Wolf
March 15th, 2043
I enjoy my lovemaking like I love my whisky: with a little burn. Now that´s said (I always wanted to start a paragraph with that phrase), I can write on this new log of mine about whats been picking on my spine for the last couple of days.
Of course, I´m gonna do this whilst under the influence of some scotch, which is indeed the main reason you´ll think I´m some cocky douchebag talking wonders about myself& and you are probably right.
I´ve always been considered an old soul, and that´s not me saying it, it is the saying of people who have been letting me know it for the past thirty years. Loner? Sure. I´ve got a preference for being all by myself from time to time, along with my daily non-negotiable fifth cup o´ coffee, particularly when it comes to giving tough decisions a thought, and I´ve got a lot of those on my plate these days.
Add some Jazz to jazz up (see what I did there?) my extensive thought processing and there you have me: a semi-drunk jazzy coffee-addict boring lone wolf who thinks way more than he speaks, and when he does, he seems utterly cold and arrogant, and maybe he is. I won´t blame you if you add the cocky douche part to the description.
So. They say your life is your story; that you have to write well and edit often. I say you have to think before you write, and then write better to compensate whatever shitty thing youd mistakenly written. Editing is for pussy.
Editing means burying mistakes you shouldn´t have even committed in the first place and you can´t win shit doing that. Stop wasting your time and start thinking a little bit more in order to annihilate your idiocy. And if you already do, good for you. Keep it up.
I´m in a hotel right now. I´ve always enjoyed writing, for it provides me with a rare feeling of calmness and reassuring comfort. Both of those ingredients are undisputedly required for that one great recipe called serene and mindful action. Actions which, I´m now trying to cook as I´ve spent the entire night up on these decisions that, as I said, I´ve got to make.
I am indeed a loner, but today I wish I had my friends around to relax a little bit. Trust is earned, and I don´t really trust that many people. It´s always preferable to have a very small circle of trustworthy chosen ones than being the almighty beloved JFK. Look how that turned out for him. You see? Anyhow, the thing is I took a shuttle which flew me seventy thousand feet above earth to arrive at London, where I can´t sleep because of fucking Mr. Jet Lag.
Hey, not complaining. Complaining leads to nothing of value. I´m merely listing facts. Yeah, England is beauty and all that, I ought to enjoy it, but it´s not time for petty tourism. I´ve been here quite a few times, anyway. At least, coffee is always there for me, so buh-bye tiredness! And by ´buh-bye´ I mean, fuck you.
Back to me stating how I enjoy my whisky right in the first line of this book, I´m going to tell you about Gemma Barrett, simply renamed by me as Bun and no, not after the bread, but after her hairstyle. Thats how she used to wear it back in the day when we were young and unstructured, on those late night meetings we would have. And she would call me Wolf. She said I someday I´d become a lone wolf. Hell right she was.
Calling her Bun seemed far better than Bum, enunciation which would´ve ended up with a certain slap on my face and then a couple of nervous laughs. We were pals after all. Then, one day, she unexpectedly moved here to England and all of a sudden, I´d never seen her again. And I did not try to reach for her, until today. Twenty years later.
She was not an easy girl to handle, I ought to admit. She used to be a tough cold hearted and classy lady, who acted accordingly to her nature. I don´t blame her. On the contrary, I liked that. If drinking scotch gave me the same feeling as tap water does, I wouldn´t even contemplate sipping it. You get the point. She was one of those women who would rather be one´s shot of whisky than everyone´s cup of tea.
You may be thinking ´´Heck why is this guy writing about someone he met twenty years ago, when he supposedly has that much on his plate? And why does he mention alcohol all the time anyway?´´ and if you´ve come this far with your reading, you deserve to be told why.
It´s rather simple. She was one of the five people I cared about, and from one day to another she was gone. I´ll be quite neat and fill you in: the other four are dead. Plane crash. That´s why Im in London, drinking and writing. She´s the only one left.
Bun was the motiff I first created my only successful company. I´d already tried before meeting her, but they had resulted in stillborn enterprises of no value, whose names I sold as shelf companies. You could say she gave birth to one of the most brilliant marvels of modern engineering: a piece of hardware with the capability of transmitting fully coded scents via light pulses, through fiber optics.
Basically, she figured out how to put the smell of anything you may think of as a binary code on a computer, which when receiving these codes then deciphering them, mixes up certain basic scents in just the right proportions to create perfectly accurate scents. She was smarter than anyone I had ever met.
Now, perhaps you are starting to understand the impact this had when it became available to the world, but you´d fell short. Many people afore us had tried to develop this technology, and they became outraged when a fresh out of college girl placed herself above them all Harvard and MIT people, and implemented the solution to the problem.
We had agreed I´d fully fund the enterprise, but we would split any future earnings. We made billions. Eighteen, being exact. And that was just by the end of the first year. We didn´t want to delegate our work and start living like gods on top of the Olympus.
With great money came great responsibility, and we knew that, so we aimed for philanthropic causes which relevance was of global awareness. Tacitly, we had set our higher goal: helping people. Scent transmission became an irrelevant beginning as we started funding start-ups which had the same goal as ours, and after grown up, they profited us.
So we did, and three years after our great success, with four billion in revenues per month, the entire media industry started spreading bullshit about us out of nowhere.
Things like that Bun and I were secretly married or that, while being it, I was having an affair with my secretary (though I have to admit Meredith is pretty hot, our relationship has always been strictly professional), that my mother had cirrhosis or even that Buns dog had attacked a black boy because it was trained to do so. I almost forgot that they did also publish fake research claiming that our technology was harmful and most certainly produced lung cancer .
After the initial shock these attacks had produced on our company and ourselves, we started to investigate the reasons behind them. Who was the one behind those attacks? What on earth was wrong about our work? We didn´t know. We hadn´t even received any complaints about what we had devoted ourselves to perfect. And nobody could possibly hate us that much. It would have been ridiculous.
And then the repercussions struck us like a bullet. Our stocks went down free-fall and our investors started to panic. We did solve it by addressing the press, once theyd surrounded both our houses. Slowly and steadily, our stocks went up again and money gladly began to flow towards the green numbers we were comfortable with. These attacks didn´t happen ever again in the years that followed.
But, as I said, one morning she didn´t show up at the office. No text, message, or explanation of any kind. Then a second morning and a third one. I started to worry, so I called her best friend Stacey, who told me Gemma was in London and not planning to return.
The fact she didn´t tell me she was going to leave everything behind... hit me as an artillery round. And I don´t really know why I allowed her to go without trying to reach out for her. It almost felt like I had to let her do whatever she pleased without any interference. After all, she had to put up a harsh time with all that scandal some fucker had put us through.
So, in the end, I did let her go. And hoped, maybe even expected, she would someday return. But as Shakespeare once wrote, ´´ expectation is the root of all heartache´´ , and damn right he was.
So all that takes us back to this fucking hotel in London...
-To be continued...-
