Persona Non Grata

© Tim Barker 2000

The Dinner Party

“And I said, Darling what do you think, does it show me at my best ?” Said one of the seated dinner guests.

“What was his reply Davinda ?” Her female companion teased.

“Well, you’ll never guess, he said, well I can’t repeat it in such esteemed company.” Came the reply.

Everyone laughed around the table. Everyone except Frank, a twenty-something dishevelled misfit, the black sheep of the family. Maybe that’s not quite true for a black sheep stands out from the crowd. Frank, you see, had made it his lifetime acheivement to blend into the background like a chamelean or ‘part of the furniture’. He was married but it was a marriage of convenience, a social contract between their powerful and wealthy Fathers. On the surface their marriage was as steady as the proverbial rock but undercurrents were gradually chipping away at the foundation. Frank’s day was spent successfully hacking away at corporate financial software, something he was damn good at. This he enjoyed. However, his evenings were spent being on the receiving end of criticism levelled at him not just from his wife but other members of the family, even his kid brother who he’d fooled around with during the long summer vacations ! Frank was about to change all this though, he was about to take control of his life and seek the much taunted retribution which was his rightful course of action.

The Escape Route.

It began by Frank shopping for the physical outfits he would require. He took an afternoon off work and visited numerous stores in order to procure the correct attire. He was careful to pay with cash and planned the stores to visit with military precision, taking care not to buy any two items from the same store. This resulted in the operation requiring many more hours than usually expected but Frank wanted no one to piece together his jigsaw before he’d even had chance to execute the pièce de résistance. He took all of his purchases home at the end of that day and locked them in his study, a place where his wife never ventured as he, likewise, never ventured into her changing room.

The next day Frank spent his working hours performing his usual functions, taking care not to upset his regular routines. The truth was though that he was very excited, excited at the prospect of total escape and fulfillment of his wildest dreams that lay before him. That evening he drove home with cruise control on, his mind reaching out to the furthest reaches of his psyche, exploring regions which had lay dormant all these years. But these regions were about to erupt and spill over into the real world, destroying anything that stood in their path.

After the usual dinner fiasco with his wife Frank made his excuses and retired to his study. This aroused absolutely no suspicion in his wife’s mind, it was common enough. Once inside his haven Frank turned the key in the door and smiled, wryly. His eyes darted to an assemblage of bags, various sizes, colours and materials hiding his secret. He moved to one bag, carefully submerged his hand and pulled out a pin-striped grey suit. He moved a few bags aside, dipping into the exposed small blue bag and pulled out a plain blue tie. After having exposed the contents of something like six bags he eventually held in his hands a complete costume which would serve as his first assumed persona, a megolamaniac media magnate.

The Megalomaniac.

Suitably attired Frank switched on his computer and jettisoned to the farthest reaches of his mind. He was Geoffrey Houndstadt, multi-billionaire media magnate. His empire stretched as far as the galaxy. He owned a film studio in Hollywood, a national newspaper in Kentucky, a record company in London and a webzine in cyberspace. The zine was his pride and joy. It ran articles on lifestyles, current affairs, technology and, his personal favourite, an Editorial. This was his personal soapbox, somewhere where he aired his personal views on what was going on in the world. He had written about the inevitable demise of the aristocracy, the war in the middle-East and numerous stories about the foibles in public person’s private life. And this latter subject would eventually become part of his downfall.

Geoffrey resumed work from the night before. He was writing a piece on the sexual conduct of a prominent European politician when attending a conference in Amsterdam. He had heard on the grapevine that the politician had frequented the red light district one night and had become embroiled in a contracted argument with a doorman. By fishing around a little and proffering the customary incentives Frank had learnt that the politician had employed the services of a young Polish lady. However when he had become a little rough in their act she had taken offence and began to hurl abuse at him. This, inevitably, had resulted in a knock at the door and subsequent entrance of a heavy employed to end any disagreements with customers. His tactics though did not resemble the careful diplomacy of the politician’s daily existence. Instead, the doorman had grabbed the politician in his state of undress and physically man-handled him out of the establishment. So, in the busy night of downtown Amsterdam the European Minister for Public Affairs had, indeed, made his affairs very public.

Geoffrey realised that his was a brilliant story and would pull massive advertising revenues for his web zine. He constructed a piece describing the horrors of prostitution, the poverty of Eastern European countries and the still prevalent disrespect for womanhood. He couldn’t have written a better story even if he’d had to spell it out in black and white :”FILTH !” In fact he realised that this was the perfect title for the Editorial, leaving no doubts in the reader’s mind that this politician should resign. Geoffrey finished the article round about midnight sent it to his web team marked ‘urgent’ then, having changed back to his more usual attire, retired to bed with his wife.

The next day it was apparent that the politician was the laughing stock of the Internet community and, inevitably, word got out to other media outlets. The politician could do nothing else but resign his position and commence his downfall. Geoffrey, for his part, made a fortune from selling the article for numerous translations and subsequent printing around the world with advertising going through the roof. He had achieved success in his assumed persona as Geoffrey Houndstadt if not in his Real Life.

The Activist.

Geoffrey or was it Frank ? Neither, today he was Major Panic, cyber-elite activist and Agent Provocateur supreme. After donning his camouflage jump suit and reversed his peaked cap he had sat down at his computer to confound the establishment in the name of just causes from the world over. In England he orchestrated numerous cells of eco-arriors who homed in on the bypasses of the nation and tunnelled into the heart of Whitehall. From the web page he had created the network would get to hear about the activities of their comrades and descend in solidarity on the plethora of private security guards and contractors. He channelled some of his income from his megalomaniac alter-ego into supplying the brothers and sisters with all the equipment they needed to tunnel, climb and demonstrate. Armed with the necessary kit the cells would invade sites of ecological devastation and generally give the capitalist vultures a hard time. Of course Major Panic stirred the hornet’s nest with mis-information and propaganda as would any responsible despot.

In the good old US of A Major Panic was responsible for the production of a sleek newsletter which he mailed to the anti-capitalists on his database. Again, propaganda took centre stage in the newsletter but he was also a little more radical. Inside the unassuming pages Major Panic would include tutorials on terrorist tactics including making the most of the newest technologies, be they chemical or silicon based. He was working on a diagram of a car bomb for his most recent publication. The bomb was designed to be remotely detonated by a server which could be emailed from anywhere around the planet. Once in place, the bomb would remain inert until the operator logged on and hit the return key.

In China Major Panic was responsible for the maintenance of a bulletin board, locked away from the prying eyes of the Government by a private network and numerous levels of security. From his key position the Major could feed uncensored news reports from the Western World to the pro-democracy movement allowing them to see the relative horrors of their authoritarian rule. The bulletin board was based in Hong Kong and had a hard-core of loyal followers there. Beyond the city there were links as far East as Shanghai where Triad gangs took an interest and as far West as Tibet where there was a link to Lhasa itself. And North led to Beijing. Here, Major Panic was a self-promoted leader of a sect of ancient Mongol monks who lived amongst the people of Communism’s Achilles’ heal ready for the day of their rightful vengeance.

The Major’s great joy, which would soon become apparent, was to play all of these well-armed and knowledgeable pawns in a global game of chess and rain chaos and damnation on the powers of the world. But, usually, not until after dinner.

The Womaniser.

Dinner had been particularly protracted that evening when Charles Pendergast entered his study, locked the door then slipped into his smoking jacket, tied his cravat and switched on his computer. He immediately went to his anonymous email account to see if he had any replies to his messages d’amour. There was just one, it read :

You bastard ! Leave my wife alone. You’re not even man enough to give out a proper email address ! It’s men like you that profit in your sordid pleasure from harassing women like my Donna. What the fuck has she done to you ? If I get my hands on you...

etc., etc.

Charles smiled, imagining the horror he had caused in his prey’s life. How she was probably afraid to even turn on a computer now. It wasn’t for the first time that he had achieved this effect though. In fact, Charles had a list of 23 names on a piece of paper next to his computer. These, he considered affected and infected. He had managed to project his evil sexuality upon distant women who he had never physically met yet psychologically scarred beyond the reach of any plastic surgeon. In fact, he knew for sure that one woman, Sheila, had had to be admitted to a Psychiatric hospital indefinitely. He had read with pleasure how she had wielded a kitchen knife at the delivery boy one fine Summer morning then ran after him down the street before collapsing in the foetal position when he had outpaced her. The news story which Charles had read had highlighted how she had no previous mental health problems and was considered a “moral citizen”. This had amused Charles, if only they knew what these women get up to on-line, he had thought.

Apart from harassing women in chat rooms on the Internet Charles also loved to hack into telephone dating lines. He would remain on the line until a couple were getting intimate. This wouldn’t usually happen straight away but after a few such calls. If Charles recognised that telephone numbers or addresses were about to be exchanged he would interrupt the amorous advances to declare his love for either of the potential partners. Sexuality played no part in his interference, he would equally side with the male or the female. He would latch onto this one participant, as appropriate, and quash their queer qualms or behold their brazen beauty ! He never failed to prise this person from their current focus of attention and redirect their love towards himself. Then, when the rebutted remnant had said their piece and departed Charles would laugh his own satisfied maniacal laugh and hang up too.

On chat lines Charles had a certain reputation. He assumed an English accent and took on the mantle of Lord Charles Pendergast. His antics were notorious, he was frivolous yet courteous, flirtatious yet sullen and aristocratic yet vulgar. He had even heard that his act had earned him the title of “The English Gentleman” amongst some of the agencies. But always he would choose one woman who regularly attended the line to victimise in his own discreet psychological way.

For instance, Doreen was a regular on Housewife’s Choice. There weren’t many women who regularly attended the get-togethers so Charles had had to choose carefully, weighing up the personalities of the female victims and gauging their responses to his probing, yet discreet, questions. As the lines were open to any caller Charles had to be careful not to show his hand. Over a period of three months Charles had built a profile of Doreen from her responses to other caller’s and his own questions. Once he obtained an address for Doreen from various clues she had unwittingly given Charles began a postal campaign. It began with anonymous love letters and ended with blackmail. He siphoned off all of Doreen’s savings, not for his own personal wealth, more to starve her so that she would be at the end of her tether. Then he sent an edited collection of her phone conversations to the local paper together with a donation of the blackmail money. They ran the story. Doreen was found the next day in a bath of crimson water.

The Sting.

It was a chill Autumn day as Frank sat on his porch looking out over his garden. The leaves lay round about the garden, their colours bathing his eyes in rustic beauty. The trees, laid bare, were preparing for the onset of Winter like the numerous creatures that usually inhabited this haven. His mind was on his evening pursuits. He was working on ousting a new politician, on harassing an unfaithful wife and hacking into the corporate web-site of a pharmaceutical laboratory. But the chill wind began to pick up so he decided to go back inside to the assembled guests and inevitable ridicule.

Over dinner Frank was noticeably preoccupied. He had had word from a national security agency that he should cease his intimidation of a certain politician he had been following with interest. They presently had not been able to reveal his true identity but were able to seize some of his personal assets in Norway, home of his political target. He had felt the resultant loss of revenue like a blow to the stomach but his empire certainly didn’t depend on this income. However, if, as they alleged, they were able to force his hand and reveal his real world name and location then this could seriously affect his business in other countries. To say nothing of his other pursuits.

Frank also had trouble with hired hands in the form of private security experts hired by his pharmaceutical target to trace his whereabouts. They were wise to his movements within their system and had begun to lock doors to him. He had even had to intercept a Trojan horse they had planted with the intention of wiping out his own records of their dealings. This time he had been ready for their act of defiance but next time they may catch him unawares. And, unbeknown to Frank, these security agents had been forming a psychological profile of their own. They were searching for his weaknesses and would strike with precision when the moment was right.

The final blow to Frank’s unblemished tirade of intimidation and blackmail had been his barring from some of the chat lines he frequented the most often. It seemed that they had banded together and formed a dragnet of dating agencies in order to lure him out into the open. But his solution had been to go underground and just phone the seedier lines that dealt in the more specialist sexual activities. These entrepreneurs seemed to operate from outside of the established acts. The disadvantage though was that he had had to stoop to lower levels of depravity in order to disturb these freakier clients.

Frank was on a very slippy slope. There was no way he could go back now even though he realised he was getting in way above his head. Instead he dug deeper and deeper into what would turn out eventually to be his own grave.

The Showdown.

Word soon spread amongst the various communities that Charles, The Major and Geoffrey inhabited that these characters were not to be trusted. This resulted, after much propaganda probably propagated by his numerous victims, by the banning of Frank’s personas from their various media lifelines. Internet Service Providers refused to carry his web zine, no one would advertise his media outlets or place their own advertisement with him, even the seedier chat lines would no longer take his calls and his own private networks were exposed by those who surreptitiously became aware of his nefarious activities. In short, he became trapped in his study with no way to vent the aggression and malice which had accrued throughout his dysfunctional life. The result was that one night after dinner Frank made various excuses and subsequently ventured into the open night to meet with his last contact from his on-line life.

Venessa was perfect for Frank. She was a high-flying media executive who had interests in an eco-warrior group based in San Francisco and even stranger interests in the bedroom as enacted on her slaves whom she co-ordinated through various chat lines. She had even shared with Frank that one of her submissive partners was an up and coming politician who was a candidate for state governor. How could Frank refuse ? It was almost too good to be true.

It was a very wet and dark night as Frank drove to the bar where he had arranged to meet Vanessa. As he secured his car in the parking lot and dashed towards the bar door his heart was beating quickly in expectation. He knew that his future happiness depended on the success of this meeting. He had to make a good impression with Vanessa. The bar was fairly quiet, there was only one woman sitting at the bar so Frank approached her.

“Vanessa ?” He enquired.

“Yes. You must be frank ?” Vanessa replied.

“Yes. Thank God I found you !” He exclaimed.

“Would you like a drink Frank ?” Vanessa asked.

“Beer, yes please. Let’s talk.” Frank suggested.

Frank got his beer and the couple retired to a cubicle at the back of the room. In this intimate dark space Frank poured out the contents of his most private of lives. He left no details to the imagination. Vanessa didn’t need to prise any information from Frank, he gave it up most freely like a gushing burst water main. Occasionally Vanessa would agree or state her incredulity but always Frank would swamp her with anecdote after anecdote until he was exhausted. At the end of his confessional Frank looked up and realised that the bar was closing.

“Well, what do you think ?” He asked of Vanessa.

“It’s quite incredible.” She stated. “You’re sure it’s all true ?” She asked.

“Of course it is.” He replied. “Who would make up something like that ?”

“Amazing. We should go now.”

“OK.” Frank agreed.

At this moment the bar doors burst open and a number of people entered the room. Uniformed Police Officers approached the night’s remnants, except Frank and Vanessa, and herded them into a corner. At the same time a group of black-clad paramilitaries sporting balaclavas and base-ball bats smashed the security cameras then man-handled Frank in to the centre of the room. Then, the final group, a grab-bag of punk looking women, began to beat Frank to the ground. Once he was curled up amongst the beer spills and cigarette butts they commenced to kick him all over his body until he passed out from the pain.

The Epilogue.

On leaving hospital, where he had been kept under armed guard, Frank was taken to court on a bleak mid-Winter’s day. A long list of charges were read out against him. Evidence collected to prove the prosecution’s case included damning taped telephone conversations, Internet chat logs, detailed notebooks, a myriad of computer data and the ultimate recorded confession to Vanessa who had been an Agent planted by the Federal Bureau. The only defence available to him was to plead insanity. After undergoing psychiatric evaluation the court heard that Frank suffered from a multiple-personality disorder and was both psychotic and delusional. The court sentenced Frank to remain indefinitely in a secure Psychiatric wing of a high-security prison where he would undergo treatment, probably for the rest of his life.

Whilst incarcerated in the ‘hospital’ Frank heard that his story had made the national news. His wife however sought a divorce and was, of course, successful and Frank’s family publicly disowned and disinherited him. And away from their taunting and teasing Frank for once felt happy with his life.

back to FIXon