Page 47 of Violent Possession
I know that expression. It is universal: the look of the subject who knows he is being tested and refuses to allow the other to score even a single point. Griffin at most tolerates a draw until a structural flaw exposes me to ridicule.
I recognize my peers.
“What’s the most expensive dish on the menu?” he says.
I immediately notice the waiter’s discomfort, who hesitates before the transparency of the question. The entire restaurant is a temple where money is converted into status via subtext, never explicit; Griffin has just committed heresy by demanding the nominal value of the trophy.
I don’t stop him.
“That would probably be the Kobe fillet, sir, served with white truffles and a smoked root puree.”
“Give me about five of those.”
Griffin looks at me and the crooked smile now blossoms with his absolute provocation. It’s a childish tantrum. The message is clear:since you care so much about money, I’ll help you burn it.
The waiter looks at me for help, for a cancellation code, for any gesture that would free him from this scene. The maître d’ watches from a distance, already knowing he will have to intervene if things get out of hand.
Instead of denying and reducing Griffin to the role of a spoiled brat, I offer the waiter a social smile.
“And bring the house wine for me, please.”
The waiter takes the order, hesitates, then walks away, casting alternating glances at me and Griffin, trying to decide which of us is worse.
“Kobe is a Japanese controlled designation of origin,” I say. “The certification is only valid for The Black Kuroushi lineage. The cattle destined for slaughter in the US come from Texas, without that lineage. What they serve here is Australian, at most,but they charge as if it were Kobe. Most people don’t notice the difference.”
He is speechless for two seconds.
“...So why do you pay?”
“That’s how the world turns.”
He considers.
“And you, have you always been like this? A know-it-all nerd?”
“No. Sometimes, I just pretend.”
He gives me a crooked smile. It’s genuine. I like that.
I allow myself a furtive glance at my watch under my shirt cuff. Twelve minutes for Ivan, if his habits hold. I never underestimate military discipline applied to social delay—it’s an inverted precision, a ritual of dominance over the other’s time. Enough time.
“Well,” I begin, “I didn’t bring you here just to be seen. Some circumstances made me... find you in the first place.”
“Like an abandoned puppy you decided to take home,” he says, his eyes returning to their usual bitterness that precedes me.
“Haven’t we talked about this already? I’m not interested in pets, Griffin.”
“So a ‘product’? An ‘asset’?”
“Asolution,” I interrupt. “You are a solution.”
He weighs the word, letting the weight creak the back of the chair.
“I don’t know,” he says. “I prefer ‘problem’. It makes more impact.”
He refuses to accept any label I give him. Fascinating.
“A problem for the right people, yes,” I agree. “And that’s exactly why you are a solution for me.”
