The Trophy Wine
Tired Like Sirius

It was dark, it was evening, I was dog-tired, and returning through the city from a long day helping out a friend who ran a moderately-large pharmacy chain across the surrounding suburbs. He had old-fashioned computer systems operating with very possibly software ‘of dubious origin.’ At the same time he happened to be one of the most important independent importers of so-called side-by-side parallel import generic antibiotics (a national strategic initiative of government – and those ‘connected’ to people at the higher levels of that, of course) but even oestrogen patches... There was your real ‘national security interest’ right there!

In Korea there was a distinct category of women related to whom the issue of social ‘trouble’ is a constant cloud hanging over everyone, threatening to rain of every parade: the Ajumeoni.

I guess you could say this would have been more or less the ‘blue rinse set’ in the West back several decades ago, but it is terminology hardly ever heard any more.

Global supply problems abounded. And this was true of medicines, gas -, and common sense.

You couldn’t get a decent newspaper either.

My Washington-connected friend Vera was effectively ‘off the planet’ (lol) and frankly, even she was no longer a favourite of the inner circle of strategic players there.

They used to trust her, and maybe they would think twice about that again – if they ever had to actually rely on her coming up with key pathways for solving the usually ‘unsolvable’ equations of the MIC elite.

But they knew she still had privileged access via the old Soviet-US nuclear safety and security agreements, to these latest new things the Russians were playing around with – ‘Prospective Airborne Complex of Front-line Aviation’ and the ‘new physical principles’ approach of the weapons systems involved. So she was still ‘on the table’ somewhere if not any longer exactly completely ‘in the loop’ as it were.

Theoretically those founding agreements though still live on in the current START treaty arrangements -, but frankly today in practice that is a fragile notion at best.

Everybody lies.

For example no one in the recent round of Congressional testimony about these blessed ‘UAPs’ is ever going to admit that both ‘sides’ had counter-intelligence programs from a long time ago which seemed to suggest each side were somehow ‘in touch’ (literally, physically meeting and so on) with actual ET Alien vanguards for the objective of gaining secret and also monopolistic access to ultra advanced technology.

You would think that at the highest levels cynicism ruled and everyone realised these things were just ways to steer competing scientists away from productive research paths, and into the ditches and the tall weeds.

At the highest levels though, people spoke with Vera.

Me, I’m a total schizoid when it comes to all of these things.

I don’t know anything about no Aliens.

My only authentic knowledge of technology too is that I know enough to quickly work out which millennials to trust with my printer interfaces and software and old old hardware – and which of them to trust with my coffee.

And which to trust with both of those things, of course.

...My favourite coffee place is Wolf Lane. Which is manned by millennials. And which is not far from where I am walking right now along the side of a particular short side-road.

But I’m so tired man...

I’m just going home!

And the small x-body sling bag I have is just a touch too heavy too now that I bought that bottle of Chris Ringland Shiraz and stuck it in there.

The little road I am on, jay-walking it as I regularly do, probably just to avoid the people going to expensive restaurants or to the theatre at this time, and blocking up the pavement – is a side-street connecting the main financial district road to the parallel main shopping area mall and central road.

Down this side-street are several of the state government’s ministerial advisors private offices.

...And this city’s HQ for FLUOR Corporation – the American multinational.

My skin felt oily, and I’m sure I was sweating in the balmy early West Coastal Australian Spring. ...Didn’t want to go ‘out,’ go anywhere; didn’t want to particularly meet anybody.

The slightly clattery sound of the ceramic-lined engine was the first thing I was aware of, to do with the car entering the short street from behind me.

The second thing was the ‘juxtaposition of facts:’ its oddly subdued all-grey exterior with the ultra-energetic all-red Alcantara interior. A 765LT spider - McLaren.

‘Meeting,’ however -, was going to be the order of the evening.

That was clear as soon as the vehicle slowed down next to me and the passenger-side door eased up open on its electronic-control actuators.

The voice was rather deep for a female’s voice. And almost barely understandable -, such was the very apparent, rather strange accent.

“Get in. I will take you to your destination.”

That was a command and a slight explanation, not an invitation.

I looked questioningly at the person issuing me the instructions. So she added: “You have the good wine with you, don’t you?”

“I have some wine with me, yes.” I muttered.

God that red interior was fairly blazing with fire though, with life, and with sheer energy. And I wasn’t feeling like any of those things right now.

I didn’t know the face I was looking at although it had a distinct familiarity to it.

Those eyes, you know. Long, wide, up-tilted at the sides and crystal-clear to look into – and then with thick almost Russian volume lashes framing them except these were all golden and natural, not the usual commercially-applied black.

I got in and pulled the safety belt across and clicked it into place. “I’m pretty worn out, you know. Don’t expect too much from me today.” I complain rather than explained.

Kinda got a grunt by way of reply.

She looked up away from me then, turning half around to check if there was any traffic coming up to her rear. There wasn’t. She took off smoothly but I still felt that sensation of being pushed back into the seat.

“I don’t care.” She said a few moments later.

I had my small sling bag with me which there was hardly any space for inside here really, although it was able to fit, if barely, between my legs. I fiddled around in it to get out a small pack of wet wipes to run across my face and forehead.

“You’re not going to use alcohol wipes on your skin, are you?” She rebuked.

“I don’t care.” I told her.

They aren’t alcohol wipes...

At least I don’t think so...

I checked the pack. Geez. Yes they were. What the -.

“That’s because you’re an idiot.” She said. “I said ‘I don’t care’ because I have everything planned ahead for your well-being.”

“Oh.” I responded. Just like any good idiot would.

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