he had lost the power of speech.

Kane arranged Margot on all fours and entered her from behind. He watched in the big bedroom mirror as her tits swung with his thrusts. He pulled out and stuck his nose into her trimmed snatch, breathing in her sharp tang. She had an exciting cunt with large flared labia. He fingered her and licked around her clitoris, flicking it with his tongue. She moaned, whether from pleasure or fear he neither knew no cared.

Walt made a gasping noise and said: "We have money. We can give you money."

Kane had no use for money. He told Walter: "Make another sound and I will break your arm. It will hurt."

Kane rode Margot again, silently and angrily. He reached under and slapped her tits hard. "That's for the lion," he said. Walt pissed his tartan pajamas and started crying.

In the end, Kane held his orgasm back. He wanted to watch humans perform. He untied Walter and ordered a show. Margot did her best. She stroked her husband's flaccid cock and played with his balls. She took him in her mouth. She wept with frustration as he remained soft and limp. "God, Walt! she yelled. "You can't even get it up, you numbnuts fucker." Then she smelt a woman on him and it wasn't her.

Kane left them crumpled on the floor and got dressed. So that was how it was with humans. At the core of his being lay cold fury. At this. At everything. At the way things were.

On the way out, he grabbed a few thousand dollars in cash from a drawer in the sideboard. He would post it to an animal sanctuary.