Ever wondered why the groups are fed through a metal detector before being allowed to enter the room or hall? Next time you're sitting in the front row, take a look at the scar the Speaker covers up with foundation along his neck. That was the result of his dead-speech, two months ago.
Again, why there's never a buffet cart in the room; a scalding urn of coffee like you normally get at these classes? Take a look, if you can, at the bumpy skin-graft at the back of his neck and his shoulder.
You want more? What about the seven-and-a-half-inch gash, crusted to scar tissue, along his stomach that needed over thirty stitches to seal; an ordinary stainless steel butter knife from a miserable man that's still locked up awaiting parole. Those are the heady highs of where this course can take you. Think you've got it bad before you walk inside, then wait and see if you can survive the onslaught of vicious words from the master of ceremonies.
You want someone taking down a peg or two, sign them up an hour and a half with the Speaker to get your money's worth. Maybe, it's more along the lines of beating that subordinate into utter submission? The Speaker offers a half-day session for an extra zero at the end of the cheque.
Perhaps you're in the run-up to Christmas and can't think of that perfect gift for the man or woman that thinks they have it all? Why not give them the gift of realisation, man; hold up that mirror to their face before you smash it down repeatedly over their huge, over-inflated, heads.
When he reaches the next slide, he'll start on about his trophy wives and ex-model girlfriends; that fleet of fancy cars and country mansion estates with the private jet and helicopter on call. Why do you think he tells everyone this? So you know there's no way you can get to him once you're outside of those four walls. Every building is vetted before he agrees to attend by one of his security people; to be sure, he needs to know that there's more than one emergency exit, more than one back door. If at all possible, he demands a helipad on the roof and the CEO riding up in the elevator with him as extra insurance.
On the street, more than one car out front, at least another one round the back or idling in the alley; it would take a dedicated plot to catch him out. Follow him home if you can; that's if you choose the same vehicle he chose, irrespective of whether the rumours are to be believed that he has a crew of look-a-likes on the payroll, riding around in the dummy car. A twenty-foot perimeter fence greets each and every visitor to his home. Get this far and it's still not far enough; get over the fence and you've got the pack of dogs to contend with, the flood lit security system, the bullet-proof glass behind solid steel barriers.
Wherever he goes in the world, he travels private; thirty-five-thousand feet in the air he knows he can close his eyes and not expect some disgruntled suit clutching the plastic knife from the airplane meal or a shoe bomber ready to bury his foot in his behind.
This man won't let anyone near he doesn't want, including those specially selected to be in his employment; each and every one of his foot soldiers are screened six monthly and an independent psych evaluation done. Mine's due in a couple of week's time.
Ever wondered why there was always one person in the group he never picked on? That, my friends, is his ringer; since the last attack the Speaker has made sure there was always at least one of his people in the room at all times, it might be one of his limo drivers or his chef, his personal trainer or the gardener. For the past couple of weeks it's been me; between caring for my mother and driving his Bentley Continental, I've sat here watching the tormentor grind down the self-esteem of the room. Week in week out I've tried to switch off my brain to the flood of rotting acid, but even though it's never directed toward me, still I'm beginning to feel the pickling effects of his words.
Questioning everything in my life, including myself; the father I never had or knew rising up on that pedestal of bile as the cause and reason for my inherent failures as a human being I need so much to be him. My mother, that wilting illness stealing away her sanity as she sleeps, sometimes she sees me and screams; other times, more rarely now, she recognises me as her son and not the monster that left her.
And I've shown her pictures, after being stuck in these rooms with him; ingesting his ‘Father Knows Best' speeches and genetic lines of failure flow-charts, pleading with her that this is the man who fathered me; telling her, using his words up there on the screen, that this is the man that did this to her, to us; he is the reason for where we are in life, the blame resting squarely on his third-degree burned shoulders.
As he refuses the toilet break, grinning at those whose legs are crossed in concentration, I feel the envelope in my back pocket and think about reaching for it, ripping it open to read my destiny; the Speakers hair from the back seat of his car I drive him around in collected up into a little plastic bag and sealed until I handed it over to the lab to test alongside my own and my mothers. The DNA results, I carry around with me the proof I need to stand up and put a stop to everyone's torment except my own.
Only, I can't seem to find the motivation I need. It's like he knows what I'm trying to do; it's like every class is another doubt in my head, another second-thought, another finger pointed at me that I cannot win and never will.
It's almost break time, most of these worthless souls probably won't return, some can't even bring themselves to move from their seats, they're so traumatised. The Speaker waits for them to limber out into the adjoining room while he disappears through a different exit and away before anyone can latch onto him or summon the sheer will to react. Until you're here in this room with him, you will never get the feeling of utter hopelessness he succeeds in instilling into every person present.
Bladders to bursting point, he dismisses his quarry with a sneer; even at your lowest ebb or most vengeful breaking point, the body must first relieve itself before anything else.
My hand inches from my back pocket and I feel his sour warm breath next to my face; "Start the car."
The side door opens and Le Fleur swaggers inside to mind the Speaker down toward the fire exit while I run ahead. His people outside along the corridor, building security with their heads down crackling orders.
That feeling I get sometimes and can't shake of an impending attack, thinking back to all the seminars and classes and lectures and functions; all those people he's pissed off over the years and why nobody has thought about a three-pronged attack strategy.
Reaching the door about to press the bar: a shriek from behind me. The door swings outward and I'm sent sprawling with the police already here before anyone had a chance to call them; sirens just audible in the distance; a man that looks like the Speaker, slamming down the bonnet of the limo before rushing away; an explosion rocking the hall and coating me in a shower of concrete and plaster as I'm forced back with the blast. Colliding with the wall, winded by the sounds of palpable chaos.
And, through the fog a shadow of a shape towers over me as I lay dying. A voice, so full of compassion and love, I relax enough to let out a convulsing breath. "Let me help you with that." Against my static skin, a hand reaches down and rips the envelope from my back pocket. "Look how far you've come and, still, you couldn't bring yourself to open it."
Sprinkling down, like the useless blood seeping from my broken veins, the shredded paper tears of the father I'll never know for sure either way. Beneath the DNA tickertape parade, my insides drop to sub-zero. This is it.
"And, don't think this car bomb was meant for you, either." The Speaker's still there, wearing me down as I'm fading away. "Nobody would waste their time on such an insignificant speck of matter as you."
The real sirens are getting closer; the real police are almost here. Maybe I'll be saved, after all.
More shadows of shapes of people I should recognise from the orientation class circle us; I can smell smoke, I can hear bedlam, soaking up their hushed voices standing over me, deciding my fate.
"If you're not back in work this afternoon, don't bother coming back tomorrow."
