The Naked G8 - Part 1

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Humor  |  House: Booksie Classic
Brenda gets a job at the G8 venue, gets kidnapped and is forced to hatch a plan to get a nude (and priceless) snap of the leaders together - nude. And of course her feckless hubby is doomed is she doesn't. Imagine! But can she do it...? THIS IS FICTION!!

Submitted: June 16, 2013

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Submitted: June 16, 2013







“A man with money is no match against a man on a mission.” Doyle Brunson

You’re dead right, Doyle Brunson.

And I had neither until 48 hours ago. Then I got a mission, and now I’m about to get a huge amount of money.

You want to know what happened? You want to know the truth?

Then read this. You’ll get a kick out of it. Takes ten minutes.

So...six months ago I got a job at this upmarket hotel.

I told them about the waitress skills I got from back in the days working breakfast shifts in New York and Atlantic City, and they gave me the job.

The place wasn’t far from where I lived, near where I grew up in Ireland. You see, I’d moved back to the old country – me and my hungry kid - and needed to get out and meet some people.

And, yeh, I’d ditched the dumb husband and needed the cash too.

So this job came along in this ‘resort’ joint, all five star and fancy, but way down on its luck.

Truth is, the place – The Lough Erne - was broke, was going to the wall, was all too much for middle-of-nowhere Ireland.

Fact was that the Rory McIlroy guy used to come around and light The Lough Erne all up with his golf and celebrity. It sponsored him in the good days, then everything changed. He hit the big time and moved on, and the light at The Lough Erne dimmed.

I figured the joint might give me a job for a while, just ahead of it biting the dust. There wasn’t much work around so it was the best idea going.

But I was wrong about everything. The Lough Erne’s biggest day was about to come - and the guests about to check in made Rory McIlroy look like zero.

So six months ago my manager, Mark, took me and Kay to his office. It was 9.04am.

He says: “What do you girls know about the G8?”

Kay thought it was text for great.

I thought it was web for a gate.

“You’re both wrong,” says Mark. “It’s the Group of Eight most industrialised countries on the planet.”

Kay and me are wanting to look at each other now.

Mark goes: “Okay – it’s when the heads of the world’s richest countries meet up for a summit.

“They do it every year and sometimes people come and protest.”

Kay and me do look at each other now, and we both do a ‘well isn’t that something’ face.

I say: “Yeah, it’s seen as a big capitalist party or something.”

Mark nods: “That’s right.”

Kay says: “Can we go now?”

Mark goes: “No. What I’m about to tell you is very important.”

Then he tells it.

Barack Obama, Vladimir Putin, Algela Merkel and a bunch of other world chiefs are coming to The Lough Erne for the G8. Our Lough Erne. Our bankrupt hotel in the middle of nowhere.

Mark even says “James Cameron” is coming over.

I ask it: “Isn’t James Cameron the man who did ET and stuff?”

Mark nods: “Yes – great isn’t it! Or should I say isn’t it G8?!”

No one laughed ‘cept him.

He tells us the whole G8 thing is a “Grade A secret”.

And he says the CIA are coming to talk to us – THAT SAME DAY.

“Any skeletons in the closet, any convictions, killings, shenanigans?” he asks. “Because they will find them, believe me.”

I look at the floor.

Kay starts to shake.


We wanted to tell people when we got out of his office but our phones don’t work.

Kay says the CIA have shut them down, and I guess she’s right.

“The signal has gone down all over,” says Robin, the guy with the fake leg who helps cut the grass. “The CIA are blocking the gate and everything. This place is air tight.”

The CIA – a man and woman wearing the exact same suit in the exact same size - have me in a room 30 minutes later. They look at my hands and feet as they talk to me.

We chew over my time in the States, my drinking, my screwing, my general morals, my complete bribability.

I figure it’s best to be open and tell them I left Ireland after getting in trouble with the IRA.

“What did you do?” the guy asks.

“I had sex a bunch of times with a British soldier. I wasn’t really clued-in at the time. The IRA kicked me out of the country.”

He nods: “And do the IRA know you’re back?”

I say: “I don’t know. But I’m hoping they don’t want to kill me any more. The whole thing was a little overplayed on their part anyway.”

They look at each other. I think about asking them to shadow me 24/7.

We could be an elite threesome strolling around Co Fermanagh in the same suit, drinking and shooting with Uncle Sam at our backs....

“Have you told anyone about the IRA incident before?” she asks.

“No. Only my husband. My estranged husband.”

“I see,” she says. “And where is he?”

“Sweden. He’s Swedish. He’s an asshole.”

She nods.


Turns out the CIA and MI5 and all sorts have been all over The Lough Erne for days, but we never noticed.

Turns out DAVID Cameron, the UK Prime Minister (not the movie man), had picked the resort on advice from his people.

Apparently, broke or not, it would be the ideal location for the G8. Basically, most of it is surrounded by water and there’s only road passes it.

I leave for home that night, after three meetings, knowing I might or might not be working during the G8 summit – and that I can’t say a damn thing about it to anyone.

If asked, I say: “I don’t know anything about it.”

I went home and looked up G8, Obama, Merkel and how the CIA block phone signals.


Time goes on and the venue is announced to the press – it’s all happening in June - it gets a little busy with people from all countries coming and going for a while.

We have a fire in the building (and some guys no one knows come to fix all the electrics and shit), get some crazy phone calls and some other shit that seems to be all part of the run of things.

The CIA come and go and lots of people start trying to book rooms at The Lough Erne. We get used to journalists walking around, trying to ask us what we know. We start to enjoy pretending we’re about to say something amazing, then we say zip.

Some guys come and make more changes to things and we can’t ask anything. And some people measure out rooms and there’s a lot of talk about helicopters and boats and the weather.

Mark tells me I will be getting a bit of extra training as I’m down to work the G8, but not to say anything.

He says I might end up handing the president of the United States a pint of Guinness and he didn’t want me to spill it.

I tell Mark I only get the shakes once or twice a week for an hour or two, so it’s statistically unlikely.


Two days before they’re all due to arrive, I’m in a supermarket in my lazy joggers, my kid with his cousin.

This guy grabs my hand as I’m reaching out for a bag of oranges.

“If you want to live,” he says, Australian accent, “then do exactly as I say.”

I tell him to go swivel and pull my hand away. The oranges fall back.

Next thing another guy, stinking of tobacco, is at my other side.

He’s Irish. He goes: “We will kill you and your husband if you don’t do exactly as we say.”
I’m thinking, what in the name of...

“Listen to me dick breath,” I say, turning to the guy who just arrived.

He’s more clean-cut than I expected, looks like he’s moisturised.

And he sticks me with a needle right in the arse. I look down as he’s plunging some liquid into my cheek.

I look him in the eye, going dizzy, thinking about making some joke about Botox, but... and that’s it... I’m out.


I’m laid out on what’s like a dentist’s chair when I wake up. I’m strapped down at the shoulders, the waist, the ankles.

The moisturised man wheels his way over on a chair and looks down on me and makes a face, like he’s inspecting a growth.

“You need to understand Brenda that I’m an artist,” he says.

He waits, thinking I’m going to say something. I don’t like to disappoint but I can’t think of anything. My mouth’s dry as brick dust.

“I’m a very serious artist,” he says, and waits again. We look at each other.

He shrugs.

He leans back grabs something. He leans forward and it’s an iPad. There’s a live feed of my dumb husband sitting at a table, his face swollen, eyes terrified.

Dick breath says there’s a camera, that me and husband are looking at each other. My husband nods his head.

“Hi B,” he says. “This is not a good situation.”

“Insightful,” I say, but sad inside. “Where are you? They get you in Sweden?”

Dick breath pulls the iPad away.

He tells me I have to get him something very valuable from The Lough Erne after the G8 leaders arrive.

“It will be very difficult to get,” he says, “but it will be worth it.

“If you don’t get it, if you fail, if you tell anyone what has happened here, your husband will die.

“And sooner or later, you will die too.”

I’m chilled. I’m a little angry, but chilled.

I say: “What is it?”

He says: “I need a photograph of the G8 leaders together.”

I look at him, thinking that I’ll be able to do this.

He goes: “All naked. The money shot.”

“I’m sorry, what?”

“The eight, standing together, naked. Smiling, if possible. Do you think you can do that?”

I think.

Then I go: “Are you quite sure your brain is switched on, mister?”

“Quite sure,” he says. “My brain is just grand. And, in its wisdom, it tells me that the image you are going to provide me with is worth more on the private market than any Picasso, any Monet, any di Vinci.”

“What makes your arty-farty brain assume that the presidents of the USA and Russia, that the leaders of Italy and Britain and Germany and Japan and Canada and France will take their clothes off. In front of each other. For me. In a hotel. Surrounded by the CIA. In Fermanagh?”

“I’ve done my research,” he says. “I know about the sexual incidents with Stephen Fry and Graham Norton.

“I believe you are a very resourceful and an extremely persuasive person.”

I blushed a little, a shade of pride. I say: “Yes, a likeable fact about myself. But this is a whole other kettle of fish. Asking Angela Merkel to bare it all so I can take a picture is just beyond...”

“Just what?” he says. “She’s the same as anyone else in the world, isn’t she?

“The fact is, anyone anywhere will consider anything – you just have to ask in the appropriate way, perhaps with some appropriate pressure.”

And already I was starting to think about how to do this mad, mad thing – how to do what is surely impossible. And as I lay there, he took out the needle again.

“Can I just walk back?” I asked.

“No,” he says, jamming it back into my arse.

And I woke up, dry coughing, in my own car outside the supermarket.

The Lough Erne was getting a serious spruce up. Everything was being washed and double washed, everyone was being briefed and double briefed.

I even had a session with a man, flown in from London, on serving food and drinks to VIPs.

“If you disappoint the president of the United States,” he says, “it will bug you forever.”

I couldn’t even think what the president of the United States was going to think of me forever.

Everything would have been going just fine with all this if it hadn’t been for me being targeted by a needle-wielding man who was clearly insane.

 I had no doubt he might kill me and my husband if I didn’t do this.

Truth is, part of me didn’t care about me or my husband that much.

The other truth is – and this is the funny thing about it all - part of me really wanted to give this crazy thing a go.

So, with less than a couple of days before the big arrivals, I sat down at home in front of eight pictures and I got to thinking...

... to be continued..



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