Kingfisher

Thinspiration

At 5.00 a.m. on the 26th of September, a few drops of cold water splashed across Michael's face. He was about to make an uncharacteristically righteous decision—he was going to pledge to spend a year of his life starving Claire Ainsworth to death. Michael felt another cold sensation on his temple. More water? It was probably... a leak, or something. This was quite a shit hotel, after all. Hoping to fall back asleep, he tried to roll over, but found that someone was pinning him down by his shoulder.

Who was Claire to Michael, then? That was a difficult question, because she was precisely the sort of person who resisted characterisation in terms of other people. In fact, it was other people who were usually described in terms of her—almost as clever as Claire; almost as intense as Claire; a bit like Claire crossed with Magaret Thatcher. There were facts to take account of: the two were consorting. And yet despite their romantic entanglement, to have called her 'Michael Krassen's girlfriend' would have felt like both an oversimplification of their relationship and a gross misrepresentation of her nature.

It would probably have been more helpful to observe, as their friends often did, that Michael was completely equal to her and her bullshit, and that with the exception of his plans to kill her, Claire was completely equal to him and his, and that this made the basis for a surprisingly stable and rather intense romantic relationship.

'It is time to wake up, Mr Krassen.'

'Ugh, who says it is at this time of morning...' Michael tried to mutter in response, still too sleepy to realise that being cocky was potentially unwise. When the snide remark failed to come out, he realised that a gloved hand was covering his mouth, that a gun was being held to his head, and that someone was in his hotel room.

Michael's eyes widened but he gained control of himself quickly enough that he didn't try to scream. He felt the pressure released from his shoulder and mouth and saw a man standing over him, lazily pointing the gun at his temple, his arm slack. It occurred to Michael that he had never seen a gun in person before. If it was a fake, how would he know?

'Mr Krassen,' continued the intruder, producing his phone from his pocket and showing a text conversation on its screen to Michael. 'It is I.'

'Oh Jesus,' said Michael. 'Mr President.'

Unsurprisingly, the President put the gun back in his pocket. There was no longer any need to threaten harm in such crude terms—quite enough danger was implied by his presence. Behind the heavy glass window of the hotel room, traffic rumbled back and forth in slow waves, and behind the President, the white plastic radiator hummed discordantly.

'What–' Michael knew that it was best to match the President's affected formality. He paused for a moment while he worked out precisely what he was asking. 'What is this regarding?', he said finally.

The President was busy putting down up-lighters in each of the room's four corners, giving the room an eerie purple-white glow. In the better light, it became clear that he was wearing a three-piece suit, with a gold watch chain that sparkled gently as he crossed back and forth in front of Michael's bed. The effect was quite dramatic.

Michael didn't like being kept waiting in a hostage situation and he let his impatience get the better of him. 'Couldn't you have set those up before you woke me up?'

'Had you woken up with me in your room and nothing covering your mouth, you would most likely have screamed and attracted unwanted attention,' he said. His voice was almost exactly what Michael's younger self had imagined when reading the President's text messages. Given the entity's abilities, that might not have been a coincidence. The President stopped moving around and stood before Michael at the foot of the bed, his arms crossed behind his back and his face unreadable.