Chapter 36.5: Cockroach Spray (Patreon)

Chapter 36.5: Cockroach Spray

The Automat, London. April 2008.

The American housing market had crashed out, and the nervous bobblehead I’d employed as my financial manager, Ben Wyatt, had cashed in.

Busy as I was, we’d yet to go into the full numbers. But the last time he’d yammered on, at least until I’d hung up on him to get started on my next take, he’d assured me my bank account was bursting at the seams.

Suffice it to say, like a feverish jackpot millionaire voiding his bowels in a casino’s occupied public restroom, I was flush with cash. 

“This is the spot, mate.” That being the case, most everyone might ask why I had my navy velvet loafers scuffing the sheet metal flooring of a London pedicab instead of the soft carpets of a Rolls or Bentley. “My giddy aunt! There’s enough razzis to call in the rozzers.” Especially when I was stepping out for an important event. 

Though, the panting paps weren’t invited to this party. Seems someone at the restaurant spilled the beans, the milk, and the bloody baby out with the bath water.

As for why we had all congregated here, well, that’s elementary. It’s for dear Watson, it being her 18th birthday party and all. 

Fresh soles clacked on the grimy pavement, and I handed the tricycle jockey who peddled me here a tenner. About the only bit of cash I bothered carrying. “Keep the change.” Fifty pence is fifty pence, and I didn’t want it ruining the line in my trousers. Why even wear any at that point?

My wallet, the lorry I’d requisitioned, and the chauffeur along with it left elevenses in front of the hotel lobby without me in it. With my permission, of course. I was suffering from a slightly more serious bout of narcissism this evening, so I’d cajoled Cadbury into chaperoning the few other children, who all came down from Leavesden for the night. 

They were all eager to get to the do rather than holing themselves in their hotel rooms. So I let the hasty hares hop on while I toyed with my evening wear choices at the pace of a tortoise.

“Any chance I could keep a bit more?” Drive me a mile and they ask for an inch thick wad of cash. 

“I’m skint.” Pockets turned out to show him the lint. 

“Well, if you can’t give that, at least give us the score, then.” He jutted his chin out at the frothing photographers. “What’s all that about? You famous or somefing?”

“You got a pen?” Luckily for him, he did. Uncapping it, I snatched back the ten-pound note I’d handed him and signed my autograph across it. “Here.” And slipped it all into his breast pocket.

“Oi! You can’t just write on money. That’s illegal, that is.” 

No, it wasn’t. As long as it’s not ripped, burnt, or defaced, it’s still legal tender. The only other factor that questions the legality of my actions is, “Sell that on eBay. You’ll get all the change you want,” if I altered the monetary value of the note. 

And technically, I just made that ten pounds worth at least a hundred. 

“At least tell me who you are!”

Xylophones started playing suddenly. “Montana pest control, this is Tony speaking. How may I help you today?” My phone jumped to my ear almost as quickly as my pseudonym. Hoping against all hope that the paps would remain in contention with security long enough for me to slip by without notice.

“Don’t make me wait all night, Bas. Where are you-!?”

“Forget these bald bastards. Take a gander, you lot. It’s Bas Rhys!” Clearly I failed to mute marimba fast enough. 

Didn’t matter how many fingers I tried to plug my ear with the cacophonous shuttering lenses, flashing lights, and screaming questions drowned out anything Emma was trying to say from the other end of the line. 

The tabloid jockeys weren’t the only ones to suddenly surround me as Emma’s steroid secret service turned me into a pocket full of posies as they played ring around the roses with me in the center.

Private security for a private affair. 

Paparazzi weren’t all falling down, but they certainly were falling over themselves to ask me their predictably perverted questions.

“Bas, Bas! Over here!”

“Bas, are you dating Emma?”

“Tell us what your next project is, Bas!”

“Who else on the cast are you shagging, Bas?” 

Ignoring them, “You get all that?” I spoke to both Emma and bewildered bikey who brought me here in one breath. 

“I’ll come greet you at the door.” She hung up. Neither I nor the flash mob got another word in edgeways as the hurly-burly body guardees bouncing the bistro acted as bollards and dragged my derriere to the door on the double.

As soon as the entrance thumped close behind me, my wiggling pinky immediately silenced the paparazzi’s wagging tongues. Unfortunately for me, however, my tinnitus remained a rather gluey guest when the birthday girl threw herself at me and screeched in my ear. 

“You’re finally here!” Her arms wrapped around my neck. Good thing I didn’t have a shellfish allergy because I picked up a limpet.

“Hi-!” Couldn’t say much more because as soon as that last syllable came out of my mouth, her lips tried to replace them. I twitched my head so that her gloss stained the corner of my mouth and cheek instead of full on.

Someone was making good use of her 18th. Her alcy breath put beer to shame. She was in high spirits, likely because the open bar was stocked with every type.

As the temporarily sober one in this equation, it was my job to prevent her making mistakes she’d remember, or worse, forget. My only saving grace was that she was all smiles when she pulled back, either oblivious to or undaunted by my drunk deflector.

She leaned back and almost toppled over, treating my interlocked fingers cradling the small of her back like a hammock. 

Hers, meanwhile, started their journey over my shoulders, down my shirt, across my skin, and stopped just slightly above where my treasure trail began. But tonight wasn’t the night this plastered pirate was getting at my booty. “I was worried that my outfit would be too revealing tonight.” Her little black dress was about as risque as anything I’d ever seen her in. “Next to you, I may as well be a nun.”

Tight white capris with a shiny loose shirt the same shade as my shoes. It wasn’t velvet, but the v came in with how deep my neckline plunged. Counting the buttons done would take less time than the undone. 

Difficulty picturing it? Just think late 2010s or early 2020s K-pop fuccboi… that or Iranian carpet salesmen. In my opinion, the only visual difference was skin tone and body hair. Asian streetwear wasn’t as high concept as it liked to pretend. Modern middle eastern merchants had been rocking the look since the late 80s. I had no compunction giving credit where it’s due.

Jewellery wasn’t part of my ensemble; with the amount of sandalwood oil and lavender lotion I’d lubed up with, I was glistening more than freshly polished gold. Only downside was, with how slick and smooth everything was. Even a gentle breeze would get my nips slipping more than a scorned wet floor sign at a water park.

My pecs and abs were worth showing off. Women had cleavage, so why couldn’t I have my dude decolletage?

“Hey, if I’m gonna be late, I might as well make it fashionable. But I don’t think I’ve got a leg up over you.” Easing her in closer, I helped her find steady feet again, and reached behind my head to grab her hand; which allowed me to twirl her around. “That fire extinguisher by the door is going to have its work cut out for it. Look at you!” Tongue out, I wet my finger, and then pressed it on her exposed shoulder. “Tsss. You’re scorching,” sending her into peals of laughter.

“You’re being too silly, Bas.” Which was apparently an imprisonable offense given how she’d jailed my fingers between her own. “C’mon, I know you’re going to want to do the rounds, so hurry and say your hellos. After that, you’re mine for the rest of the night.” 

Foyer, summarily abandoned, Emma escorted me into the main dining area. Tables and chairs had been pushed back against walls to make enough room for a dancefloor, complete with a ‘push the button’ MacBook dj. 

We dodged around the shuffling (some actually attempting the dance move) crowd to first meet the parents.

Cadbury and Emma’s parents, along with a small group of proper adults, designated themselves as supervisors and drivers sequestered in their only little corner so that the kids could have their fun. 

I say kids, but as I was paraded around the party, aside from Evanna and I, every other invitee - basically a good portion of the Hogwarts student cast - were all above the drinking age. 

Far be it from me to be left out.

A group of guys, including Felton and Radcliffe, had clearly been pounding them back alongside a few burgers in a futile attempt to stave off the inevitable hangover. 

Alex, Emma’s brother, looked particularly queasy at being introduced to me. No bloke wanted to see their sister pawing at someone like a starving animal. He wasn’t alone in his suffering, though. Alfie Allen, aka Theon Greyjoy, and the kid who killed John Wick’s first dog in the near-ish future was a kindred spirit. His own sister, Lily Allen, the singer, was enjoying her spring fling with Rupert in a booth. So they both could commiserate over their more famous older sisters.

“You know, everyone here will be sorely disappointed if you don’t belt out the birthday song for the cake, yeah?” Rupert was looking a little too cosy.

“Leave her be. She’s my guest.” Emma didn’t agree.

“Sure, I don’t mind.” The smile Lily shot Emma was a lot less sinister than the one I got. “Just so long as you understand that for the encore, I’m going to sing ‘Fuck You’ and not for the birthday girl.”

Rupert handed me the hot dog he’d chewed halfway through. “If you’re going to stick your foot in it, might as well make it a foot-long.” 

I get it. Hints don’t fly over my head. I know when I’m not wanted. So naturally, I sought a place where I would be better appreciated. Warm bodies usurped cold shoulders as I squeezed into the sweaty crevices of the makeshift disco. 

Sometimes it was Karen with her ginger buns, other times it was Evanna’s platinum plaits. But even through the haze of my first drink in almost eighteen years, I knew it was mostly Emma hogging me all to herself as together we bounced to the beat. 

Head spinning and spine tingling as I sipped sambuca, the star anise flavoured booze bathed my tongue and washed me all the way down to my star anus. 

Despite what the waitress said to cover her ass, my drink was as much of a virgin as I was. This mocktail wouldn’t stand up to scrutiny in a mock trial.

Cake sliced, song sung, and beat dropped, the night began winding down. 

“One for me.” Gooey salted caramel helped me maintain my faculties. “One for you.” And as I fed Emma a forkful of her cake from my plate, it helped her maintain her joy.

But then the paparazzi attacked.

Except for the crew I’d be shuttling back to the hotel with, the crowd had mostly dissipated. “We have a… situation.” Cadbury came back from collecting our chauffeur and brought bad news with her.

We poked our heads out of the door. “There she is!” The strobe lights inside couldn’t hold a candle to the blinding barrage of flashing cams. 

Which, by this point in our careers, we were used to. What was new was the handful of sleazebags slithering on the ground. Apertures angled just right for unwanted up-skirts. 

“Disgusting swine, stand up! She’s just a girl!” Daddy dearest had to be held back, while the bouncers barely pushed back the paps. 

“Stuff it, geezer!”

“She’s eighteen now. That’s a woman right there.”

“Let’s see you spread those legs and let those lower lips smile for the camera, baby! Emma Watson’s going on page 3.” 

“Nowhere to go now, you slag!”

On and on they went. Determined to ruin an otherwise stellar celebration. Emma was a big girl. She wasn’t happy about it, but I knew she could take their words if not their actions. But she wasn’t the only one in a dress or skirts who needed to paddle across this pond of pervs. Hell, if any of us boys had worn kilts, I’d wager our pictures would be stamped next to an advert for tea bags the next morning. 

Reason wouldn’t work, and in spite of the fire I wanted to spit, anger wouldn’t either. Cooler heads needed to prevail. “Cad, tell him to bring the van around. Ladies, get ready to run.” 

“But they’ll see us.”

“Can’t we take the back exit?”

“Plenty more there, too. Cars can’t get there, anyway.” 

The van pulled up, and even as everyone around me dejectedly tossed out pointless plans. I reached behind the rez door and pulled out a weapon. “Ladies first. Just follow behind me. I promise no one’s gonna glimpse anything you don’t want them to.”

Borrowed fire extinguisher in hand, I pulled the pin and aimed the nozzle right at the prone lenses. 

“What is he-?”

“You can’t be serious-!”

“Bas!”

“Bas-?”

“Mr Rhys-!?”

“On my mark. Get set…” I was already dressed like a gangster, might as well complete the image. Fwoosh! The lever snapped under my grip and a fountain of foam doused their burning loins (and more importantly, their delicate tech). Not quite the same white powder Scarface was a connoisseur of, “say hello to my little friend!” But the anguished roars of these reprobates alongside the gleeful giggles of my girls meant I enjoyed my version a hell of a lot more.

“We’re in!”

“Shut the door.” Thunk. Ditching the empty anti-flamethrower, I got in shotgun. I waved over the raging crowd, wiping their equipment, to everyone else wiping their jaws off the floor. “Rendezvous back at the hotel.”

Even though I clicked my seatbelt in as the driver peeled away, it felt unnecessary, as a pair of arms circled around my headrest and clamped over my chest. “Thank you, Bas. So much.” Her voice was bright enough to tell she was smiling again.

“Happy birthday, Emma.”