Fiction_The Lady Vick

The Bartle family, you see, was neither rich nor regal. They wouldn’t shit on such foul adjectives. Any kin blessed with the Bartle name was birthed into billionaire breaths.

Legend brings us back to Mackenzie’s great grandfather, Macalister Steward Bartle, who found a small lump sum of fourteen pence on the pebbled shores of Brighton Beach in England 1835. Macalister saved those coins for days, weeks, years, and would later pass them onto Mackenzie’s grandfather, the dubious playboy Louis Camden Bartle.

Louis Camden, proud owner of the befitting moniker ‘Limelight Louie’, swindled women out of jewels and love for nearly 105 years aboard the great ship Constantina. Louis Camden was the oldest Bartle to ever live.

When the wrinkled seduction master finally kicked it he left the massive Bartle fortune to Mackenzie’s father Randolph Quincy Bartle. Like his father before him, Randolph Quincy was a world famous hustler amongst sea traveling swindlers.

If evil were a contest amongst blood relatives, the arm hoisted to victory would be that of Randolph Quincy, a mad leech amongst glamorous fools who pretended to be the god he tricked the world into believing he was.

Randolph was blessed with the quick tongue. This spastic fast apparatus nearly got him out of as much trouble as it launched him adventurously into. This slithery storyteller not only landed himself in prison (twice) but also came inches from being another notch in the belt of a hungry guillotine off a deserted island in the Fijis.

Relishing in the luxury of the Bartle legacy came easy to Bartle, who physically resembled an American football goal post. High and wide with a gap of breeze in between.

Without consideration for any of his bedroom harlots, Randolph Quincy deposited many seeds into the wombs of frazzled countesses, princesses, and other disposable vagina owning accessories (as Randolph so tastelessly referred to them). Hundreds of potential Bartle breeds were hatched then stashed in various cemeteries across the globe.

At his twenty-third birthday bash in Santa Clara 1955, Randolph Quincy became victim of a Hollywood stab fight. The famous actor Clyce Stalling arrived with an entourage of manic jealousy of the affair Bartle was having with his wife- Lila Fants the singer.

Stalling found Bartle lounging in the hot tub and without warning sliced every stretch of shoulder that his wealthy body had to provide. The blind stab miraculously missed every vital organ but did leave a lengthy scar on the big timer’s record.

The only child ever born from a knocked up Bartle babe was that of the unluckiest Bartle in recorded history, tonight’s hero - Mackenzie Strasser Bartle. The mother was never spoken of.

“Mac” was the terrible recipient of every disease the good lord was willing to dish out. Club foot, lazy eye, webbed toes, buck tooth, ingrown toenails, fibrosis, scoliosis, halitosis, and a few nasty blood blemishes on his rubber face that quickly earned him the nickname Blotto.

Mackenzie barely shuffled through the prestigious Norse Academy for young expensive men. He failed to join any sports teams such as the undefeated cricket club or the illustrious rowing squad. He never showed interest in foreign language, foreign policy, or foreign soil. The motivation he had to exist in the modern world was less than obsolete.

Mac was once suspended from the Norse Academy by headmaster Waterford for failure to properly tie his shoes.

The tradition of the powerful Bartle legacy stood strong throughout the halls of Norse making it painfully unacceptable for Waterford to actually boot Mackenzie from the renowned academy. Absurd statues of Louis Camden Bartle and Randolph Quincy Bartle carved from iridescent limestone greeted students in the court yard in front of the school’s giant Oak doors. Waterford would reprimand Mackenzie in a public chastising that never went without the accompaniment of hideous laughter from the collection of devil hearted business leaders of the future America. “May no student,” Waterford’s voice blasted inside the student square, “End up as mindless and dim as Mackenzie Bartle.”

One more thing about Mackenzie Strasser Bartle was that he was a “fucking idiot”.

 ‘Gratuitous donations’ were delivered to Waterford at Norse Academy on behalf of the awesome Bartle name by way of Mr. Barnaby. In addition to housemaid, chauffer, and friend, Mr. Barnaby served as Mackenzie’s true father. While single handedly propelling the Bartle flame with his life spray, Barnaby saw to all of the pitiful situations Mac unknowingly found himself in.

Barnaby originally finagled Waterford to see Mackenzie graduate before reaching his twenty-first birthday. Such a miraculous gift would have helped retain some dignity for all vested interests. Sadly, two days before he was to legally become an adult, Mackenzie Strasser Bartle shot himself in the chest plate with an iron tipped arrow.

Mac spent his entire twenty-first year at St. Mark’s medical treatment center. The doctors were amazed at how he survived such a self-inflicted disaster. How one could successfully fire a near fatal arrow at maximum velocity into their own body and live was to them as much as a conundrum as the Bartle dynasty itself.

Investigators first suspected foul play. Once they spent a moderate amount of time questioning Mac they not only declared the mishap an accident but also scornfully decried that this person was astoundingly capable of doing such a thing again.

Randolph Quincy Bartle never came to the hospital nor was he ever alerted of the tragic news. He was busy slipping in and out of countries and crotches aboard his floating city, The Amalgamaroon.

Mackenzie graduated from the Norse Academy at the hefty age of twenty-three. Students who received their diploma the year Mac was originally scheduled to be handed his were already being shot in the war or earning fantastic wages on Wall Street. One boy even died of a heart attack before Blotto was christened with his insignificant parchment.

When Mackenzie reached his thirtieth birthday, Barnaby escorted him to the Blue Bank of Palm Beach. After an afternoon of paper signing, portfolio showing, and head scratching, Mackenzie was informed about the vast inheritance he was to receive until the day he died.

When Randolph Quincy Bartle would finally meet his maker, Mackenzie was to inherit the entire Bartle fortune including all assets. This colossal sum totaled something like 380 billion dollars…and fourteen pence.

Three days after the meeting at the Blue Bank, Randolph Quincy Bartle was found dead off the coast of the Atlantic Ocean aboard his yacht, The Amalgamaroon.

Randolph was infamous for being seen in bright flashy apparel. Rich colorful material stitched from the world’s finest fabrics. Outfits that glowed with the wildest colors the imagination could imagine. His burial suit was a rainbow of sequence medallions stitched to a glove of silk. The funeral was very small and very private.

“Mackenzie your father is dead,” confessed a somber Barnaby after the handful of guests (shareholders) retired to their private lives.

“My father?” asked Mac.

“Yes your father Randolph Quincy Bartle.”

“Wow, I didn’t know that,” admitted the surprised new billionaire.

Mackenzie Strasser Bartle walked out of the game room in the Palm Beach mansion, slumped down the long hallway towards his room and tripped over his untied shoes

Mackenzie was now the sole heir to the wonderful Bartle fortune. His holdings included the following: The Tickled Pickle restaurant chain, Black City casinos, Skyscraper Hotels, racehorses, the professional baseball team New Mexico Scorpions, Hybrid car company Veggieride, Fine Health Weekly & Photograph Monthly magazines, and various telecommunications providers including Digiline.

Mr. Barnaby ran the day-to-day operation as Mac was too stupid to remember his name, which needed to be prominently displayed on the inside of all articles of clothing.

Mac lived amidst the grand culmination of Palm Beach boredom during the week. On weekends he enjoyed breathing on the deathbed boat he was told once belonged to a man named Randolph, The Amalgamaroon.

The Amalgamaroon was a beast of a sloop. 100 feet of quiet seclusion, housing infinite brushes, gobs of paints, and a terrific arsenal of blank canvasses. Mackenzie’s painting began the hour after he was notified of his father’s death.

After verbally explaining to Mac that his real father was no longer alive, Mr. Barnaby colored a sketch diagram on a piece of almond linen that draped the seldom-used dining room table.

Barnaby illustrated the late tycoon Randolph Quincy Bartle with X’s on his eyes, sleeping in a giant wooden bed buried beneath the safe ground below a tombstone that clearly read: “Your father is dead.”

Mac jolted to life at the realization of his father’s death. With a grip of passionate energy the only remaining Bartle picked up a nearby paintbrush, determined to resurrect his father through the shock of the canvas. Somehow he convinced himself that this tunnel of creation was his destiny. His life’s mission was to create. Mackenzie Bartle vigilantly painted portraits of his dead father.

Mr. Barnaby did not object to this outlet. It relieved him from the gruesome burden of caring for this incompetent dolt. Plus it shone a slice of life into the boy that in all of his thirty years had never been visible to anyone, especially not the reflection Mackenzie saw in the mirror every night when he woke up.

That’s another thing. Mackenzie did everything backwards. He went to bed at sunrise, ate dinner for breakfast, took off his clothes before going outside- these kinds of things. Many haters, the fuckmouth peanut galleries of the sinister snot scene, chalked this flipped behavior to rich insanity syndrome that comes with careless handling of such a wild amount of bills. Idiot savant without the savant with an extra idiot. Mackenzie Bartle, to everyone, was an idiot idiot.

Once these morbid canvasses began to fill up the guesthouses in Miami, Biscayne Bay, and Sarasota, Mr. Barnaby reached a wise and profitable decision - he would make the paintings available for public consumption. The misunderstood visions of a disoriented rich man of mystery. Mr. Barnaby was a genius some say. Mackenzie, some say, was a stupid fuck.

Unbeknownst to Mac these paintings were immediately snorted up by the posh elite of Italy, France, and England where Sir Macalister Bartle first became famous for his fabled 14 pence.

Barnaby took Mac onto The Amalgamaroon one afternoon. Barnaby carefully avoided the introduction of Mackenzie to his new nemesis of fame.

For additional protective reasons Barnaby purposely withheld the explanation to Mac that he had been selling the crazed portraits for millions and that the demand for more was comparable to a paranoid withdrawal of a crack cocaine Jones. Barnaby did explain to the young dunce that the two of them were going to venture out into the world. Sail across the ocean and anchor down off the coast of Brighton Beach England.

“Brighton Beach?” asked Mac.

“The land of your father’s forefathers,” Barnaby proudly stated. Mac released nothing but lackadaisical wind from his uneventful mouth.

“It’s where they make pizza,” cheered Barnaby.

“I eat pizza,” shouted an overjoyed Mac.

And the duo was off to Brighton.

With a scrumptious desire for giant circles of flamed dairy, Mac brought appetizing pictorials of pizza to life deep in the taint of The Amalgamaroon. Toppings like cassette tapes, yo-yos, and elbows. Each unusual piece displayed an individual pie of pizza. Realizing the ear bleeding rumblings of his new potential delighted Mac into smiling for the first time in many memories.

Barnaby watched this shit for brains smile. Mackenzie was living through the art. He was breathing in the colors just like his old man, the deceased bed hopper Randolph Quincy Bartle.

Barnaby kept plenty busy. He was handling all of the press and promotion for the upcoming Brighton Beach invasion and still found time to fly off in the private Bartle helicopter to deliver the company's annual stock report at the Breakers Hotel.

The entire trip from Palm Beach, Florida to Brighton Beach, England took three weeks. Not a word was spoken between the two.

When the floating city docked in Brighton there was a giant celebration of local starfuckers armed with cameras and banners. The locals wished to capitalize on the endless Bartle fortune just like any everybody else.

Barnaby escorted a nonchalant Mac through the buzzing town. The posse of paparazzi, press, posers, painters, and nosey town folk nosily escorted the great American genius painter inside the bizarre Falling Time Gallery. Covering the walls of this creepy space rested a morbid collection of Mackenzie Strasser Bartle’s art.

The villainous soul of dead man Bartle sneered back at the good citizens of Brighton, trapped in his framed tomb, hanging on the gallery wall.

Flashbulbs captured the image of their watercolor god Bartle. The overwhelming mania failed to dent the detached Mackenzie. He effortlessly shifted through the soirée as though busting up of piñata without the camaraderie of light.

After successfully ditching the unnecessary madness of the choreographed eyesore, Mackenzie Bartle found himself not alone on The Amalgamaroon. A woman beaming pulses of incredible existence, glossed with odoriferous oils, glimmering with impeccable luster, stood poised in the moonlight. Mackenzie stared into jewels where eyes should be. Sparkle sights like burning rubies.

Golden blonde hair paraded down her edible neck, stopping just short from the small of her back. Her immaculate frame was draped in a luxurious nightgown made of navy blue silk. Soft feet encased in storybook slippers, those worn by fairy tale damsels, delicate casings of clear glass footwear.

Dumbfounded but not bewildered Mackenzie stared at the radiant beauty as she opened her licorice whip lips to reveal her identity.

“So you’re the famous Mackenzie Bartle,” she cheekily declared through a gentle blow of smoke.

“I’m the exact dream you’ve had your whole life,” Mackenzie Strasser Bartle hammered home.

“I would be honored to peruse the personal quarters of my dream someone,” the seductress smiled.

She placed her perfectly manicured right hand on Mac’s milquetoast shoulder. She giggled a schoolgirl snicker. The gleeful noise served as heat that melted Mac, a blob of a man quickly splashing on the deck of the boat at the voice of this trespassing goddess.

The suave woman arched the index finger of her left hand and gently slid it between her licorice whip lips, sucking ever so softly on the cherry coated top. Our otherwise incapable hero, possessed by waves of curiosity and tsunamis of arousal, extended his scrawny arm, which the supernatural goddess gladly locked onto. The two characters made their extravagant waltz across the enormous vessel towards Mackenzie’s private quarters.

“I would like to paint you,” stated Mac with every ounce of sincerity allowed.

“Moi?” she coyly asked.

“I would like to capture you for the rest of forever.”

Mac had never been more serious about anything.

Like a flying milkshake across the counter of a black and white burger shack, this tangible mirage glided towards Mackenzie. Our boy did not quiver or stumble, no no, quite the polar opposite. With every inch she gained he became overwhelmed with a surprising blast of confidence.

The nightmare tigress sensed his sexy scent and it very much turned her on.

She gracefully stamped out the butt of her cigarette on a table weight nearest to Mac’s hope chest without once pondering why this genius man owned a hope chest.

Like Houdini escaping from one thousand dead bolted locks and chains, our woman greased her astonishing body out of her silk nightgown sheathe, letting it glide onto the floor in a glorious splash.

Mac, who had never seen a naked woman before, strutted towards the nude stranger and clutched her tight. He bravely took a nosedive into her sparkling red lips, splooshing the wet plunge. Painted by the moon’s light this romantic tableau was a timeless treasure.

Here stood a nitwit klutz who once stapled those same lips of his to a pillowcase and nearly asphyxiated himself to death, now suckling on the face of some cosmic work of unthinkable art.

Smooth hands from her gifted body,

Rapidly erased clothes,

From his awkward body.

Once the two entities were removed from all articles of civil repression, they clung together like twins in a womb, luged back on the double king sized bed in a blistering pop.

Somehow our man Mac knew all the right moves.

Howls from the diaphragm of the mystery woman bounced off the collection of prestigious boats docked in the Brighton port. 

Booming wails of ecstasy flung from her panting mouth as Mac lustfully fucked the beauty out of her body. Every thrust Mac pushed into her dream hole helped bring strength to his body and mind.

This woman sprung his self to life and he realized it more and more with every powerful pump. These two things continued to breathe one another’s erotic oxygen. She on top of him, he wrapping back around her. There was no time for sleep on that steamy summer evening. Too much fucking for sleeping.

As the sun peaked across the horizon these two barely noticed.

Mac continued to fill this enigmatic fun park with himself. In and out like a cross-country track star. Racing around and around and around the labia track. All day long, without food or water, these two bodies continued being one.

As the sun dropped out of sight the two hardly realized that they had masterfully sexed away one calendar day.

Every meaningless tale that his father and grandfather told him about the wonderful playboy days were all making crystal clear sense to Mackenzie in his current sex dazed state.

Every lucky lady the Bartle penis pushed into was now manifesting itself as a believable reality in the overloaded mind of this now mighty fuck god. He was somehow downloading the entire NOC List, the complete itinerary of women fluky and brave enough to sex it down with the Bartle brigade, into his own mind.

Barnaby was nowhere to be found and I seriously doubt that either of these two was looking. The clock in Mac’s room told them it was 2 a.m. and they had no choice but to believe it. Together, in each other’s shaking embrace, the two finally fell fast asleep.

When morning came, by morning I mean six o’clock in the afternoon, the sinewy swinger awoke to a knocking on her head from the handle of a wooden cane. It was Barnaby. Behind him were two Interpol agents dressed in tacky suits covered by tan trench coats. A champion amongst meager competitors, the big game player knew the score before clearly focusing on the fresh day.

“Barnaby,” said a startled Mac. “Please leave us at once.” Barnaby looked with jaw dropping amazement at Mac, who had never taken such a tone with him, let alone completed a proper sentence.

“Mac this woman is a criminal.”

One of the agents produced a photograph from the inside lining of his awful trench coat. “She’s The Lady Vick, a globetrotting con who has been siphoning money out of men from Cancun to Macaroon. Her rap sheet reads like my portfolio.”

“Barnaby,” Mac repeated with a severe threat in his voice. “I will not ask you again.”

“She is wanted by authorities in six countries sir,” said Barnaby addressing the young Bartle as sir for the very first time. “We are going to take her into custody. That is our agreement with these Interpol agents.”

One of the officers bent down toward the resting body of The Lady Vick, nestled cozily in the protection of last night’s lover, and attempted to place her dangerous hands in cuffs. Barnaby, standing with the second officer, walked to the far side of the giant bed in an attempt to seal off the area.

Mackenzie instantly grabbed the officer nearest to his vicinity and fat chop knocked him in his windpipe.

“Mackenzie,” shouted a fearful Barnaby. The second suit lunged towards the billionaire boy. “Let these men capture this filthy perpetrator.”

With a lightning flex Mac rocked back and landed a deafening kick to the face of the only conscious agent, knocking him through the life sized window on the north side of the room.

 “A situation such as this would be very damaging for all parties if the authorities failed to be alerted of such unlawful truth, wouldn’t you say so Barnaby?”

“Yes sir,” replied a frightened Barnaby. He stood still and patiently awaited Mackenzie’s next move. 

“I assume that you will shed no tears at the disposal of these unpleasantries,” Mac said while motioning towards the recently terminated agents on the floor of the room. “And see to it that all search parties for this woman stop at every cost.”

A final seriousness rang in the canal of Barnaby’s ear at the command of Mac, giving the friendly old man no choice but to comply. Barnaby stepped backwards towards the door choosing his paces carefully and firmly.

“Yes sir.”

Barnaby closed the door. Shift focus to the pair who twenty-four hours ago fucked it down golden.

“I take it the intent of these agents was justified?” asked Mac. The Lady Vick smiled and jammed those puffy lips onto his slightly imperfect face.

“Thank you Mackenzie Bartle,” she said kissing him multiple times like Mexican killer bees.

“Did you steal their breath or worth?”

The Lady Vick stopped kissing Mackenzie abruptly. She leaned back to catch a good whiff of his eyeballs.

“Maybe both,” she snottily rebutted.

“Then know that you can kill me too for you have already given me the greatest life I have ever known.”

The Lady Vick, while sparking her gold Zippo awake, pushed out a single running tear, which slowly trickled down her flushed face. She knew that Mac was spilling the perfect truth. No mortal has ever made her feel whatever feelings she was terminally surrendering to. No person had ever brought her to tears with words.

The Lady Vick was to kill Mac right then and there. She knew that this pathetic bozo was no match for her lengthy history of premeditated murder. However she was smitten with Mac like no other moment in time. The life she had known in the past, a country skipping first class fuck and run pick pocket, was to end right there.

Mac would see to it that her passport, birth certificate, and vital information would be updated with crisp new credentials as to never reflect a criminal past.

He would spend the next evening with her, destroying her insides with his significant phallace. In the morning would send her back into the unknown world a rejuvenated piece of pristine Somebody.

As The Lady Vick stood on the exit ladder of The Amalgamaroon. Mackenzie reached into his pocket and emerged with a ratty white sock. He effortlessly handed her one of the original Bartle pence’s.

Evoking the swinging sprits of his great grandfather Sir Macalister Bartle, grandfather Louis Camden Bartle, and father Randolph Quincy Bartle, Mackenzie Strasser Bartle reignited the torch that would once again set the international scene on fire.

A failure according to public opinion, genius according to his enigmatic legacy, Mackenzie continued to exist in his artworks thanks to a slice of fate that yanked him from his senseless state.

He began developing buildings created with recyclable objects found around the mansions. Launched his own string of hotspot nightclubs called Talisman. And his paintings still sell out galleries in every big city from Tokyo to San Francisco.

A painter, visual designer, and intercontinental billionaire playboy, Mackenzie’s true destiny demanded that he spin sporadically atop the restless waters of Earth.

Mackenzie Strasser Bartle remains an exclusive reclusive. Instigating somewhere, making something, fucking someone, aboard his most prized floating palace, The Lady Vick.