The Trust Fund and the Sword

@copyright 2020/Mike Consol

Marco Choppo arrived in Taos, New Mexico unannounced, uninvited and incognito. He was behind the wheel of a rental because he didn’t want Candida Holloway, his on-again off-again girlfriend, to recognize his arctic silver Saab turbo convertible. Instead he was driving an all-terrain blue Hummer H3, and his face was concealed behind a mask.

He wasn’t in town for more than seventeen minutes when a local police officer pulled him over seeking identification. The officer ordered Marco to remove the mask so he could compare his face with the one on the driver’s license. Marco bogusly explained that he was a method actor preparing for a leading role in a movie that would be filmed in Albuquerque within the next few weeks.

The lawman gazed suspiciously into the sweaty face with the patches of adhesive on cheeks and forehead. After the officer returned the driver’s license and vehicle registration to the odd person-of-interest behind the wheel, Marco affixed the theater mask back to his face and resumed his journey.

Marco Choppo was an eccentric, emotionally-charged trust-fund baby from a wealthy Milan, Italy family that made its fortune in the garment and sunglasses business. Marco liked doing fun and interesting things and had the time and money to afford them since he didn’t have (or need) a job because his trust fund disbursed thousands of dollars per month into his checking account to provide for his sustenance and amusement. His sense of adventure was one of the things Candida cherished about Marco. What she deplored was that Marco was drama personified, and Hollywood was full of drama-addicted people of both genders, and she didn’t need any more of that in her life. It was precisely why she moved from Los Angeles to Taos.

Marco Choppo also cried a lot. Women like when men cry because it shows they’re sensitive, until they start crying too much, then they’re just a melodramatic mess. He cried after orgasms. The man was a fully exposed raw nerve.

Candida Holloway insisted that Marco’s life was unstructured, and he needed too many diversions to keep himself amused. He clung to Candida for the same reason as Sissy Meeks (Candida’s Hollywood agent) did — because he believed in her charismatic acting talent and was convinced she was destined for stardom on the Silver Screen. That would be his ticket to the Hollywood lifestyle, not as an actor or director, just as a hanger-on. Attending the awards ceremonies and movie premieres would be plenty enough for Marco Choppo. All the fun and none of the work.

Candida kept breaking up with him. He kept wooing her back. Sissy Meeks mentioned to Candida Holloway the several phones she calls received from Marco Choppo, blubbering for her help in convincing Candida to return to Hollywood.

By phone Candida told a dithering Marco, “We just don’t rhyme anymore.”

Marco Choppo sent Candida Holloway a $1,000 cash infusion via PayPal. The money arrived with a notation that read: “Consider it some earnest money to help you get by for the time being.”

 

 

 

 

Marco Choppo followed Candida Holloway’s car one day at an indistinguishable distance to the outskirts of town and found the cabin that was her new home. It was quaint and idyllic. Candida has moved into the small cabin to commune with piles of books about the metaphysical nature of reality, a subject for which she harbored zero interest until she moved to Taos. Her reading was interrupted by phone calls she received from Sissy Meeks and Marco Choppo. As an act of devotion to their tepid relationship, Marco offered to come to Taos so they could reunite.

She insisted that he not.

 

 

 

 

Marco Choppo climbed one of the trees standing tall around Candida Holloway’s cabin with a high-powered pair of binoculars strapped over his shoulder and gazed through the gauzy curtains hanging inside her windows. He saw her moving about and recognized her lissome figure and agile movements.

Marco’s cell phone vibrated, and he saw that it was a text from Candida Holloway. His eyes bulged. Then he realized it was an errant text, sent by mistake and intended for somebody named Sarah.

 

I will see you tomorrow night at the Fourth of July festivities at the Kit Carson Park and Cemetery

 

The following night, standing in the far reaches of the gathering crowd at Kit Carson Park, was Marco Choppo — waiting for the activities to begin. The battle between his ceaseless desire to be noticed and his need to remain anonymous — at least for now — was apparent in his choice of attire: a royal blue cape, elbow-length evening gloves, a conquistador hat with a plume of feathers, and a mask that covered 75 percent of his face while tantalizing with the remaining 25 percent. A disguise, if you could call it that, so he could spy on Candida Holloway. Hanging on his chest was a sign that read SILENT RETREAT to prevent others from approaching and speaking.

It didn’t work for long. People spotted Marco Choppo and were intrigued. Who was this saucy little man? But they were totally frustrated when they could not address this intriguing character because of his stupid vow of silence in the middle of public event. Marco Choppo got frustrated as well and decided to come out of hiding. He wanted to connect with people again, and especially with Candida Holloway. Besides, the cape, the hat, the mask were all suffocatingly hot pieces of regalia in Taos’s July temperatures, even at this late hour. He approached Candida during a rare moment when she wasn’t surrounded by her new friends and acquaintances. He slowly pulled the adhesive mask away, and there he was, the little malcontent, his face lacquered in sweat. Candida was not surprised by Marco’s revelation. She had already figured it was him behind the costume. Who else would be that ostentatious? The eyeliner worn to accentuate his eyes had smudged. Even so, he still had that dashing, sinister European look that initially attracted her.

He took the SILENT RETREAT placard off from around his neck. “I’m here to be reunited,” he said.

She declared the relationship null-and-void, and Marco assented, at least for now, rather than creating a public scene.

“I’m a different person now Marco. I’m in search of the Vital Truth. It’s not personal, there’s just nothing else is really worth my time.”

“The Vital Truth,” he repeated.

“You have to understand something, I’m chaste.”

“I don’t care.”

“This is about sex anymore,” she said.

“I get you. At least I think I get you.”

“This really isn’t your vibe,” she said. “This is a completely different habitat. You’re not Hollywood anymore.”

Marco Choppo’s expression went downcast.

Candida frowned empathically. “C’mon,” she said, threading her arms around one of his and leading him toward the stage and sound system erected for the event. “Some friends are here.”

As they moved closer Marco recognized the band members, especially the man adjusting the microphone. It was Chris Barron, lead singer of the Spin Doctors, and a personal friend to Candida Holloway. She had convinced the city to fork out thousands to fly the band and its equipment to Taos and pay the Spin Doctors’ performance fee. Now Candida was on stage holding the microphone and welcoming the audience and introducing the band.

              Marco Choppo marveled how quickly Candida had insinuated herself into this new community. People really knew her and were responding to her words.

Then she remarked to the crowd: “You didn’t come to hear me talk. We’re here to celebrate. Let’s party!” Candida Holloway made a hand signal toward the Spin Doctors, and the band roared into Pocket Full of Kryptonite, one of the biggest hit songs of the early 1990s, when the New York hippie bar band, known for their marathon shows, was at its pinnacle.

Pandemonium. The crowd turned into a swarm of bodily movements — arms and legs and hips jutting, heads rotating, spinal disks herniating from the sudden, overzealous movements. It was a mob scene; the whole place was electric.

Marco Choppo, swept away by the excitement of the moment, decided to spike the punchbowls with Ecstasy, a drug he and Candida has used a few times and subsequently had the best sex of their lives. He brought some in liquid form and surreptitiously added a small dose to each of four punchbowls. He figured doping a few thousand people would create an even higher degree of revelry. Marco Choppo had studied the drug before starting to use it on occasion, and was more than well aware that in liquid form Ecstasy is absorbed into the system and acts on the brain and nervous system in a matter of a few minutes. Soon, Marco was observing some of the full range of user experiences expressing themselves among group members. There was:

 

• Increased energy and focus 
• A euphoric state of being 
• Distorted time perception

• Higher pleasure from and desire for physical touch 
• Increased levels of sexuality and sexual arousal 
• Feelings of emotional peace and empathy 

 

The place had turned into a rave party. People where claiming to be experiencing mystical insights. Marco was also witnessing the drug’s nasty side-effects, which he learned about another recreational drug user who happened to be a toxicologist at a Los Angeles hospital. There was nausea and muscle cramping, sweating and chills, shaking and tremors, increased heart rate, blurred vision and high blood pressure. Some people were feeling faint. And, of course, there were hallucinations. 

One man unwittingly double-dosed on the spiked punch and started removing his clothing, not stopping until he was down to a fluorescent pair of yellow boxers. Candida had taken too much as well and started rolling on the ground and reciting nursery rhymes. Marco had the stride of a spotted leopard as he prowled the grounds to get a closer view of the chemistry experiment, then he grabbed his smartphone and started recording video of some of the more outrageous behavior. It would make a nice souvenir. Most people seemed to know they had been slipped something psychoactive and most felt too good to care.

Candida Holloway was off the ground now and had completed quoting nursery rhymes. Her face was flushed as she walked up to Marco Choppo and said, “I’m thinking a lot of thoughts right now.” Marco gave her a wicked smile and quipped, “Let’s dance!”

Like a whirling Sufi dervish, Marco Choppo went spinning into the crowd, whipping his royal blue cape through the air. Others started to spin with him until he got dizzy and fell to the ground; a few people started hugging and kissing in the grass, and petting and dry humping.

Even the Spin Doctors couldn’t get anyone’s attention. Everyone was too involved in their own brain activity to concentrate on outside stimuli.

A security guard called the police department to report public intoxication, nudity and sexing. Law enforcement officers rushed to the scene, curious to find out if this was a prank report or an instance where they might get an eyeful of some naked, rambunctious women. By time the police arrived the bacchanalia was in full Roman bloom. Ten squad cars disbursed twenty cops with weaponry strapped all over their bodies, including canisters of pepper spray and teargas, as well as armor and battle gear. The first thing they grabbed was the corner Marco Choppo’s cape, taking him to the ground and ripping the partial mask off his face. There was quite a lot of other blocking and tackling, and that sent a chill through the crowd. People began dispersing on their own accord rather than tangling with the hyped-up police officers.

Only Marco Choppo ended up in the back of a squad car howling about police brutality and habeas corpus. Candida Holloway stood clear of the law enforcement action and giggled the whole time.

Fourteen hours later a sober and furious Candida Holloway went to the city jail and bailed out Marco Choppo, the whole time listening to him threaten police department administrators that a class-action civil rights lawsuit would be filed against the city for police brutality and false arrest. He was concealed in a mask again.

Candida drove in silence to her cabin in Oak Creek Canyon where, immediately after closing the front door, she unloaded on the little man, accusing him of endangering of public safety. Marco lied the whole time, insisting he had nothing to do with the drugging of the Fourth of July contingent.

 

  

Following a brief and circumstantial investigation, the Taos Police Department also came to the conclusion that Marco Choppo was the guilty party in the Fourth of July drugging, searching his apartment and person for Ecstasy or any other evidence they could find that pointed to his guilt. Nothing was found but the police chief ordered him to leave town, a directive of dubious constitutionality that Marco would have brazened refused to do except that Candida was making the very same demand. She was finished with Marco Choppo — this time for good. At least that’s what she claimed.

A morose Marco Choppo felt his options had run out and would assent to Candida’s (and the police chief’s) order to leave town. One last request was all he asked, and that was to have a going away dinner together at Papilles, the town’s finest French restaurant. Candida agreed while insisting he not wear a mask and draw undo and freakish attention to their table. It was a gorgeous meal, speaking for the food and drink.

A bare-faced Marco Choppo said over their first glass of French wine, “I’m being deported from this state and city by law enforcement authorities and my girlfriend.”

“I am not your girlfriend, and I never will be again as long as these habits of yours don’t change. Your life is a shamble. You pamper yourself with that trust fund. It’s the worst thing that could have happened to you.”

“And yet you have been happy to indulge in the spoils with me.”

Candida considered the contradiction. “It’s true, and it was fun while it lasted, but now all I see is passivity from you. You’ve never even bothered to develop a professional skill. When have you ever had a job?”

“You’re always so critical of me,” he snapped. “Something drew you to me, once upon a time. Tell me what that was, for your own sake.”

Candida gazed into his violet-linked eyes. “You’re debonair. You’ve always been debonair. But I don’t see you that way anymore. Now you’re just irresponsible. Doping a crowd of people is just the kind of stunt you would pull for your own amusement — and at everyone else’s expense. You could have seriously injured somebody.”

Marco Choppo denied involvement. Her head began to loll. She knew what he was telling a lie, however well-intentioned or ill-intentioned. She didn’t believe a bit of it, and he knew she didn’t believe his lying eyes.

“Who else can give you this life? Who else will have the time to always be present and supporting you in style?”

“I guess I’m looking for a more traditional boy/girl relationship. I’m tired of your hijinks and Peter Pan lifestyle. Why am I going to waste my time with you when I cannot even envision myself as the future Mrs. Choppo? I feel like I’m always waiting on something that never arrives.”

“What is it that you want from me? What is it about women who like a man and then want to change him?”

“I think you have a very serious desire for me, I really do, but you sublimate it.”

“You’re being absurd — and arrogant.”

“You don’t believe you deserve it. You don’t think you deserve me, or the money, or the lifestyle. So typical.”

Candida squinted her eyes. “There’s something else that’s been repelling me. You’re too clingy. You’re always wrapped around me like a vine. It’s hard to breathe. I’m the girl. I’m supposed to be the clingy and dramatic one. I’m not into this role reversal shit.”

Their thrusts and counterthrusts were obvious from several tables away, the server keeping his distance until Marco Choppo raised his wine goblet and called out, “What does it take to get a second glass of Mil Piedras around here?”

The couple settled their dispute long enough to consume their dinners in tense silence. Candida finished off a double-cut pork chop while Marco chased tenderloin of antelope around his plate.

When they got back to the cabin they made love for old time’s sake. Candida made him wear a condom. Candida figured it would placate him and facilitate his exodus back to Hollywood. Besides, she enjoyed sex and knew at a time like this Marco Choppo would give it his all.

Ooof! Ooof! Ooof! he was going. Then Marco Choppo cried at climax, on time and per usual.

One long, final look at Candida Holloway’s movie-star quality looks, and Marco Choppo departed in his Hummer H3, which he was planning on driving at great expense to Los Angeles and pay the hefty return fee to the rental company’s Albuquerque lot. He made it only as far is Gallup, where he spent the night at a hotel and came driving back to Taos the next morning, knocking on Candida’s cabin door. The door wheezed as she swung it open. She staggered at the sight of him.

  

 

When Candida Holloway finally recomposed herself, Marco Choppo was still spitting with excitement, insisting he had been struck by a delicious premonition that could not wait to be shared. He started outlining a business plan to create a line of accessories modeled after his own flamboyant attire he would call the Zorro Collection — modeled after the famous, fictional, masked swordsman of book and television. His line would include hats, masks, capes, boots, gloves and, of course, swords.

“There are people throughout the world who would also find these designs appealing,” he said. “The Zorro name would bring immediate attention.”

Candida caught a whiff of greed from Marco Choppo. “You already have millions,” she pointed out. “Family money.”

“There’s a stigma with being a trust-fund baby, you said so yourself,” he said. “Am I talking to the same woman who criticized me for passivity and my lack of employment?”

Candida realized this was the first time he had seen the glint of ambition in Marco Choppo’s eye. The other eye was covered by a patch, which was supposed to be part of the line of accessories.

The high-strung Italian was on his feet now, pacing. “Haute couture,” he said. “Think of the gallantry the Zorro Collection will bring to market. They’ll be talking about this line in New York, Milan and Paris.”

Candida figured the idea was a longshot, at best, especially because of Marco’s flaccid work ethic. But she didn’t want to discourage him, so she hugged Marco.

He took hold of her shoulders and looked into one of her eyes. “My life finally has some direction, and I attribute this to the honest conversation we had last night over dinner. Thank you, Candida. Thank you for speaking truth and inspiring me.”

 

 

 

 

Marco Choppo returned to Hollywood and went to work on his new business. He never personally broke a sweat because he contracted every aspect of the business to retailing, clothing and merchandising experts on the strength of his monthly trust-fund stipend.

The Zorro Collection turned out to be a huge draw. Marco Choppo’s dashing personality attracted a lot of attention and publicity, stoking sales. He attended opening and interviews in a purple cape, black hat and mask, boots and sword. It was enough to bring Candida Holloway back to his side, though they never married, in part because Marco Choppo continued to live a life of debauchery, eventually opening his own club, the West Hollywood equivalent of Plato’s Retreat, the famous New York City sex club where couples, married and otherwise, paid significant membership fees to attend and enjoy good food and drink before swapping partners. He often participated and was arrested several times for indecency and moral turpitude, only to be released from custody on the strength of one of L.A.’s most connected attorneys, a man who himself was a Plato’s Retreat member, though a pseudonym was used on his membership account.

He finally did start his line of clothing accessories and dubbed it the Zorro Collection, despite a brewing trademark dispute. Zorro seemed the perfect namesake for Marco Choppo’s original line of signature capes, masks, eye patches and well-fashioned swords from the era. He designed and manufactured male and female versions of each. The Zorro line wasn’t an enormous initial success, and yet it was big enough to underwrite a second, expanded production run, adding stylish leather boots and elbow-length leather and suede gloves. He became a third-tier clothing celebrity, which was good enough to earn some media coverage and give the line even more exposure and marketing fuel. At last, Marco Choppo was not just a trust-fund baby, he was making his own fortune in the world, and between the trust fund and his business, Marco was wealthy enough to travel to all of the great cities of the world with Candida Holloway at his side, a couple once again.

His potential legal troubles thickened when the people in charge of the Zorro trademark came after Marco, pointing out the violation and insisting on a contractual arrangement that 17 percent of all revenue go to family descendants of Zorro’s creator. Those sharp words were presented to Marco Choppo on the pointed end of a sword. He had no option but to accede to their demands. Still it was a good living and a good life.

His libertine lifestyle never wore thin on him. There was never a boring day, never some new indulgence he didn’t want to pursue and use to gratify himself.

It was a good 31-year run with the Zorro line of accessories before he ran across two rogues in an Istanbul nightclub. Then men initially flattered Marco by showing up donned in Zorro regalia. Their happenstance meeting was affable and then effusive before turning heated. As their conversation rolled on, the two men realized they didn’t care for the clothier’s arrogance, and accused him of creating a line that lacked originality, that was a blatant derivative from a great Spanish-American hero after whom the collection was named.

A shouting match ensued. The bouncer came over to settle the matter. When Marco Choppo slipped him a few hundred euros to get rid of the antagonists, the security guard quickly shoved them out the front door. The two rogues considered the payment more proof of Marco Choppo’s high-handedness. When Marco left the nightclub, he slipped out the back door, figuring the men might be waiting for him out front. But the rogues had anticipated Marco Choppo’s move and were waiting for him in the back alley, where there were no eyewitnesses or helping hands. They stabbed in the gut several times, using the very swords he had designed and manufactured, and then fled into the night, leaving Marco on his back, spread atop his cape and bleeding from at least a dozen puncture wounds.

The first paramedics to arrive pulled the mask off Marco Choppo’s face. Still partially conscious, he said in a weak but declarative a voice, “I am Marco Choppo, creator of the Zorro line of clothing accessories. I am drifting. I am drifting. Alert the President of Turkey of my demise.”

By now there was a gurgling sound in his throat, red bubbles reaching his lips. The medics tried to cauterize that puncture wounds on the spot. It was too late.

Candida Holloway held a memorial service for Marco Choppo in Hollywood, during which she eulogized him, saying: “There was not a sensual pleasure in life that Marco Choppo did not enjoy. He appetite for sensuality was inexhaustible, from the texture of the materials he wore against his skin, to acts of intimacy too bacchanal to repeat. He was jovial and adventurous to the end.”

It was exactly the kind of remembrance Marco Choppo would have relished.

As prescribed by his Last Will and Testament, Marco Choppo’s body was flown to Milan, Italy where it was cremated and his ashes smeared on the foreheads of the membership of local Catholic Churches on many years of Ash Wednesdays until his remains were fully distributed. His will explained the use of his ashes for that annual Christian holy day was a commemoration of the human lifecycle of dust-to-dust and ashes-to-ashes.

@copyright 2020/Mike Consol