Here’s a small section of a little story I have been working on. Enjoy!
It could be said that there’s nothing extraordinary about dying, it’s a process that every person will taste. However, if the word is broken down into fragments then the meaning can truly shine; yes, death is ordinary but there’s something extra that occurs in that split second that banishes away the ordinary nature of the grim reaper.
It’s Earth-shattering; its vibrations create a wave that pulsate throughout generations of family and friends. The light dimming in one person’s eyes can alter the path of another. Therefore, death is extraordinary.
The circumstances around said death elevates its status even further. For example, an old man dying in his bed, while sad, is not the most extraordinary death. Indeed, the lives of his family may never be the same again, but its impact is not far reaching enough. For a death to straddle the stratosphere of extraordinariness it must be unexpected. The unexpected nature of the death is intensified by the age of the victim- the younger the better. Also, if death’s prey is a public figure then you’re one step closer to reaching the greatest heights of extraordinariness.
The final key factor is the process by which death comes to claim its prize. Dying in your sleep, while a wonderfully comforting thought to the bereaved, is insanely boring, as are heart attacks, strokes and cancer. The best deaths, and I use best here to mean the most exciting therefore extraordinary, occur in the strangest of places. For example, in the bedroom of a 75 year old prostitute, while wearing a nappy, a blindfold, a horse’s tail and hanging upside-down. These were the circumstances that compelled death to take the life of Nicholas Packard, MP for Yorkshire Dales.
His death came as quite a surprise to all, especially to Madame de Plunge, who in all her years of “servicing” the general public, had never had a client expel on her, except for an elderly gentleman of the cloth, though she had charged him extra for that pleasure.
However, it was the lovely Mrs Packard that received the biggest shock from news of the unfortunate event. Up until the very moment she had received the phone-call about Nicholas’ untimely demise, she had believed he was completely a-sexual; only thrice had he wished to know Lillian in the biblical sense. Through each attempt the next generation of Packards were created: Louis Dudley, Carol-Anne and Michael, each more lily-white than the last. It was now patently obvious to Lillian that Nicholas had never seen her as a sexual-object of desire; to the man she was only a tool he utilised for his public persona, thank god his best friend was busy sexualising her, in numerous positions.
The news of his death compelled his children to cast aside their iPhones, and feign a sense of grief for all of fifteen minutes. For even though they would refer to Nicholas as father, he was never a constant figure in their lives, the allure of an infamy caused by being a Tory MP was far more compelling than being a father. Thus a void of emotion flourished in each child when the news was delivered. However, like their late father they too cared for their public personas, therefore their acting abilities became second to none.
“My god, his children seem completely destroyed by the news. Those poor darlings.”
Nicholas’ death also had a profound effect on his boss, Prime Minister, Edward Wilson. Before that messy situation leaked all over the front page, Nicholas Packard had only been a shit-eating grin that roamed the corridors of parliament- unimportant, unintelligent, and uninteresting. However, now Nicholas had become the noun that dangled from his tongue, twisting and bending every fathomable topic around that gaudy geist. Every press junket and every Prime Minister’s Questions had effectively been turned into the Nicholas Packard hour; never before had a PM had to state that their government was neither pro- nor anti-BDSM. The stress, and unrelenting bondage-related jokes had caused Edward to unravel, threatening a release of his own dark, dirty secrets. Nicholas Packard may have been a naughty little boy but Edward Wilson had been far naughtier.
Edward’s secrets may have leaked sooner in the media if the press weren’t too busy flogging the corpse of Nicholas Packard- one activity Madame de Plunge had found he didn’t enjoy. It became a sport amongst journalists to uncover the most sordid details, in the wittiest manner, though what passed for wit differed in each paper; in The Guardian wit was measured by literary merit. High praise was awarded for sneaking in sections from Sade. The Sun, unsurprisingly, went in a slightly different direction; when it was discovered what Nicholas had a fetish for nipple play, The Sun went with the now infamous headline- How Packard Stole Last Titmus.
The public consciousness grew more and more aroused with the details surrounding the death of Nicholas, after-all it wasn’t every day that a highly-regarded member of the public died from, what was casually referred to as, first degree pony-related, submissive-asphyxiation. Television screens, newspapers, magazines, rap songs, even the latest Will Self novel were filled with references to Nicholas Packard- the Ministerial Pervert, as Jan Moir affectionately dubbed him. One could not escape the barrage of Packard related buggery. The Daily Mail, of course, detailed the story to new depths of depravity.
Every tiny detail was scrutinised, with articles from the style of ties Packard wore and how these related to varying activities of a BDSM nature, to stories about how his stance showed he was a submissive in the boudoir, were regularly written. Nobody was safe from the pen of the press. If you had ever been in contact with Nicholas at any point in your life, even if only for a brief moment, you would be hounded down; even the elderly lady that had bought a table from the Packard family ten years prior was asked by Letts if she believed that the table’s sheen was caused by naughty, unadulterated arse-rubbing-up-and-down shenigans.
However, it was Nicholas’ ex-personal assistant that found herself spread-eagle across the pages of the tabloids, metaphorically and literally for one issue of Nuts. Dubbed the Madame of Westminster, Minnie Mumford was accused of arranging all of Nicholas’ “appointments”. Naturally, this gained her the notoriety of being a pimp, a role she more than played up to in the media, catapulting her to dizzyingly-bright heights of Z-list celebrity-ness. Accompanied by Kerry Katona, the-fat-one-from-that-boy-band, and some orange Oompa-Loompa from a reality television show, Minnie rode the waves of ITV2 mediocrity. Fronting shows such as 50 Shades of Waa-Hey!- a reality-based, celebrity show with a kinky twist, and a memorable episode of Countdown, the ex-personal assistant found herself drilled into the lobe of every television addict. No cheap, tacky party was a party without Minnie.
Nicholas Packard’s death was extraordinary. His death revealed his greatest secrets, and caused ripples across the world. However, Nicholas wasn’t alone. Everybody has a secret, and every secret had to be told.
A-Musing Thought 