From: The Racketeer 6, March 1994
Global Domination
An attempted profile of Geoff Firmin
by Andy Lusis
April 2004
THE ENORMOUS stretch limo eased to a stop in front of the imposing world headquarters of MPTC (MegaPark Tennis Corporation). I couldn't help feeling that I was making a big mistake. My request for an interview had been accepted with surprising speed; Geoff Firmin, World President of MPTC is, by reputation, not an easy man to see. Even more surprising was the fact that he had sent one of his fleet of magnificent executive limousines to the offices of The Racketeer. The staff begged me not to go, but I was not prepared to let anyone else take the risk.
As dedicated readers will know, the Racketeer has published some rather critical articles about the rise of the man they call 'The Captain'. Is it not suspicious that a small tennis club, owned by its members, should, in just ten years, become a global corporation running hotels, leisure complexes and theme parks, all under the control of one man? But the people who know the truth and promised to talk have, with one notable exception, always had a change of heart at the last minute.
Two black-suited goons escorted me into the palatial building. What were those bulges under their breast pockets? In the lift I felt increasingly nervous as I remembered what had happened to Steve McKeown, the only one who dared to speak out. At last I was shown into the presence of the man himself. There he sat, across a vast expanse of Collins carpet, behind a huge desk that must have taken a noticeable portion of the world's remaining rain forests, stroking his sinister black beard. He didn't invite me to sit down.
'My biggest mistake,' he began, without preamble, 'was to let your scandal sheet stay independent.'
'Is that a threat?'
'Don't mess with me, punk. People who mess with the Captain don't mess for long.'
'What about your financial director, Steve McKeown?'
'He left.'
'Isn't it true that he uncovered certain, ah, irregular practices?'
He didn't reply, but pressed a button on his state-of-the-art intercom.
'Send in the Chief of Security.'
Almost instantly a tall man with dark hair, dark glasses and a dark suit came in.
'Seamer, escort this person off the premises.'
'Sure thing, boss,' he said in a dark voice. He took my arm and pulled me to the door.
'Oh, Seamer,' came the chilling voice of the Captain. 'Point out to him the error of his ways.'
'A pleasure, boss.'
Now I really was getting worried. As he led me away, Seamer was joined by the two goons who had shown me in. Surely the Captain wouldn't harm someone as prominent as the publisher and editor of an internationally respected magazine.
In the underground car park I was bundled unceremoniously into the boot of a waiting car. The car sped off; but hadn't gone far when it screeched to a halt. There were shouts, two gunshots, then more shouts. The boot was opened.
Fortunately for me the loyal staff of the Racketeer, fearing for my life, had called the police after I had left and persuaded them to keep tabs on me.
So, the first game goes to the Racketeer. But with an opponent who will stop at nothing to get what he wants, it will be a long time before the match is decided.