Archived entries for David Foote

Le Coq Sportif

by David Foote

I am Dusautoir.  That is my name.  It is my considerable dishonor that before today I didn’t know I needed one.  If I thought of myself as anything it was as Dàshī, the maestro, king of a disputed kingdom.  I sat in my box at the market, enduring the wall eyed, frenetic squabbling of my neighbours, and watched as one by one they were removed.  Where were they taken?  Tiān ā, I knew little and cared less!

Soon only one other was left, and him I called duìshǒu, the rival.  Across from us we could see our guīfáng, the broody courtesans we both knew to be our birthright.  How I longed to cover them all, batter them with my wings, and crow my triumph to the heavens.  Only the bars between us kept me from scratching out my rivals eyes with my spurs.  My hour would come though, and during those long hot nights towards the end of summer, as the sleepy murmuring of my harem drifted across the narrow gap between my cage and theirs (exciting in me a fever I thought could never be quenched) the image of my duìshǒu’s bloody comeuppance is all that sustained me.

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By David Foote

I am… that is, I was, a broker with Dalian Futures in Shanghai. I had a gorgeous 3 bedroom apartment in Century Park with wood floors through-out, views of the river and a hot tub in the ensuite bathroom. Bay windows like you wouldn’t believe and a pretty but boring, blue eyed bitch of a girlfriend. She wrote “Celebrity Image Consultant” under profession on her visa forms, and didn’t give a tupenny fuck how many kids in Guangzhou she’d sent blind hand-stitching her new gucci pumps. The jungle is no place for bleeding hearts after all.

If that all sounds like some gutless middle manager’s twisted wank fantasy… if indeed you should experience jealousy, do not panic. That is the reaction my lifestyle was intended to provoke. Every empire has it’s Nero after all. In the sage words of Axyl Rose, “nothing lasts forever not even cold November rain”. Continue reading…


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