From Leon

An immense black-and-white billboard of a near-naked man hovers in the polluted haze of Hong Kong. Over twenty stories high, the gigantic man leans, his head tilted back, against the soon-to-be-demolished Ritz-Carleton Hotel. His eyes are almost entirely closed. Tight white underpants contrast glistening black skin.

Leon finds he cannot sleep. Not that The Giant is staring, exactly; his eyes are barely discernible. Still, a vague feeling that The Giant is watching lingers in Leon’s consciousness, a feeling that, somehow, images are radiating onto The Giant’s retina. Not that Leon has enough time to sleep these days; he’s spending most of his spare time at the bank implementing the latest risk management system, a relatively simple install that isn’t anywhere near finished.

From Blank

The party junks are tethered like unruly school children, jostling for a superior view of the dragon boat races. Brightly-coloured corporate logos hang from the flagpoles, publicizing the investment banks in Hong Kong.

The day turns overcast and the varnished teak decks of the party junks glow golden beneath imitation paper lanterns. Linked with ropes fore and aft, they are so close that one can hop from one junk to the next. I’ve heard that as the afternoon progresses, junior bankers jump the circuit, comparing parties.

On the congested deck of the Morgan Stanley I edge through the crowd, search in vain for a seat along the banquet benches. As requested, I introduce myself to Jerry’s clients and ensure their drink glasses are full to capacity, try to make small talk.

Lightheaded, I’m overtired from a combination of bursts of rigorous exercise, and the extreme heat and high humidity. Get a grip.

“We lost. What the hell happened?” asks Jerry.

“Just ran out of steam,” I say and swallow a bottle of water in one gulp. A waiter carries a loaded tray of drinks past and I grab a green-tinged cocktail. Mojitos. Fresh mint tastes like earth.

“Those rat bastards from Lehman probably cheated.”

“Next year.” I pluck my sweat dampened T-shirt away from my chest.

“Next year is fucking right.” Jerry shakes a fist at Lehman’s party junk tied directly to ours. Merrill Lynch is tied beyond Lehman’s and Goldman Sachs’s farther beyond. Apart from their corporate logos, the party junks are identical, a financial flotilla.

Music skips, scratches.

“Turntables. Jesus. They’ve got a fucking DJ over there.” Jerry squints across at the Lehman party junk, so packed with bankers, clients and party girls that it sinks down in the water, at least one foot lower than the Morgan Stanley.