Chapter 64.5: Fu Manchurian Candidate

Chapter 64.5: Fu Manchurian Candidate

En Route to King’s Cross, UK. May 2011.

There exist several household items that should never mix. 

Accidentally set something ablaze in the kitchen? Pouring water over hot oil is only going to exacerbate the violent explosion. Piss off fire departments with this one easy trick!

Have a stubborn stain that elbow grease only succeeds in propagating? The only smudge you’ll erase by combining bleach and vinegar is the Geneva convention clause on chemical warfare. Don’t let chlorine gas pool blood in your lungs. 

Are you too famous to function? Too recognisable to roam even the rural countryside without going incognito? No?

But I am! Which means putting Harry Potter on a train guaranteed a volatile reaction. I’ll be violated six ways to Sunday - and it’s barely Monday fucking morning!

“Excuse me, sir. We’ll be arriving at London King’s Cross soon. Can I get you any refreshments before we halt tea service?” The carriage porter did well controlling his undercurrent of disdain when he addressed me. 

Given that the usual wardrobe in the first-class cabin was a collage predominantly comprising tweed and wool; my current outfit of trainers, tracks, a hoodie, and indoor shades set me a little too far apart from the average business traveller. I hadn’t so much painted myself as a scruffy youth, but graffitied that image into everyone else’s tame tableau. 

All on my lonesome, too. 

Fedex had shipped out a few hours ahead to set things up on the other end pending my arrival. Which meant I used her absence as an excuse to slip out of collared shirts.

I ignored the typical high-low class uppityness. “Yeah, you mind fetching me a packet of sweets? Super sour gummies, haribos, or something along those lines is fine.”  

“I am afraid we do not carry that selection.” 

“Ah, no worries then.” Tartly after my response, he nodded, took his classic British stiff-upper lip, and marched away with it shoved up his behind. Sourpuss puckered his arse so tightly that he must have been kissing it. 

Well, at least I had confirmation that my disguise was effective. 

Fake moustaches, bushy beards, and coke-bottle glasses would’ve been so far beyond the pale that I may as well have become albino.

It wasn’t long after that we pulled into London station. 

The screech of the brakes, the ding and swish of the mechanical doors sliding open, and finally the clatter of stomping feet and suitcase wheels zipping down the platform served adequately to drown me out. Amid the noise and bustle, I was just another ordinary face in the crowd. 

My reverie in anonymity, however, wasn’t shared by my ride out of the station. 

As I entered the main concourse and strolled over to our designated pickup point, Alfie Allen was doing some picking up of his own. 

He seemed to have misremembered that it was, in fact, me he was meant to be collecting.

She was cute. “When I tell my friends at uni I ran into the Theon Greyjoy, they’re gonna flip! Game of thrones has us absolutely hooked! We have watch parties for every episode, you know?” With the way she tucked her tight ringlets behind her ear, batted her lashes, and pressed her baps into him - she knew it too. “Can we please, please, please take a selfie together?” She bounced.

Alfie’s head unconsciously bobbed in rhythm. “A-anything for my fans.”

Alfie’s been in the biz for a couple of years longer than even me, despite us having comparable ages. But this newest role of his had propelled him into the true limelight. 

A lot of women (and not a few men either) were liable to come crawling out of the woodwork now - all willing to work on his wood, if you catch my drift… wood. 

I knew too well. Therefore, I considered my civic duty to grant him protection and guidance.

Surreptitiously, I snuck in closer.

The fan whipped her phone out and started snapping away. Whatever curious eyes around were mostly on them, so I was confident enough to dip my hood and remove my sunnies temporarily. 

Putting my recent modelling experience to use, I posed in the background of her frame. 

Head tilted back, I showed off my jawline and Adam’s apple. My eyes were half-lidded as I lazily dragged my fingers over the lower half of my face, contorting and highlighting my sultry lips. 

People are inherently enamoured by their own reflections, so I remained unworried that she’d discover my photo bomb when she zoomed in to admire her own visage.

It was the only consolation prize I could provide for spoiling her celebrity meet-cute with my next course of action. 

Shades on, hood up, I reached into my bag of tricks and possessed a persona I hadn’t in a while. One particularly suited for the amorous atmosphere my two targets were creating. 

“Thank you so much for this.”

Alfie rubbed the back of head and lightly chortled. “I should say the same thing. This is quite flattering, to be honest.”

“If you’re not busy, how do you feel about grabbing a coffee together?” 

Had to respect her for shooting her shot. Unfortunately, Alfie was my man for the day. High time I restate my claim.

Just as he was about to lose his nerve and capitulate to the prospect of kitty, I stiffened his spine with my unforeseen arrival. “What the f-!?” my arms wrapped around his ribs, my chin buried into the side of his neck, and my British burr became a Latin purr.

“Alfie, darrling! Did you wait long? Who eez thees?” Extended vowels and rolled Rs meant Alejandro had made his reappearance.

Realising almost instantly it was me, he opened his mouth to protest loudly. “Ba-agkh!” Two of my fingers got acquainted with his uvula. He spilled no beans. 

“Shh, shh, shh! Did we not agree to keep our identity secret for now? The tabloids - they are not ready for our rendezvous.” 

“Mmph!” Alfie tried to object, but I’d clamped my palm over his mouth.

“Oh- ohhh…” little miss fan was also quick on the uptake. “S-sorry I interrupted, then.” My ruse had successfully confused her. “Thanks again, Alfie. I’ll, uh, leave you two to it!” She hastily scarpered off.

“Wait-! I’m not-! At least give me-!” but by the time Alfie managed to escape my clutches, she was well out of earshot, “your number…”

He turned on me then. My satisfied snickering egged him on until he hissed at me with gay abandon. “Of all the times the trains are actually bloody punctual in this country, it just had to be yours! Five minutes - couldn’t you have given me that, you nonce?” 

“Well, you know the old adage: early bird gets the worm.” He slapped away my wiggling pinky from under his nose. “Anyway, I don’t have the leeway to let you indulge. Duty calls - and you’re my herald.” As I threw my arm over his shoulder, he folded both of his and mumbled morosely under his breath as we made our way out of the station. “And don’t worry about her, either. I promise I’ll make it up to you later.”

“Bitch, I’ll never forgive you for this. Not unless a supermodel literally falls off a runway straight onto my lap.”

“Sure, sure, whatever you want. Now c’mon, we can’t keep our bosses waiting, and I’ve gotta make a powerful first impression.”

–

HBO Satellite Office, London. May 2011.

Alfie was deeply regretting his decision to help Bas. One flippant comment in the throes of his excitement for landing his role in Limitless, was all Bas required to travel hundreds of miles to inch his way into a role on Game of Thrones.

Momoa had put in a good word as well, as far as he knew. But Alfie had personally made the push with production to put Bas in serious contention for a part. 

This was the first time he’d ever really stepped out of his comfort zone as an actor and tried to rub shoulders with production. So, suffice it to say, Alfie felt like his balls were on the line.

Right now, he felt as if he were gargling his stones since Bas had his fist buried in their natural position. He wished it was just the cock-block giving rise to that kidney stabbing sensation. Why? Because Bas wanted to play games as much as he wanted to play the role he was auditioning for today.

Time tensely ticked away with every audible tock of the clock hung on the wall. 

“He’s late.” David Benioff irritatedly clicked the button on his pen by hammering it on the table. The vibrations visibly rippled across the surface of the tea recently placed before him.

D. B. Weiss likewise rubbed the growing frustration crinkling his forehead. “I thought I’d be happier that such a huge name is interested in joining my production. I’m not sure it’s worth hiring Bas if he’s gonna be such a diva.”

“Not that I intend to rush the process, but seeing as he is your friend and we’re meeting him under your auspices, could you contact him and tell him to hurry?” Nina Gold, the lead casting director for the series, implored Alfie. “Do you not have any idea where he is?”

Alfie just shrugged. “Wish I could tell you. He’s in the building. I brought him in myself, so I know at least that much. I’m sure he’ll turn up.” Preferably before they get impatient with him and find a way to kill Theon off early. 

“Hollywood’s got a tendency to ruin perfectly good people. Sometimes I think plastic surgery comes with a personality transplant, too. Familiar faces change daily.” Rounding out the jury for his executive execution was the author himself, George R.R. Martin.

Ostensibly, Martin was here to ensure the integrity of his characters by lending his presence and opinion for the casting team to make the right choice. 

But Alfie knew better. 

Watercooler talk around the Winterfell set was very much that Martin would do just about everything to avoid writing the next book in the series.

He had an appetite for anything else. “Hey, wait. You wouldn’t happen to have one of those shortbread cookies with the jelly stuffing in the middle, would you?” Martin asked as his own cup of tea was delivered.

“A jammy dodger?” 

“Yeah, that’s the one!” The gopher nodded at Martin’s request and handed him a sleeve of biscuits from the nearby trolley.

“Well, if and when Bas does turn up, he’s at least given us grounds to reject him.” Benioff decreed.

“I’ll drink to that!” And Weiss agreed.

Alfie’s anxiety ratcheted up a notch as cups clanked against saucers as they were lifted to each of their mouths (Martin dunked his biscuit instead). And then he exhaled in abject relief when spraying fountains of earl grey suddenly spritzed out from three pairs of lips. 

“Why’s it so sour!?”

“Milk’s gone bad!”

“What the hell did you put in this, boy?” Suddenly, everyone glared and spat saliva at the one possible suspect. 

“Malic acid. It’s the flavour additive in sour sweets, I spooned that in instead of sugar. Totally edible, by the way.”

“Why!?”

“I thought that cyanide may have been a tad overkill. I’m trying to prank, not poison you lot.” 

Alfie heard a plop between the beat of silence. Martin dropped his biscuit in the tea and let it submerge. He hurriedly snatched the tissue under the cup to wipe his hands; while the other three tried to make sense of what had just happened.

Benioff angrily placed his plan on the table, rose, and growled at the culprit. “Is this an elaborate trick to get yourself fired? Because you’ve accomplished it.”

“Quite the opposite!” Tugging his facemask down to unveil himself, Bas discarded his camouflage as a chore-boy, even though that didn’t make him any less of one. “I’m not, but you all certainly can be considered late, eh?” Alfie had to admit, Bas’ assassination antics were a fair bit more entertaining when you weren’t the victim.

Sputters swiftly turned into stutters. Had they not already done so, chances are the panel would be doing another spit take. Equally in surprise and embarrassment, he imagined. 

Alfie was just glad the jig was up. 

Before anyone could offer false apologies for their earlier insult. “Ha! Evaded ya!” Martin slammed the paper napkin on the table to display something scribbled on it. “Nice try, though.” Which he promptly parroted. “Valar morghulis!”

The only reason Bas wasn’t patting his back was so that he could instead bask in his own grandeur by spreading his arms wide. “Valar dohaeris. So what do you say? Have I clinched the part, or do you need to see me in a wig? I’m sure I’ve got one lying around somewhere.” 

Alfie was eminently grateful that Bas got the part as Jaqen H’ghar aka ‘the faceless man’ - and he rejoiced further since he didn’t share a single scene with him.