The Valley of 1000 Hills

Hi there, friends and neighbours.

Yesterday was a 4:30 wake-up call - a 6:00 flight to King Shaka International Airport and then a whole day out in Cato Ridge. I was sent to do research for a script I'm writing for a client. Unfortunately things didn't work out as planned and so I ended up joining the client on a CSI outing, where they donated bags to a local school, duvets to a United States-established orphanage and treats to a bunch of kids at a daycare centre.

Out in "The Rural". You can hear the capitalisation as they say it. "The Rural" happens to nestle in Kwa Zulu Natal's Valley of 1000 Hills - a breathtaking stretch of Africa that explains why so much blood's been spilled for this land.

I managed to take some great pics of the events but can't share those with you, as the client owns the IP on those. I may, however show you the lay of the land which is, I believe, in the public domain.

The only thing that really sucked was that I spent most of the day sucking on an asthma pump. But thank God for that, because it distracted me from the fact that I was also boiling in my own body fat. I'm sure I distracted some pilots when I finally sat my ass down at King Shaka, waiting for the 20:15 flight back to Joburg.

"Hey, Koos... Wat die vok maak daai beacon daar?"

But just then, Gauteng stretched its loving hand out and gave me a taste of home right there and then: OR Tambo staff decided to down-tools. So just about all flights were delayed. This dispite the fact I wasn't even flying to OR Tambo. Give me Lanseria any day.

So now, sitting here radiating heat to such a degree my PC monitor looks dim, and listening to the nicotene rattling loose from my bronchioles (by the way, I haven't had a smoke since December 24th), a calm, almost Zen insight has gently washed over me: As beautiful as it is, they can fucking keep it. I guess I just have to dodge bullets here in good ol' Jozi.

And on the writing front, although I've really been meaning to get back down to it, I've been sucked in by Joe Hill's debut novel: Heart-Shaped Box. I picked it up on a sale and have hardly put it down since. For those of you who don't know, his old man is none other than Stephen King (Joe's full name is Joseph Hillstrom King - named after a unionist). To say you can't see his dad's influence could only mean you've only watched a King movie and never read a King book. But it would be just as unfair not to say that Joe's got a confident voice of his own. I'm actually quite interested to read "Horns" (his second novel) now, even though I'd previously just given it an unfair glancing-over.

Brilliant writer. I recommend him to all of you who care for my opinion.

Anyhow, that's about all I have to say. I'm hoping to have at least one new short story whacked out by the end of the weekend.

If there are any of you out there reading "Consummation" and actually enjoying it, here's the next little bit. If you aren't enjoying it, feel free to stop reading 'round about now.

And with that - have a good one.

"Consummation" (Part 3)
By Sean James Bosman

William “Billy” Bowman (Jr.) cracked open a second beer, stabbed the mute button on the remote and dropped on to the tattered couch in front of the buzzing Panasonic TV set.

It farted a cloud of dust, and he shifted to get the hard coil of a sprung spring out his ass. He took a sip and helped his decrepit spaniel up on the cushion beside him. The dog twisted as it sat up, slowly reaching its dripping snout towards his face, planting a sloppy pooch-kiss over his mouth. Billy gently swatted her away: she smelled like a damp carpet.

“Lie down, Nutty. Lie down.”

He watched as the dog performed a breathtaking feat of acrobatics; twisting around three times before plopping down with her wagging stump pushed firmly against his thigh. Its sad eyes looked at him from beneath its heavyset eyebrows. Then it turned away, resting its head on its forelegs.

Bowman patted her head then turned back to the manila folder open in front of him. The previous beer can, now crumpled in the middle, stood to one side like the leaning tower of Pizza, with a dam of condensation welling beneath it.

He looked at the photo she’d given him, then at the crudely scrawled itinerary and back at the photo. It was a wedding picture. Mrs. Harrison was radiant, the side of her face pressed up against a square jaw. The man at her side was easily ten years her senior, roguishly handsome with broad shoulders and hardly a neck.

He ruffled through the sheets and pulled out the CV. He read the section “Service History” twice and sighed.

He had heard of Ferdinand Harrison before. Harrison was constantly featured in business insets – interviews, biographies and commentaries. He was practically a tycoon, loaded. He’d started his property and real estate development company in his late twenties and it had started flourishing after its first year: a miracle considering the economic crises.

Of course, there had been speculations: ties to the mafia, Al Quaida, terrorist organizations, blood diamonds and, of course, the drug industry. But all of that had just been speculation and had proven to be quite an embarrassment to the Department of Justice after they’d turned up nada after sixteen months of inquiry.

But there had never been any mention of this before. Nothing.

Bowman sighed, dropping the CV back on the pile after he’d read it again.

He looked at Nutty as the dog snapped its head in his direction, tail reawakened.

“This isn’t going to be easy,” he said, scratching her floppy ear.

***