Next Avengers: Season One (UNDER CONSTRUCTION)

Episode 6: Trimalchio

Azari flipped through the pages of the book, skimming through every other word. He sighed, falling back on his bed. "You can do this, you can do this." It was just a simple assignment: read The Great Gatsby before they watched it on movie night. But he couldn't get his thoughts straight.

"Okay," sighed the prince. "Let's try this again." He opened up the book.

In my younger and more vulnerable years, my father gave me some advice I've been turning over in my mind ever since ...

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I saw the destination on my drive over to East Egg. In New York, I was the new bond person on Wall Street, and my cousin Torunn invited me to dinner in her new house. Even from a distance, I could see how elaborate it was, like an overly shone rock from heaven dropped in a lake. A white colonial mansion with French windows overlooking the bay. I caught a glimpse of a familiar straw-haired figure on the steps, built with sinew and strength. His sport clothes and riding straps didn't seem to bound or to match his stature.

"Frank!" The figure turned around. His shining eyes flickered with a recognition.

"Zar!" He extended his hand, shaking his briskly with mine.

"I've got a nice place here," Barton waved at his polo fields and gardens filled with flaming tulips and flickering blooms and his new blue car was parked in plain sight.

We walked through the hallway into a rose-colored chamber with open windows. A breeze came in, blowing the curtains in one end and out like flags. The only still object in the room was an enormous couch, where two young women were posed upon it. Barton pushed through, roaring for the doors to be shut, leading for the wind to die out.

The younger was a stranger to me, a girl with dark shining hair and cheery eyes smirked when she caught my eye. The older was Torunn, launching to her feet and pulling me into the fray. "I'm paralyzed with happiness." She held my hand as a breathless warmth filled the area, promising that there was no one else in the world she so wanted to see. She remarked on the other girl's surname: Stark.

Miss Stark rose to her feet, lifting her arms above her head. "I've been lying on there for as long as I could remember." She took a drink from a table. I enjoyed looking at her. It dawned on me that I had once seen her before, perhaps in town square. She extended a hand. "Morgan Stark," I shook her hand.

I knew her, "Your father is a famous businessman." I remembered her face was plastered on the Town Square, next to her father's as they opened a new factory.

"You live on West Egg," she smiled. "I know somebody from West Egg."

"I don't know a single person-"

"Oh, you must know Gatsby?"

"Gatsby," demanded Torunn. "What Gatsby?" Her question was left unanswered as dinner was prepared. Barton lead me into the dark balcony overlooking the dock, where an enchanted light gave off a green glow.

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It was later week when Barton introduced me to his mistress, a resident of the Valley of Ashes by the name of Sasha. She was a woman filled with a vitality, as if her nerves kept smoldering, who was married to the owner of an auto-shop under the yellow-ringed eyes of Doctor T. J. Eckleberg, a forgotten optometrist. We spent the night in an apartment Barton kept for his girl and their shared friends. I had been drunk just twice in my life, and the second time was that afternoon. That night we were buoyed by a chemical madness, a heartfelt willingness that burst thunderously upon us all, and I began to like New York.