Who is Gunther Franz?

It's time to start getting into the real creative stuff now and work out what makes these people tick - but first, here's the last of my four main characters. Like the others he started as somebody I've seen, the rest? Well, I don't know where that comes from, but he refused to be held back - let me know what you think of him .....


The man strode into the room, advertising his origins plainly to all who were within earshot, the nasal scrawl of the Veldt rang out across the floor as he demanded a table from the maitre d' of the establishment. He held himself stiffly, drawing his narrow frame to its full imposing height, as he surveyed the room he had just entered. This was a man who was used to being obeyed, his entire stature spoke of authority, purpose and resolve. He didn't really so much expect to be obeyed, he just knew no other way. He could not envisage any other way - there could be no other way.

Gunther Franz had been brought up as the eldest son of an affluent Durban family and had long felt restricted by the isolation imposed by the property and his social position. At the age of 16, his family could hold him no longer and he left to seek his part in the world. He travelled from country to country, unable to remove the fetters of his past, eventually at the age of 29, finding a home, almost by accident, amongst the mountains of New Zealand.

His voice might have betrayed his beginnings, but his body no longer gave away those secrets. The frame, though still tall and firm, no longer held the muscular strength of the young farmer. The biceps, once solid and brawny, were now slightly flaccid after years of disuse. The tan of his youth remained, and along with his blond, sunflecked hair highlighted the boyish good looks which would appeal to females around the world, and to his consternation, to males as well.

Gunther's clothes fitted perfectly, their styled emphasised his rigid upright manner. He wore no accessories beyond a fine silk paisley tie and a pocket watch that he pulled from his jacket at intervals as he stood scanning the space around him. He hated time, yet was forced to be beholden to it. He hated the orderliness it imposed, the way it confirmed the rigidity of his childhood. He hated that he felt himself a prisoner, a prisoner of his origins and prisoner of time. He detested the fact that he could not rid himself of his origins, yet he still needed order and time, he still insistently continued to pull on the chain to see the time, almost a compulsive act.

He seemed to be almost unaware of others in the room, consumed by his own thoughts and needs; needs he has yet to fully identify despite the years of wandering. He moved purposefully towards the table, indicated by the maitre d' and assumed position in the middle of the seat, poised to survey all who passed or approached. The waiter attempted to pass, but Gunther was alert and caught the young attendant as he stepped close. Gunther motioned the lad closer and mumbled something to him. Moments later, the lad reappeared with a glass and a basket of bread. The bread was obviously fresh and the steamy aroma brought a small smile to Gunther's studious expression. He brought the glass lazily to his lips and began to bite into the bread with a gusto that suggested a hunger that betrayed his manner. A man with such style, such strength and purpose should not attack food with such a ferocity. The meal, for what it was, lasted mere moments. The drink lasted longer, Gunther lingering over each mouthful, watching the light glisten against the liquid, forever watchful of his surroundings.

Abruptly, he arose and strode out with the same peremptory stride with which he had entered. He moved out onto the street, moving toward the taxicabs lined up, waiting for unsuspecting travellers. Gunther doesn't drive, preferring to travel in taxis or to gain the attentions of more mobile companions. When he rides in taxis, Gunther makes it immediately clear that he is not an unsuspecting traveller and this driver was no different. Cowed, he gunned the engine into action and drove into the city traffic, toward the freeway, the most direct route to Gunther's simple apartment.

His apartment consisted of two bedrooms, an ensuite, a second bathroom, lounge, kitchen, study and a balcony. Simple - perhaps to some; for others it would qualify for display homes, the quintessential batchelor pad, furnished in cream, black and chrome, oozing money, a chic fashionable statement that many might try to emulate but few would achieve. A closer look at the apartment would reveal little comfort for its occupant: a fridge empty but for a small carton of milk and a lemon; cupboards sparse of staples, yet stacked with a barman's choice of alcohol; beds unslept in, cushions perfectly placed upon chairs yet to see a body to comfort. Gunther spends little time here, preferring to retire to his cabin in the mountains, where he will sit with his glass of schnaps, with his laptop close by. It is here that he can be absorbed by his passion, his friend, the Internet. With the Internet, he can be anybody, nobody's prisoner, he can find anybody, do anything - perhaps the Internet has his answers. He needs to escape from his beginnings, to be the person he knows he can be. He needs, deep down, though to succeed because of his beginnings and in spite of them, but his pride would never allow him to admit to that. The Internet is where he knows he has to go.