The Pearly King 3

"Perhaps he was dangerous, aggressive, but he was certainly not capable of murder, no, he'd rant and rave, perhaps, but could probably be cooled off with the offer of a drink. That was the beauty of him.
I think I'd seen a glimpse of him before, the shadow or the hint of him, in the dank, rain-wet main street, or up a side-alley, lingering near the entrance to the flea-market, glowering at passers-by. He was exactly the kind of old fool who'd take to haranguing the public in semi-coherent rants, exhorting them to love Jesus, buy some product, or merely exorcising his own demons at them.
His grey hair, his mouth loose and watery, either pursed in rage or formed into an unstable smile, begging or selling, cursing or blessing, rage or sadness in his eyes.
He'd at times be accompanied by a mystery female, equally amorphous and wearied, as full of grimness and ambiguity, bleary-eyed and grey-haired in like measure... Till they seemed to be one! Twins merged into one disreputable hobo, one performing saint, descended solidly from aeons of magicians and tramps, shamans and fools!
The tramp does tricks! And has potions for sale, and smiles to his own secrets. A bum to perform benign hexes, a gypsy bedecked in mirrors, singing the ancient songs that the soothsayers sang, handing out significant scraps of paper, scrawled with the secrets of the earth. A harmless eccentric, the authorities say!
He'd fit in at the fair, being the carnival king, the sideshow attraction. His face lit by lurid carousel lights, his sayings submerged under the klaxons and pop songs. Handing out incomprehensible leaflets, promising heaven on Earth in new and incorruptible forms. His eyes, full of a secret omniscience, in his dark face. He's the keeper of the freakshow, silent parter of the curtain in the chamber of horrors, he opens his shirt to reveal the Book of Revelation, tattooed earnestly in severe scarlet.
He walks moaning on overcast days, carrying a placard that insists upon the destruction of the world. He'll put on a sandwich board, pin scripture to his arms and hat, if it means redemption, or even to announce a new sale of dark merchandise. You've seen street performers, preachers, soapbox politicians? He seemed to be all of them in one! Morris dancers, tied with hankies, clicking sticks? Mystery dervishes that appear in streets, dragon-dancers that leap around in heavy costume?
The one-man-band, shiny reflective surfaces pinned to every inch, blazing colours, face coarse and restless, banging drum, clashing cymbal, blowing horn? Or, at last, the Pearly King, emblazoned in a thousand shiny buttons, casting refractions and shadows everywhere, from his shoes to his cap, his fat belly, his mouth shouting, raucous and heartfelt, an outmoded tune!?"

The Pearly King 2

Well, thought as I read this, all that is very non-specific. All that about "mystery"! What exactly is the nature of this place that he refers to as a flea-market? Why should he be checked at the door? Is the interior utterly dark, or does it flash with blinding colours, and resound with a babel of tongues? Does it contain angel dust, whizz bang, flash gordon, arcade machines, wizards with sparkling incantations? But these are only my associations...
And now the narrative is getting to the point! "... but this afternoon was to be special. It was to be my first encounter with the Pearly King".
"He stood in the depth of the room, partially obscured by shadow, illuminated now and again by a flashing light, his outline confused by the gesticulating arms and bobbing heads of the crowds that filled the fleamarket.
And yet he seemed solid, ominous, and meaningful, standing apart from the crowd, smiling softly and ambiguously, and looking, or so it seemed, in my direction... Why he struck me so profoundly I can't guess. The place was full of odd characters, weird hangers-on, misfits who would arrive suddenly for a few days, and then disappear.
It was only that there was something about him that was inexplicably bizarre, perhaps a taint of madness, of grizzled eccentricity, but all under the cloak of an almost beatific calmness, as embodied in his ambiguous smile.

The Pearly King 1

Heading into the centre of town where the main shopping area is, ambling along distractedly.
I have in my hand a flask of tea from which I am taking the occasional swig. I also have with me a short story written by a friend of mine. This friend of mine plays the guitar, and writes, now and then, the odd humorous anecdote-filled story. This one had been neatly printed-out and paper-clipped together. Its title was "The Pearly King".
Onwards I wander beside the busy road, engrossed in the story, flicking over the page to read on. Sipping the lukewarm tea. I should mention also that this friend of mine was perhaps partial to the occasional abuse of a substance, of which substances derived from the hemp plant formed the major part.
Now it seems this friend of mine had embarked upon a fictional narrative, inasmuch as the narrator of the story was not himself... but only some unexplained "I".
The narrator explained how one afternoon, many years ago, he had chanced to roam idly, as I was now doing, toward the centre of town. This I assumed being my friend's fictional creation. But who was the narrator? To that I could only answer: A third party, not my friend, not the author, not necessarily a fiction, but someone more lucid, clearer, less humorous than my friend. He was the un-named "I" channelled through my friend!
The narrative explained how he had wandered around the town, through its commercial centre, from shop to shop, mingling with crowds on the plazas, having not much direction or object. Let's say the fellow was in his 20's, for so he appears to my mind's eye. It was the autumn of the year 1975:
"Being at a loose end, I wandered through the streets, window-shopping, my mind distracted. In those days I divided my time between my girlfriend's house and the occasional trip to the local fleamarket, where plentiful bargains could be picked up, and which had something of a reputation as a converging-point for local characters. The sights I had seen there! I'd come down the road from my girlfriend's flat, having kissed her goodbye in the evening, and seek out the back alley entrance to the fleamarket.
Always a party atmosphere in that chaotic, warehouse-sized room! Always a sense of mystery! There'd be no-one to check you at the door, a mere glance at the patrons who had spilled onto the pavement, something exchanged between the eyes, was all that was required to gain entry. Still, you felt always the vibrant exclusivity and mystery of the place, the atmosphere of solemn comradeship, brewing like a lull before a great storm, like a gasp for breath before a violent fit of laughter..."

Soap Opera 2

Watching the examination closely is a local kid. Name of Joe. He regards the scene, detached and bored. Slightly intellectual, might be a misfit. He gazes with passive, dark eyes. Thin, gawky, a certain inscrutability and mawkish silence, but a silence which might precede a violent revelation. Something of the religious mystic about him. Eyes and hair dark, of Mediterranean or Middle Eastern parentage.
He lies on the cool boards, flat on his slim stomach, his shirt open, watching the medical examination with eyes wide with boredom. He hearkens to the words of Doctor Jeff, who throughout the examination throws back sweet, cloying words to Joe, delivered in puzzling couplets from the side of his mouth, like lying riddles. His mellifluous, gentle voice.
"You'll be a great man one day Joe. You're born to it. Did you ever dream of riches? Of millions? All that'll be yours one day, and more".
His voice drones on, weaving a spell on Joe, who seems to picture it all, like a pageant before his eyes.
"This is a country where men can strike gold, and be kings, but freer than kings ever were before. D'you want beauty Joe? D'you want sex? A luxury apartment Joe, a yacht, champagne in your veins. Think about it Joe. Your face on every front page, your name on every breath, your heart as full as a bank vault, your blood enriched, gold bullion like shingle on a beach. Joe, the world is in your heart and you can win it."...
Joe is awed, frightened, wondering.
.... Dr Jeff turns his face away from him and his monologue runs into a dry mumble. As though the river of his discourse had come suddenly to stony, barren ground.
"Next there'll be a dry run. Fortune, the old whore, abandoning men. Man made humble again. In the far future. All the gold eroded, all the young girls gone. Ice water in your veins, no boat at anchor. Your face on no front cover..."
Joe has become perplexed, and is straining to listen.
"The inside of a cell, the fall of an empire, the rise and fall, the final collapse! Where then your finery? O, the public are fickle swine. Whom they love today they revile tomorrow. They have executed lesser kings. The poisonous mob-baiters, that write newspapers, taunts, calls for resignation. Joe, my boy, there is no idol that cannot be torn down. Look at the faces of the fat cats when the cream disappears. Yes now son, all this is to come, the world in your heart that it will kill you to lose!"
Joe looks up to see Dr Jeff's face. Shadows in the eyes, unsmiling. The prophecy complete.

Soap Opera 1

Golden endless sunshine of New South Wales. Suburban frivolity and a certain sexiness.
Here comes the hunk-hero, the main event, fresh from modelling agency into daytime TV. Surfer-type. Athletic, clean, not entirely empty-headed. Hair longish, blonde-streaked, dried and honeyed by a lifetime under sun. Teeth impossibly white and uniform, as though tipex'd. Could be a motor mechanic.
Up from the beach and into the local café, an airy wood-panelled building, old and honourable, where boards and salty apparatus are stacked and where hang the plaques of past Iron Men, their tough names scribed in gold.
His name is Doctor Jeff. He's there to appeal to the female contingent of the TV audience, sunplashed and bright of tooth, efficient but roguish, white coat and stethoscope.
Here for an examination. The girls who works serving drinks behind the counter succumbs to his bedside manner, quiet, courtly, wicked gleam in eye. She's a snub-nosed, sturdily built brunette, large-bosom'd, and she begins to unbutton her loose shirt.
She reclines easily, her body slightly tensed, along the length of the floor, while the doctor, grinning warmly, stoops over her.
Ah, a game of doctors and nurses. Doctor Jeff listens, slightly excited, to the thump of her heart. He sounds out her chest with discreet but precise taps between the rising swell of her breasts. Her mouth opens to receive his thermometer, which after a few minutes Dr. Jeff retrieves and examines closely, always maintaining his charming and comforting smile.

Transmission 2

Transmission: Later in the evening, an odd variety package of unknown origin. Forgettable, quirky, from an obscure production company. Like fill-in shows they stick on when a programme has under-ran. Wanna see Hollywood's Greatest Stunts?
One individual is set to repeat his own record in bicycling across a high wire. This stunt has taken a special twist; he would bicycle along an electricity line. This is tricky- It entails carrying up the bike to the top of the pylon and balancing it effectively on the cable... crowds of spectators below. The pylon stands in open, scrubby countryside.
The performer after placing the bike-wheels firmly on the line hesitates for a good few minutes... now perhaps it would be easier with a unicycle?... a motorbike even!...
An amazingly precise equilibrium must be maintained if the rider is not to plummet to his death, the rate of speed must also be consistent if a smooth passage is to be gained. Tires should nicely absorb the lethal electrical voltage.
(Apparently the stunt was accomplished.... although trick photography may have been used).

Transmission 1

Transmission: A plush, artfully-made-up studio, foreground shows a comfy red sofa against a yellow backdrop. There sits the pop singer, slouched relaxedly forward, but as though ready to spring into action, her fountaining cascade of hair, her limbs bare.
Her mouth playfully loose, as though playing pierced tongue against palette. She conveys jumpiness, excitability, as though ready to jump up and wrestle someone.
Sitting next to her is a Dame or Duchess of somewhere or other.
We tune in half-way through the conversation, an informal dialogue or the pop singer is interviewing. Her interview skills are not well developed, lines of inquiry somewhat flat, and too ready to burst into coarse laughter.
This Dame what's-her-name sits fragile and dour, in fact she looks slightly frightened, a partial downturn of mouth, her old wrists resting limply on her knees. Now this one belongs to the upper echelons of society, she's perhaps a distant cousin of the Queen.
So aristocratic is she that she has seemed to transcend class and become frozen into absolute rigidity, like a pristine, priceless piece of crystal. As though even to speak would be partially to lower herself.
The pop singer, playful and provocative, and at the same time brash and loud-mouthed, irks the lady somewhat. After a few polite and well-delivered phrases, an outmoded witticism in the best possible taste, the pop singer interrupts: "Yer accent's very posh. D'you ever get embarrassed by it?"
At last a serious line of questioning.