“Gramps died. They said . . .” she paused to wipe her eyes. “They said he went to bed last night and never woke up.”
Cade gasped.
Then . . . I saw it. Sorrow permeated the boy's features as he connected the pieces. The bird. The goodbye. The name he was given.
“I . . . I just saw him last night. I, uh, he . . . no. Just no.”
The gray bird squawked again and flew over us. I shook my head and smothered a smile at what was coming.
Cade yelped. “Ouch. What the fuck?”
An acorn bounced to the ground. We all looked to the sky, followed the bird as he flew toward Cade’s parents, idly standing outside the funeral gathering.
Cade’s eyes glazed over, entering the place between—a chasm called awe where every manner of horror and hope resides. The very same place I have dwelled for eternity.
Cade raised a trembling finger, pointing across the manicured lawn toward his mother. It took a few tries for him to speak, for his words to make peace with what had become truth. Voice raspy, he spoke. "She . . . Ma,” his lips quivered and I knew he had finally figured it out. “There’s gonna be an accident. Fire."
“What?”
“I . . . I . . .”
I watched Cade fight the tears back as the unsolicited realization settled in. He pushed past his sister and ran over to his parents. I looked on in silence as he approached them and was soon engaged in what seemed like a frantic, heated conversation. The mother was red-eyed and grieving, but clearly even more overcome by her son’s ranting.
I turned my attention back to the sister and offered my hand. “I was a friend of Ethan’s. Nice to meet you.”
“Holly,” she said, eyes tearing up as they locked onto her manic brother.
“Nice to meet you both.”
“Are you sure he’s not crazy?” Holly asked. “He’s . . . maybe he’s drunk or something. Ethan’s death had to have hit him pretty hard. We were all close, back in the day.”
“Cade told me. Like brothers almost.”
Holly bowed her head. “Yeah, I wonder if he ever got clean.”
“Would it matter much to you now?”
“No,” she said. “I guess not.”
As she turned away from me to go join her family, the gray bird swooped down toward us. I felt something land in my hair. I reached up and pulled out a crumpled envelope. Addressed, stamped, and a little worse for wear.
I stared down at the letter for a moment.
In all caps and pale blue ink was Cade Mastery.
“Holly?”
She turned around as I did and I held out the envelope. “Make sure your brother gets this.” She looked at me strangely, but allowed me to press the missive in her palm as an angry shout pierced the quiet area.
A familiar voice cursed in response.
The entirety of the small crowd turned toward the mother and son, still in the midst of a disagreement. I stared in their direction realizing what was happening.
Perhaps there was something to be grateful for today. And I hoped Cade would, one day, embrace the burden he’d been given. The burden of closure, the bestowing of a gift many craved, but few ever received. There would never be any glory found in being right, but there could be peace.
Holly’s face, full of trepidation and longing, was focused still on the letter she held. I cleared my throat to get her attention on the more important matter at hand. “Be sure to bid your brother goodbye,” I said. “It would break his heart if you do not allow him that before you leave.”
I pointed Holly in the direction of her family’s impromptu reunion and urged the young woman along. I would give them a few moments.
It was all Death could allow.
Dakota Rayne
About the author
Dakota has a passion for helping others and telling stories. After over fifteen years in social work, Kota decided to combine their passions into Inked in Gray, the indie press that seeks stories that need to be heard. Kota is working on works of their own - blending life experiences with the surreal in The Lessons We Keep, and musings about mental health, survival, and overcoming darkness. When not stirring up chaos with quills laced with provocative defiance, Kota enjoys swimming and bonfires by the lake, cake (especially tiramisu), hockey, and spending time with their family.
The Aristocrat, The Arsonist
By N.K. MitzenMächer
If you are hearing this recording, please note that I have rigged this entire town—this entire mountain—to explode. You have exactly thirty–three minutes to get to a safe distance.
I repeat: This town will explode in exactly thirty–three minutes.
I have been a distance runner my entire life and thirty–three minutes was the quickest I could get to five miles, which my engineers calculated as the closest possible distance to be safe from the amount of explosives I have deployed.
Undoubtedly, you have found my marvelous statue. When you entered this cavern, you triggered a trip wire. This trip wire is connected to both a detonation device with a countdown and a switchboard which triggered this recording. The source of this recording is at the base of my statue. It is a custom gramophone I had designed to work with the acoustics in this specific cave so I may tell you a story before you die; I will do so using the medium of spoken word. Proper presentation is everything.
I thought that this spot, a forgotten cave in a forgotten mountain town in the heart of Arizona, was a proper place for my statue, my gravestone as it were. This town and I are both relics of yesteryear, set to rust as centuries parade over us. Slowly, we will both crumble.
But in my death, I choose not to rust. I choose to burn, for it is the way I lived my life. I was a man on fire in all of my pursuits, and now I will be in my death. You, whoever you are, are the catalyst for this final chapter. You have activated the special feature I installed on this gravestone—an allegory to reflect the philosophy I employed in my life.
Self-destruction.
Look behind you and notice the path, the primitive road that winds down the mountain—no doubt this is the way you came up. It is the only path in or out of this town. I have installed speakers through the five–mile path down the mountain so you can listen to this recording as you frantically run for your life. Coincidentally, this recording—the story I am about to tell you—is exactly thirty–three minutes long. When it is over, the town will explode and you will most likely die.
Instead of running, you could casually stroll down the path, admiring the green valley and red rocks below. Take in the vast landscape and truly value every breath as it will be one of your last.
Better yet, you could merely sit down and admire this statue modeled after me. Listen to my tale of greatness and admire the copper I chose for my skin. Marvel at the brass in my boots. It is, after all, the finest artisanship money could buy. I have spared no expense in my final resting place. The craftsman I commissioned wove silver and diamonds into my mustache, which I had him spend extra time sculpting, making sure it jutted out like the horns of a bull, coming to fine points. Take just a moment and notice how it sparkles. Those diamonds in my mustache are worth more than the town you live in; I care not where you are from.
You have just met a truly self-made man. You should revel in my greatness. Over ten feet tall, I tower over you. Shiver in my shadow.
But what I really hope for is for you to go and make yourself. If you survive my test then you can afford any life you like. Go. Run towards it.
I urge you to trek down the primitive road as fast as you can, see if you could outrun a man such as myself. Don’t live the rest of your life listening to another man’s story and gaping at his greatness. Too many in the world already live that way. They merely wait for death and vicariously live through others and their accomplishments.
Instead, go make a life, one truly your own. Forget the impending death that haunts us all.
And to help you create your new life, I have given you a gift. Take just one more
moment before you leave this cavern to look to the left of the gramophone that is playing this recording. There you should see a leather brown satchel. In this satchel is one million dollars. I doubt you have even seen a one thousand dollar bill and Cleveland’s grand mustache that graces it. Now you have one thousand of them. One for each lifetime it would take you to achieve even a fraction of what I could.
This bag shouldn’t weigh you down much. Take it now and run down the road. It is the quickest—nay, the only—way towards life.
Also in this bag—which you should have taken and started running with by now—is a copy of the transcription of this recording.
If you are reading said transcription, then know the person who originally heard this message has most likely survived and is stinking rich as a result. And to you, dear reader, please continue if you wish to have an account of my sins, my success, and the burning fire that consumed my life.
But if you are listening to this, then damn man, run as fast as you can!
The Aristocrat
I capitalized on the inheritance received from my parent’s death in the truest sense of the word. I used my new-found fortune to secure a line of credit and all-purpose loan from Caldwell and Company. Two million dollars.
The bank I secured the loan from then failed, as I knew it would. Before the bank defaulted, I made sure I had maxed out the line of credit and invested all the cash I had taken.
It was obvious the regional branch was going under when I learned about their floating reserves policy. Such an unsustainable business model, it was asking to be taken advantage of. The dolts caused Black Monday a year later. No one bought the debt of my loan; banks were failing around the country at an alarming rate. It was a balance sheet issue, and I noticed people have this same problem—no one understands that their assets are actual liabilities.
Needless to say, my already substantial inheritance tripled in nine months’ time, and all I had to do was ask for it. At the tender age of nineteen, I already knew life was all about leverage. The more money you have the easier it comes. There is a gravity about wealth, and I was a black hole.
I bought a coal mine with the cash I had taken. Then I purchased another one. Then a few more. I had a robust cash reserve that was debt free, and cash was king back then, so growth by acquisition seemed as good as a strategy as any. In two years’ time, I had twelve mines.
Yes, one of those mines is in the mountain you are on right now.
The real secret to my success came from building housing and municipalities around these mines. “Company towns” as Roosevelt called them. I introduced a closed economy, utilizing a scrip and truck system. It seemed to be a natural extension, not only for the business, but my ethical responsibility. Education and healthcare. Public utilities. Hell, even the police and jail. All of them were my employees, and all under my control. And I, in turn, provided for them. The banking system and convoluted government had failed them. I was their savior.
I made sure it was my face printed on the money. When I grabbed the first bill, freshly streamed off my own press, I admired my hooked nose silhouette for the first time. I did not just build a company. I built an empire.
People groveled as I walked the streets. I threw dimes at the children and paid homage to the local women. I made sure the whorehouses were stocked well, often taking the time to perform a thorough due diligence on the women.
The local bootleggers were allowed to bring the finest liquor into my saloons—and they were not speakeasies—remember the police were employees of mine, Uncle Sam’s policy on alcohol at the time needed not apply here. The workers were free to be distracted by all the debauchery they wanted. It made them complacent. I was the ringmaster of a three-ring circus that made me lots and lots of money. I raised the prices on the town’s addictions and lowered their wages.
I realized the highest profit margin from my healthcare business, employing a number of surgeons in each town to perform amputations. Coal mining is dangerous work after all. Often, I wouldn’t even have cemeteries, for a number of workers would die in a single mining accident. Cemeteries didn’t offer much of a return on investment, so instead of going underground, the dead would go straight into the furnace that made the concrete. My workers went into the town’s sidewalks, the walls of houses, the bathroom floors. Literally baked in, their ashes like flour into a cake. They gave their life for the foundation of a new economic model of which I was the architect.
Every asset is a liability. I was responsible for them, these little puppets of commerce. And I made sure to squeeze every drop of blood and coal and death I could out of them.
A few years later, I became a causality myself. One of policy. Roosevelt and his New Deal. Ford and his Model-T took my workers away, like ants that never returned to their colony. They now worked at his factory. A wheel in Roosevelt’s machine. He stole my business model. Roosevelt soon controlled the people’s debt, and in turn, he controlled them.
Those who stayed were the worst of the worst. FDR made sure those folks were now allowed equity in their houses. He even gave them loans with no down payments. Government loans, which he owned, of course. I could see it plain as day. The President and his cronies were doing the same thing I was; the only difference was their “company town” was nationwide. The Company Country. He even let everyone drink again with the 21st amendment, keeping the whole country stupid. Roosevelt deserved every ounce of polio he suffered from.
It was then that I realized I had a balance sheet problem; I was liable to my assets. As my business declined, so did my sanity and health. It was the Great Depression in more ways than one.
I liquidated what was left of my coal business for a sizable sum and retired at the age of twenty-eight. In an attempt to make myself feel better, I bought several estates in country clubs across the United States, but only spent time at the one in Breckenridge, Colorado. Reflecting back on it, this may have been the most miserable time of my life.
I began to have dreams. The Dream, really. It was about the fire that took my parents. In a haunted lucidity, I experienced the scenario over and over again. There were a series of different snapshots. Reds and oranges in blocky shapes, as if the wall of fire was made of layers of colored construction paper, slowly moving in the stagnant frames. In the center of the inferno was a black ball, a person in the fetal position. Such an ironic pose for one to die in. My eyes would tear from the smoke. A yell would shake the blocky flames around me. It was my mother. What was she screaming as she burned to death?
I would awake from the dreadful episode in a cold sweat, my nightshirt clinging to my torso as if I had just gotten out of the pool. A few times, the scent of burning pine and melting flesh would linger in my night quarters. I was sure I brought some of the dream world back with me to this dimension. My past had become my present.
The Colorado estate was a Victorian I had custom built but always felt uncomfortable in, especially when I was by myself. Every sound seemed to echo off the high ceilings. The creaking of floorboards became as loud as a tree splintering in half. I lost my appetite. The scream from my dreams would sometimes echo in a whisper from an adjacent room. I would rush around the corner to see nothing but the furniture silently staring back at me.
This phenomenon only happened when I was alone, so I spent most of my waking hours at the clubhouse. The members at these types of establishments are of an absolutely exhausting nature, but their mindless banter was still reprieve from my isolation. They spoke of politics and policies. They cared about fashion and baseball. Caviar and the vintage of wine. I indulged them in their petty conversations; I would do much worse to avoid being alone. The recurring images waiting behind my eyelids at night were a picture show that gripped me in pure terror. If I drank enough alcohol with these dolts, The Dream would become a messy finger painting of black and white, the scream fading to a muffled whisper.
But more and more, I dreaded the socialites and their cocktail parties. My hate for them was
soon insufferable. I found myself ensnared in a circle of deceitful pleasantries. I became a coyote who began to chew his own arm off.
My behavior turned compulsive—always did I count things in threes and snap my fingers in a counter rhythm when I did so. I started a number of fistfights when people commented on this, especially when I drank whiskey. I attended social engagements uninvited. I commenced familiar relations with a number of the wives and some of the maids. I bought a number of exotic guns and hid them throughout my house. I was intolerable and feared.
At night, I wandered the streets blind drunk for hours. A few times, I awoke in my neighbors’ lawn, stark naked, my pale ass amongst an acre of a well-manicured lush green. The neighbors would glare at me from their window as they drank fine coffee out of white china. I would sneer back at them like a rabid beast.
The days drew long, and no manner of debauchery could any longer sate the hunger inside of me. No amount of purchase or human contact could mitigate the dull hours of loneliness that monopolized my mind. I experienced true listlessness. Although I had always considered myself of good constitution, I constantly felt tired and ill.
After a night of intimate relations, I considered burning a number of the housewives alive. Their satin sheets would go quick, melting on them as they tried to peel it off like a sticky tape. Smoke and ashes and soot and cinders—it is what we all eventually became. But the scream, the same one from my dream. . . . It was their screams I fantasized about.
Retirement did not suit me.
I actively sought out a new opportunity. A challenge. I started my journey at a symposium that focused on advancements in the pharmaceutical industry. I went looking to build another empire, but instead I met the man who would turn me into a god.
The First Stain Page 20
