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Jan. 20th, 2011|02:59 pm |
Who had a bigger boat, wore the better outfit, got the best table seemed all that mattered. There were decade-old feuds over casual cracks long forgotten by everyone but the principals. They circled each other still—waiting to identify a weakness—looking for somewhere and some way to strike. People jockeyed for position, cut each other's throats over the most petty, nonsensical shit imaginable. This is from the people who, it gradually began to dawn on me, actually run the world.
I was lingering over the buffet on a Dr. No-size yacht with an appropriately Bond-esque name: huge interior docking inside the hull, a six-man submarine, landing space for two helicopters, and Francis Bacon originals in the crapper. I looked up from the sushi and got the impression that anybody there—any of the guests dancing, schmoozing, chatting politely at the party—would have watched my throat getting cut without the slightest change in expression.
I was a bad person in a bad place, with another bad person, surrounded by other, possibly even worse people. |
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