I'm caught up in nothing less than a game of tug and war. Editors, ex-wives, prostitutes, movie producers, they all want me back to play the part of wounded hero in their subtle mind game of do with me what you will. But I am Gonzalez, the Gonzalez, and I don't take such things laying down. Not with Ricky Shroeder on the lose, Gary Coleman missing, and that damn, damn wooden Indian in my father's home in North Carolina. No. These things cannot last. And I've come here like Kurtz in search of a good rub down to understand why. But first I must get this girl to fan faster. A desert wind is approaching.
Being a renegade writer has led me to a number of downfalls, a great deal of excitement, love, the anguish of turmoil, and observations on the human nature. For example, the Princess of Monaco once sat in my seat during a Sting concert in that midget of a kingdom and then had her body guards beat me to a pulp when I tossed popcorn down her dress.
Here in Zambia, the rule of thumb is to keep your hotel room locked, your shirt tucked in, your hair combed straight, and to make sure that you get it all down on tape. I've heard of many a reporter foiled in a jerk off attempt to overthrow the government through yellow journalism simply because he forgot to record the addmission to mass murder or sodomy. Take it easy fellows. It takes a little bit of proof to get them multi-nationals to move in. I do hear, though, that the Peterson place is empty. Maybe Shell needs a new home. Or the Dole canned fruit company.
I came here to discover a cache of lost diamonds rumored to be VVV's, the rare,
often ridculed as mythology, oasis of diamond grades. The VVV makes the VVS
look like a scratched piece of glass. The CSO denies their existence. I've only
seen two carats once, an exquisite creature, and the market value for that
rock was $25,000. Sources in Ramt Gan, Brussles,
and even San Francisco had all assured me of the diamonds being here. But alas,
nothing has turned up. I have only this beautiful girl, the guava extract,
and a bill that I'm having difficulty forwarding to my publishers.
The VVV was best captured in that beautiful novel, The Gentle Method of Flower Arrangments. How that book tackled the complexity of this treasure, this Loch Ness of the diamond world. I've since lost my only copy and with it, the name of the author. I can only urge anyone who cares about wealth and financial gain to hunt it down in the skeletal remains of tattered used book shops, Barnes and Noble, or Books A Million.
Now I must get back to my writing. I still have my memoires to write, so this will have to do. But if it isn't Zambia that beckons me forward like Hamlet into Yorick's grave, then I know not what. But I've got to keep this fan girl a little longer.