Pleasure Island by Anna-Lou Weatherley

move the receiver away from his ear.
    â€˜So far so good?’ McKenzie enquired.
    â€˜No complaints from me,’ the woman responded, ‘The arm was a sublime surprise. And the pyrotechnics … wow …’
    â€˜I knew you would approve,’ he responded, ‘although I have to say, I can’t take full credit for the arm because it wasn’t entirely intentional –’
    â€˜The arm,’ the American interjected, ‘was unexpected and … frankly … well … we agreed no one would be physically hurt. This was supposed to be a purely psychological experiment after all.’ They both knew how ridiculous this statement sounded, that he was using supposed professional interests as a smokescreen for his own personal perversions.
    â€˜I realise it had to be authentic, but I agree, it was perhaps a little too much.’
    Another of the gentleman spoke, though McKenzie wasn’t sure which one: ‘What were you thinking, McKenzie? We weren’t consulted on this; I don’t see it anywhere in the script.’
    McKenzie cleared his throat. What these schmucks failed to understand was that he was calling the shots in this game; they were merely enablers and voyeurs, paying guests at his party. This was history in the making and frankly they should consider themselves lucky enough to be part of such a pioneering moment.
    â€˜You disapprove?’
    â€˜As a matter of fact, yes, I do; breaking his arm was gruesome and unnecessary, but what I object to the most is the fact that we weren’t consulted on it.’
    McKenzie stifled an incredulous laugh; the words horse, door and bolted springing to mind.
    â€˜Well, I loved it,’ the woman cut in, ‘such beautiful … suffering . And the reaction … the horror, the fear on their faces, especially the young Barbie doll, though I wouldn’t be too fooled by the bimbo act; something tells me there’s more to her than she’s letting on.’
    â€˜I agree,’ a male voice interjected, ‘she’s intriguing, and so is her husband, or at least the dynamic between them is; I would like to see what their marriage is really made of.’
    â€˜And you will,’ McKenzie cut in. ‘I assure you I have chosen these delegates carefully, and soon you will understand why.’
    â€˜Well, I’m guessing we know why you chose the journo,’ one of the men said, ‘after that expose she wrote on you I’m surprised you didn’t have her bumped off. She was hardly complimentary after all.’ The caller chuckled.
    Martin McKenzie loosened the collar of his pristine, white, Tom Ford shirt, one of the identical hundreds that he owned with a growing sense of irritation.
    The gentleman was indeed correct in his assumption as to why he had selected Angelika Deyton as one of his guests. Six or so months ago she had come to interview him, ostensibly to discuss the global domination of his most-recent reality TV creation, ‘ Sing When you’re Winning ’, a hybrid mix of part-talent, part-game show. He had been rather taken with her, in all honesty. She was attractive and wore her intellect like a badge; he’d been impressed by her sharp wit and direct, fearless style of questioning– a breath of fresh air from all the other sycophantic idiots with their predictable, inane questions. As such he had rather enjoyed sparring with her. In retrospect, however, he realised she had duped him; she had come with the intention of doing a hatchet job, her friendly-yet-challenging approach merely a cunning ruse to lull him into a false sense of security, thereby dropping his guard a fraction more than he would normally allow. Martin McKenzie considered himself to be infinitely smarter than anyone he knew, not least some household hack with a pretty face and nice ass, and because of this he chose to conduct all interviews sans representatives. He didn’t need some