White Niggers
Chapter 2
Friday, August 2nd, 2019, 15:00
Karl-Gunsam-Gasse 1, 11th district of Vienna
"Being a civil servant only pays if you are corrupt," Dr. Philipp Riml-Löhr von Altrosenburg says.
He is a man in his late thirties, with small rectangular glasses and short hair like in the military. He wears a dark blue jacket, a white shirt, and a red tie. If it wasn't for the glasses and the haircut, he could pass off as a younger version of George Clooney.
He is lying in a lounge chair, glass of champagne in his hand. He looks at a bunch of women with and without bikinis who splash in the pool about 20 feet away from him. There are lounge chairs to both sides of Riml-Löhr's. Close to the three lounge chairs there is a large flatscreen TV. It is turned off.
Behind them, a cook prepares a steak on a barbecue grill. If feels as if the sizzling of the fat, the aroma of the meat, and the sight of women compete with each other in titillating Riml-Löhr's saliva glands…and other glands.
"In a way, that's in God's plan," he says.
"How is that?" says an older man.
The older man is bald and is lying in the lounge chair next to Riml-Löhr. He wears a black T-shirt and green trousers. His head is as well-rounded as the personality of a successful apparatchik. He could be the proverbial human face of Socialism.
"The thing about the ant in Proverbs 6:8," Riml-Löhr says. "Go to the ant, consider its ways and be wise! It has no commander or ruler, yet it stores its provisions in summer and gathers its food at harvest."
"But we have 'rulers' – our superiors," the older man says.
"I don't know how it is in the Slovak Information Service, Marik, but my boss is an i–" Riml-Löhr says.
His mobile phone rings. He looks at the number, then mutes the phone and puts it back down.
"Speaking of the devil," Riml-Löhr says. "That was him."
"Your boss?" Marik says.
"Yeah. Pencil-pusher in chief, commander of the chairborne division," Riml-Löhr says. "I bet right now he wanted to micromanage where I am and what I'm doing."
"That's part of being a manager," Marik says.
"Filling out timesheets won't make the country safer," Riml-Löhr says. "Bonding with a guy like you, may. Or with him."
Another middle-aged man approaches Riml-Löhr and Marik. Riml-Löhr waves at him. That's Christoph Mielacher, better known under his nickname Superstrizzi. He wears a white shirt. He has short gray hair and vivid eyes.
He is the owner of this and other establishments. His ruddy face seems to drain youth and vitality from his young female employees. Maybe that's why there are almost no wrinkles on his face.
"If you only knew how many officials, politicians, and entrepreneurs are his clients," Riml-Löhr says. "This brothel is the operative's dream come true. Whenever something is about to happen, someone in the place like this will know about it. And our friend here will inform the Abwehramt, won't you?"
Superstrizzi now stands right in front of Riml-Löhr and Marik. He frowns at the word "brothel."
"Not the Abwehramt," Superstrizzi says. "I will inform you personally."
"I am the state, uhh, Abwehramt," Riml-Löhr says.
The three of them laugh.
"Everything okay?" Superstrizzi says. "Enough champagne, food?"
"Perfect," Riml-Löhr says. "We were just saying that God wants us to take the things we want, not wait for someone to give them to us."
"Couldn't agree more," Superstrizzi says.
"What, are you a devout Catholic, too?" Marik says.
"Why shouldn't I be?" Superstrizzi says.
"This business of yours," Marik says. "How can you square that with Christianity?"
"God wants it to prosper," Superstrizzi says.
"How do you know?" Marik says.
"God is almighty and all-knowing," Superstrizzi says. "If he wanted to, he could wipe clubs like this off the face of the Earth. He doesn't. He wants people like me to run places like this for profit."
"Interesting angle," Marik says. "You are quite a philosopher."
"It's not just philosophical. It's good for society," Superstrizzi says. "If I got a nickel every time one of my employees prevented domestic rape or, God forbid, child molestation, I would be rich."
"You are pretty rich," Riml-Löhr says.
"Exactly," Superstrizzi says.
"That again proves that virtue can be profitable," Riml-Löhr says.
Marik laughs.
"To present prostitution and corruption as a virtue is quite an intellectual feat," Marik says. "No wonder you got straight As in that college with a tongue-twister of a name. What was it called again?"
"Höhere Technische Bundeslehr- und Versuchanstalt für Textilindustrie und elektronische Datenverarbeitung," Riml-Löhr says.
"What did you do there?" Superstrizzi says.
"Studied computer science," Riml-Löhr says quietly. "Was quite good at it. I was even offered a professorship after I got my Ph.D."
Riml-Löhr smiles slightly. His eyes wander aimlessly.
"How did you end up in the military, then?" Superstrizzi says.
"Family tradition," Riml-Löhr says. "Our men have been in the military since World War I, maybe earlier. The Abwehramt was the least bad military institution I could get away with."
Riml-Löhr winces and spills a couple of droplets of champagne from his glass.
"I could have become a Turing or a Wittgenstein," Riml-Löhr says after a long silence. "A real scientist."
"In about an hour I'll be able to cheer you up, Herr Doktor," Superstrizzi says. "Rare pleasure awaits you."
"The food?" Riml-Löhr says in a tearful voice.
"I will need your help in evaluating some of our new staff members," Superstrizzi says and winks.
"What do you call this again?" Marik says.
"Selection," Superstrizzi says. "Today we will decide which of the girls go to the high-end club, which end up in the midrange establishments, and which we will use in our flat-rate location."
"I don't understand," Riml-Löhr says.
"You see, the market for sex work is like any other market. That is, it can be segmented," Superstrizzi says. "Take hospitality as an example. There are the Steierecks and Pfudls in the top-tier. Best quality at a high price."
"At the bottom there are McDonald's and Burger Kings, including drive-through restaurants and your typical Würstelstand," Superstrizzi says.
"Between the Steirereck and drive-through joints you have all sorts of midrange restaurants. Customers in every segment of the market have different expectations, different budgets," Superstrizzi says. "And so you end up selling very similar sausages at different prices to different customer groups."
"Still don't understand what any of this has to do with those girls and your selection," Riml-Löhr says. "I mean, you cannot operate a brothel like a McDonald's, can you?"
Superstrizzi frowns at the word "brothel" again. Marik laughs, then sips his champagne.
"I wouldn't be surprised if he managed to," Marik says. "He is the Steve Jobs of the horizontal industry."
"Analogies go as far as they can, and no further," Superstrizzi says. "But we do have different locations for different price segments."
"I assume this place is one of the higher-end brothels, right?" Riml-Löhr says.
"It's a club, please… but you are right, this is one of our best places," Superstrizzi says. "Only the best for our government, our protectors from the evil Russkies."
"Cheers!" Riml-Löhr says.
They all empty their champagne glasses. Riml-Löhr thinks the sun is melting away not only his thoughts, but also makes him think slower than usual. Or is it the champagne?
"If this is the Steirereck of bro… clubs," Riml-Löhr corrects himself, "then what is the McDonald's version?"
Marik laughs. A waiter refills their glasses. Riml-Löhr looks at the label on the bottle – Moёt & Chandon.
"We are experimenting with an all-you-can-screw model," Superstrizzi says.