Power Consumes
I manufacture a smile: Eyes narrow, facial muscles tensely flexed into a mask of deceit and obnoxiousness. The kind of smile that penetrates your skin, forces your eyes to reveal the deepest secrets of your soul, sends a chill down your spine, gets a firm grip on your liver, and makes yesterday’s Bolognese tremble in fear for it’s own noodly life.
I shake Peters hand firmly, however I let him get the upper hand. As expected he attempts to (jokingly) crush my hand. That’s a firm grip, I say politely. I know sir, I’ve been working out lately. Can’t run for governor without looking good you know, he ascertains. Always allow the prey fish to bite your tail, before you devour them wholly. Have a good day governor, I state before nodding approvingly.
Nouveau riche pompous pricks: Oh how much I love them and their protruding lack of intelligence. They are the very reason why I keep coming back to politics. New meat: easily moulded, disposable and forgettable. He beats his wife senselessly every night, and blackmailed our very dear vice president into getting him to where he is now, and still I can’t help but feel sorry for this kid. I’m going to make him my bitch, and he will obey my every command; roll around, sit, fetch, crush, devour, die. Obviously I wouldn’t be where I am today without old money: I am, have always been, and will always be, an inexorable force due to my influence in the right places. Young flesh is too unpredictable. Their allegiance follows the source of true power (like everything else), not nonsense power such as money.
No time for nonsense though. Chop chop; the clock is ticking. I’m headed for the DuPonts’ house. I call it a house, but I mean mansion. Nothing beats the DuPont family when it comes to size and flamboyance. Everything’s bigger in America people say; I say everything’s bigger at DuPonts’.
More specifically, I’m going there to meet Peverell duPont. The name says it all doesn’t it? Either he’s a serial killer, a vampire, the devil’s descendant or he’s power personified as an old man with a dice in one hand and the threads of fate in the other. I am of course exaggerating. He has “people” to perform his dirty deeds: including holding his dice for him.
As I approach the mansion I spy with my little eye something… proud: Something with a sense of superiority. It (the something) is wearing a blue suit with a US flag pin on it. Condescending twat. Mr duPont is with him. They’re arguing. I spot two lean dark men dressed in charcoal black suits.
They don’t react to the intensifying argument. DuPonts anger shows only as a vague clenching of his fists, as the other man leaves the room. I decide to keep this in mind, but hidden below the surface. It isn’t the time, nor my place (yet) to discuss what matters Mr duPont might have with the president.
I decide to approach the door, and use the doorknocker to let my presence be known to duPont. Whilst waiting I take notice of the pulchritudinous ornament hanging on the door. It most certainly wasn’t cheap, but its beauty is no result of any amount of gold painted or details carved. It’s a grotesque-looking balance scale, with a detailed severed head in one pan, and three gold bars in the other. A large snake wraps itself around the neck of the scale, and spits fire from its mouth. Expecting a servant to open the door for me, I place myself right in the middle of the entrance. Big mistake. For what comes out the door is not duPont, nor the servants, but rather the president himself, and his two lean bodyguards. I quickly reposition myself, so as to not stand in the way for the most powerful human being on earth. I nonchalantly salute him. He ignores me. Snob.
The servant I expected earlier finally arrives, and I’m escorted through the main hall. The room is filled with renaissance statues. It is in its entirety one of the biggest collections of renaissance art in the world. I for one have no love for such symbols.
Mr Smith! How nice to see you old friend. We have much to discuss. I hope not, I reply drily. Meetings with duPont are rarely friendly visits. Oh don’t be like that; you know I only wish the best for my most loyal friends. His emphasis on the word “friends” hints at a lack of sincerity and perhaps a trace of sarcasm. No distractions. Eye on the ball, mind on the target. Let’s get through this in one piece. I am seated right across duPont by His desk.
How can I be of service to you sir duPont? I’m glad you ask. You see, through all these years I’ve been thrilled do have you at my disposal. You’ve been as humble, as you’ve been efficient, and I deeply appreciate your efforts. I want you to know this John: You’ve been a very valuable resource. I chuckle, showcasing transparently a very distinct vulnerability. Shit. He replies with a smirk: That satisfied bastard. He heard that hint of frailty in my voice, and now he sits there smiling.
Your services are no longer required. I am cutting my ties to you. I’m not quite sure I understand sir, I say. You’re not catching my drift are you John? It sorrows me that we had to end it like this, but orders from above claim there’s no alternative. His smile widens into a huge sadistic grin. The door to my right opens slowly; a subtle screeching fills the room. As if he can’t afford oil to his doors. This is done purely for the dramatic effect! A familiar face enters.
Peter enters the room with a gloomy expression on his face, and a metallic artefact in his hand. At first I can’t quite comprehend what it is. It looks so surreal. It’s shaped like a dagger. Could he possibly carry a weapon in his hand? It makes no sense. Surely I’m still a most useful piece, even just as a puppet!
I rise to my feet and open my mouth, with the expectation that words of conviction will exit my mouth with the ease of a gust of wind between the high-rises of Manhattan. It doesn’t. Instead I feel a numb pain in my chest. The metaphorical symbol for betrayal has become reality. The prey has become the predator.
