[H2]Merle G. Kersten[/H2]

[b]Monday Evening, Swan Songs.[/b]

Merle G. Kersten had himself a hearty laugh as he thought of the absurdity of what just transpired. Some of the other paparazzi in the room glanced in the direction of the ruckus, but most were indifferent having hardened themselves against criticism. The reporter from the local paper sitting a few feet away shifted uncomfortably in his seat and order another glass of water from a bored looking waitress.

 “Lady I have not the slightest clue who you or your father are, but despite sounding you stepped right off the boat from Buckingham Palace I must say you have already acquired the trademark Sol City Ego. I ought to know who you are? How novel. You bourgeois brats are all the same when it comes to a sense of entitlement. Believe it or not this is just utter coincidence, I just happened to choose the first decent paying assignment in my inbox and it just so happens that you personally fit the demographic my temporary eurotrash employer wanted comments from.  Nothing special about it or you in particular, just routine business…you know rats actually have to work for a meal.  Despite lofty ambitions not all of us have the luxury to work at professions we like as sometime in the real world one must put morals and personal dignity aside to survive another day. If you wish to indulge your deep-seated persecution complex further just step outside I am sure if you and your child solider arming daddy are as infamous as you claim to be one of my camera clad colleagues more versed in pre-brexit English scandals than I would be more than happy to grant you your fifteen minutes in the spotlight. Air your grievances or what not.  Perhaps if you are lucky you can join the carnival of the absurd once it shortly arrives.”

And as quickly as he appeared the wheelchair bound man disappeared into the crowd. It was clear the man cared little about a response and perhaps wanted the last word to score some small narcissistic point.  
   
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If one was paying attention they perhaps noticed some secret service type characters enter the vicinity. Perhaps if outside the record shop proper one could notice that the street was being blocked off and traffic being redirected by similar looking figures.  Weaving its way in between buildings a privately owned and operated Sikorsky S-92 VVIP Configuration Helicopter in direct violation of city ordinances which restricted inner city air travel to designated Helicopter Taxis only made its way toward Swan Song’s.