The Pauper

“Edward, look at that view. The ocean’s calmness. Soothing for the soul. What say you, old sport?” Laurence stretches his frail, spiny arms over the wooden beach chair sitting on the pearly white sand. His right arm reaches for a lowball glass where tepid brown liquid sits. The glass touches his wrinkled lips and he sips down the drink. A vacant canopy shadows over Laurence’s sunglass riding pale face.

“You’re welcome, Laurence. I’m delighted you could accompany us on this little jaunt.” Edward shuffles over and plops his heavy weight on the adjacent beach chair, left of Laurence, flattening the cushions beyond normal. “Enjoy it while you can. The women and staff are scheduled to arrive later tonight.”

A short-haired, athletic man claims a third wooden chair to the right of Laurence. “I still think you could have at least brought the staff. They’re practically working for free. We pay them and they pay us back. Spend all their money on streaming and products through our websites.”

Laurence chuckles, “Jervis’s not wrong, old sport. I’m not looking forward to returning to a messy bed tonight.”

Edward slurps down one oyster, allowing it to process in his gut before speaking. “A small price to pay for one night of peace. However, perhaps on future trips, I’ll consider leaving the wait staff. I agree, putting together my own plate of oysters, not fun. When you have as much love to give like me, getting up and moving can be quite a chore.” He pats his sides, making his body jiggle. “At least this will be like a second honeymoon for you, eh, Jervis?”

Laurence cackles. “Jervis probably wants to add to his lineage. If Monty were here, I’m sure he would say that. How old is she again, Jervis?”

“Twenty-eight.”

“Nice score,” Edward slurps another oyster. “Only thirty-year difference. What is she? Number 4?”

Jervis forces a smile, while Laurence cackles again. “Yeah, fourth wife. But age’s just a number. Right? Maybe if you stopped eating so much, you could score a younger wife too.”

“I do just fine.” Edward laughs. He picks up another oyster and produces an arrogant slurping sound. “What do you think my female staff members are for?”

“Taking a page from the Book of Monty?” Jervis laughs. “Say, where is he?”

“Knowing him, he’s probably inserting his USB plug into the new security guard Edward hired.” Laurence chuckles. “I’m sure once he’s done transferring his data, he’ll emerge.”

Edward works out a feeble smile, regretting his hire of a female security guard. DEI died. Hiring women became an obsolete practice. Damn, Monty. Why couldn’t he just keep it in his pants for one morning and stop making his sperm go viral?

“I hope you’re right, Laurence.” Edward slurps down another oyster. “The true purpose of this pilgrimage will have to wait.”

“Pilgrimage, eh? Are you looking to rule the world?” Jervis spills.

Edward shoots Jervis a stern glare. How could Jervis know? The four of them were in a ripe position to build their wealth and control during the current political turmoil. Four media giants together as one. Laurence, leader of streaming. Jervis, consumer goods controller. Monty, master of the socials. Himself, A.I. Tech. Just the four of them could change the country forever. Sure, not the world, at least not yet. But the country, it’s more of a local possibility.

Laurence snorts. “Please, old sport. I’m here to escape the old ball and chain.”

A heavy sigh exits Edward’s lips. “Ha, ha. You’re quite the—”

A digital arpeggio of an older cellphone model cuts Edward’s mockery. The three men exchange glances at one another with a quizzical expression plastered on each of them. How could there be a phone? They all agreed to ‘no devices on the island’ until the party, leaving their devices with their wives. Edward programmed his AI models and maps to hide the island from all public searches and scored a deal with other companies to use his tech. High-profile figures like themselves deserve privacy. Yet, the ringtone shatters that invisible security wall around their island. Exposes them. Their heads swivel in unison to locate the hidden device. Jervis creeps to a ringing beach bush a few yards from his chair. He bends down to pick up a device. A flip phone. What they call a dumb phone. He flips it open and taps a button and brings it to his ear. “H-hello?”

Seconds tick away. “Who is it?” Edward rises from his chair.

“No one’s there.” Jervis lowers the phone. It vibrates, calling his gaze. “There’s a message.” He reads the text. Silence sits on his lips.

“What’s it say, old sport?”

“Monty’s…” his voice cracks; hands tremble. The phone fumbles out of his hands.

Edward saunters over. “For Christ’s sake, man, what is it?” He picks up the phone and freezes. The image on the screen leaves him speechless. A picture of Monty’s face, bashed with brute force, lies next to a book inside some small room. Words appear under the picture on the phone.

He’s booked his last trip with you.

Laurence stands and faces his panicked pals. “What’s going on?”

“Monty! He’s dead!” Edward spews.

Fear clutches Laurence’s face. “What do you mean, Monty’s dead?”

“We need security…now!” Edward screams. He takes off toward the golf carts parked a few yards away. Sweat spills from all his pores. Each step produces heavy huffs of regret for lack of exercise and rich delicacies.

“I told you your ‘no device’ rule was deadly.” Laurence follows, cursing Edward. He places the phone in his pocket, hoping to sneak a peek at the screen later.

Two-minutes of Edward’s complaints about firing security and why he banned devices for their privacy, they plop behind their own driving wheel, but hesitate to start. Edward inhales deeply to regain control of his breathing. Jervis stares at Edward, waiting to hear his command.

They speed down the tropical island paved road to a white gate designed to keep pesky island critters away from the grand, two-story mansion. The main gate stands fully opened with an empty guard shack, shocking Edward as he parks his cart. Where’s security? Edward exits his cart and waddles to the guard shack. Jervis and Laurence pull up respectively before Edward reaches it. Edward opens the door. Edward grimaces.

“What is it?” Laurence says, pulling the cart into park.

“The shack…Monty.” The words clog his throat. He backs away. Laurence hops off his cart to walk toward the shack. His legs freeze once his eyes register the same gruesome, bloody scene Edward saw. Lacerations lace both Monty and the female security guard’s half clothed bodies. The book titled Beautiful Faces sits next to Monty’s face.

Laurence covers his agape mouth, swallowing the urge to shoot bile. “We need to get out of here.”

“Get to your rooms. Grab your guns and meet back out front. Got it?” Edwards states.

Laurence and Jervis nod in agreement. Jervis floors it to the mansion several yards away from the entrance. Laurence and Edward start their carts follow. They arrive to Jervis’s empty cart and mansion doors opened.

Jervis reaches his room and fidgets with the knob to his bedroom, perplexed at the fact it’s locked. How can it be locked? They’re the only ones in the mansion? “Hey, is there anyone in there?” He shouts, half believing it will work. A digital sound emits from the door, followed by a flashing green light. Jervis twists the knob and inches the door open. An oddly blackout room greets him. He knows he opened the curtains before leaving. He brushes his hand on the wall for the light switch and flicks it. The room’s lights refuse to turn on. He tries again and again with no agreement. “Who the fuck’s in here?” Two hands push him from behind, propelling him further into the blacked out room. He turns around to face the door. It closes, leaving him alone in the room with the perpetrator. Two glowing eyes float in the air and approach Jervis. He stands on his feet in time to taste the intruder’s fist with his skull.

Edward and Laurence enter the mansion. A large, elegant staircase ascends from the foyer. An elevator door rests open, ready for use. Edward enters the elevator, taking in Laurence’s fearful face while he waits for the doors to close. “Be careful, old sport.” Laurence says.

“I will.” They stand there exchanging glances. The doors refuse to close. Edward presses the second-floor button repeatedly. “What the fuck? Why is it not working?”

“No time, old sport. Use the stairs. We’ll regroup once we have our guns.” Laurence walks away.

Edward stares at the elegant staircase of heart attacks. He trudges over to begin his climb, relying on adrenaline to carry him.

Laurence opens the door to his bedroom. The bed made. Fresh sheets replace the messy heap he left before they went to the beach. The empty floor, absent of towels and clothes. Dresser tops wiped. Normally, he would overlook the cleanliness of the room. It was always an expectation. Today, witnessing the immaculate room suggests an eery program of trepidation. The sense of something missing pulls at the hairs on the back of his neck. “Hello?” The one-word query floats from his lips. He creeps onto the carpet toward the wooden bed stand, where a Rana medium wide table lamp sits over a safety box. Just open the safety box and grab your gun, old sport. He crouches to punch in the safety box code. The box opens. He grabs his pistol and stands to his own shadowy reflection from a black LCD screen. What the—? The screen collides with his head. Stars sparkle over Laurence as he falls backward on the white bedsheets. The flatscreen crashes down on his head again and again and again. Until…his body resigns from movement. A click whispers over Laurence’s body followed by a steady whirling sound exiting the room.

Edward reaches the second floor, he turns to the door of his suite. His pocket vibrates. He pulls out the phone from the beach. A new text message appears with a pic of Laurence’s torso lying on the luxurious bed. A flatscreen rests over a pool of maroon liquid, concealing Laurence’s head.

The world shall now be forever entertained by Laurence’s death.

Edward curses and thrusts his bedroom door open. The serviced room shocks him. His heap of sheet replaced by clean ones. Clothes off the floor. Who the fuck was in this room? He scans the room quickly to ensure there are no other occupants. Flatscreen on the wall. Lamps sitting by the bed. Nothing out of the ordinary, aside from the maid service. He rushes to the safety box. Enters the code. Opens the door and pulls out his G19 Glock. Whoever is fucking with us, they’re about to pay.

Glock in hand, he heads back down the stairs. When his large, obese body reaches the ground floor, he turns left, heading to Jervis’s room. Seconds later, Edward stands outside Jervis’s door. He grasps the knob, twists it. The door creaks open. A beam of sunlight shoots from the open crevice of the blackout curtains. Each curtain furls from the light breeze. “Jervis, you in here?” No response. He tries the failed light switch. Edward crossed the room with caution, Glock poised to fire at the first sign of a threat. He opens the curtains to a fully opened window. Edward spins around to an empty room. A puddle of blood sits between the flatscreen and bed. From the puddle, a thick, bloody trail with footprints leads to the window, under Edward. Where did he go? Edward’s eyes follow the trail out the window and down toward the dock. Someone stands on the dock. Are they staring back at…me? Edward hops over the sill and proceeds to the dock. Justice will be served for my fallen friends. And when this is over, I’m going on a diet.

Light waves wash below the gray metal gangway, making Edward’s motorboat bounce up and down. Waiting for Edward in the middle of the gangway is a large brown box. The familiar, marketing, smiley face logo facing Edward offers disturbance than joy. Edward searching his surrounding with his gaze. Glock prepped to fire. He inches closer to the box. If that fucker’s hiding inside this box, he’s going to eat bullets. A vibration from his pocket startles him, nearly making him fire. He takes a deep inhale and pulls out the burner phone. A new text message threatens the display screen. Jervis is now available for free shipping. What creepy, cryptic message is this? Free shipping? The box comes to focus. Impossible. Edward recedes. He shakes his head and turns to return to the mansion, but stops. His vision becomes compromised by the blinding sunlight reflecting off of whatever stands in front of him. He raises his arms to regain his vision. Once his irises adjust, he stands face to face with a large mechanical humanoid robot blocking his escape route. Not just any robot. One from his company! A tan tattered cape with a thin black line over the hem drapes from the shoulders of this faceless biped. Deep maroon stains its metallic arms. “Edward Mason. We hereby charge you with treasonous for crimes against the American public.”

Edward catches his senses. Fires a few rounds from the Glock. The bullets ricochet off the well-armored metal beast. “Who, who are you?”

The robot advances and grips Edward by the throat, closing its finger a centimeter at a time accentuating the period at the end of each spoken sentence. “We are judges. We are the jury. We represent the American people.” Edward swings his arms. He strikes the robot several times with no relief. “Constructed by your tech company. Reprogrammed by the people who serve you.” Edward squirms for air. Seconds later, his body falls limp in the robot’s palm. Blood drips from its arm onto the dock. “You have been served by…The Pauper.”

The sun hides below the horizon as two motorboats approach the dock. One full of partying people, drunk on exuberance, the other full with melanated skin toned people. Each wearing a tan colored uniform with black line stitched over the hems. The boats slow and drift closer to the wooden pier.

“I can’t wait to see Jervis. I miss my hubby. I hope they have everything ready for this evening.” Lori, a tall, white woman with bouncy, brown curls stretching over her shoulder, exclaims.

“What do you think that is on the dock?” Paisley, another well-endowed woman says, pointing to the box still ensuing peace on the dock. Shoulders shrug and murmurs of uncertainty flow through the passengers.

As each boat docks and anchor, people step off the boats. A large group of uniformed people exit first and walk past the box, bee-lining to the mansion to prepare for their duties. Each is aware that the contents of the box are none of their concern. One person casts a grin, eyeing the box before passing it. Four women, along with a few men, all lacking any signs of vitamin D, exit from the second boat. Instead of heading to the mansion, they crowd around the large box. “Lori, look. It’s addressed to you.” One of them say.

Lori approaches the box. A gift from Jervis? It’s their anniversary after all. He’s thoughtful like that. She opens the flap of the box. A scream pierces the air as the light strikes the contents. “Jervis! No!”

More screams fill the night as the mechanical menace emerges from the shoreline bushes. “Greeting, honored guests. I’m the Pauper. Programmed with a deadly message for all.”