by Tara Brent
“You can say that again,” muttered Feinstein.
“Agreed. So we recognize that my gifts cannot be natural, and thus, they must be unnatural, or dare I say, supernatural. The only explanation for my blessed existence is that I am factually blessed.”
Feinstein tightened his fists. “Are you seriously delusional enough to think that you’re, what, some kind of god?”
The man in black shrugged again. “I was thinking more in terms of a demigod, if I must be honest. Even Achilles had his heel, just as I have my migraines,” he said, tapping his glasses.
“And here I was thinking you just saw the world through rose-tinted glasses,” smirked Feinstein.
The man smiled warmly. “The rose tint does make this otherwise putrid world that much more tolerable.”
“Oh, so the world is putrid now?”
“What else would you call a world in which the kindest accusation against one of the most powerful men in Hollywood was simple masturbation into a potted plant?” laughed the man, causing Feinstein to go several shades of pink darker than the man’s own rose shades. “So enough chit-chat; you know why I’m here. You have two options. The first is that I buy your studio outright for a simple crisp one billion dollars. You might recognize that number as more than your entire net worth. Actually, let’s double the offer; 1 billion for you directly, the other billion toward the company.”
“You know that’s not how this works,” said Feinstein, eyeing the man before him oddly. “You can’t just offer me money. There are other partners, investors—”
“That isn’t my problem, Henry,” said the man in black. “You will make this happen. If you don’t, then I will use those 2 billion dollars to make sure that every one of your accusers has the best legal army imaginable to destroy you. Even the false accusations from those just trying to be swept up in Hurricane Henry will decimate you in court.”
With that, the man in black stood. “My second-in-command (so to speak) will contact you within the next couple days, give you time to get everything in order.” He stood to leave.
Feinstein fumed, red-faced and quivering. “You seriously think you’re that much better than I am, Blackwood?”
The man in black—Mr. Tristan Blackwood—sighed. “Mr. Feinstein, do you not understand? I think I’m better than everyone. You’re a mongrel like all the rest. But even if that was not the case, I have never shot my load on a plant on account of a woman refusing to consent to... whatever horrors I’m sure you had in store for her.” Blackwood reached up to straighten his tie, realized it was perfect, and strode out.
* * *
“How’d it go with Feinstein?” asked Blackwood’s assistant, Catarina Honeywell, once he stepped onto his private Boeing jet that he named “Uruk” after the city-state ruled by the posthumously deified ancient king Gilgamesh, a figure that Tristan found himself identifying with.
“As expected,” replied Blackwood. “The man is an overgrown baby. I told him you would follow up with him in a few days to finalize everything. Think you can handle that, Mercy?”
Honeywell rolled her eyes. “Will you stop calling me ‘Mercy,’ ever?”
Blackwood chuckled. “You’re the second-in-command to a mad billionaire and you have a bionic arm. How are you not Mercy Graves?”
Honeywell pursed her lips. “First of all, as we discussed many times over, the only iteration of Mercy Graves with a cybernetic arm was in Young Justice. Secondly, you are not bald, which is kind of a big deal if you fancy yourself as Lex Luthor.”
“Jesse Eisenberg wasn’t bald. And come to think of it, neither was Gene Hackman.”
“Jesse Eisenberg’s head was shaved by the film’s end and the joke with Gene Hackman’s version was that he was constantly wearing a toupee. Mr. Blackwood—Tristan—focus.”
“I’ve focused enough for one day. I’m going to go write in the back.”
“Not yet you’re not. Strap yourself in for takeoff, then do whatever you want.”
Tristan scowled, but then allowed his lips to curve back into a smirk. “You’re sometimes worse than my sister, you know that?”
Honeywell narrowed her eyes and curled her prosthetic hand into a fist. “You do realize I could crush your skull with this, right?”
“Of course I do. I bought it for you, remember?”
“How could I forget? You only remind me every other time you see me.”
"What can I say? I like that my right-hand does not technically have a right hand."
“You’re terrible,” said Honeywell, but then she laughed, and the plane readied itself for takeoff.
“To the core, and I love nothing more,” Tristan said glibly. He poured himself a glass of scotch. “Would you care for some?” he asked. “1964 scotch malt whiskey from The Glenlivet’s Winchester Collection.’”
“Do I even want to know how much it cost?” asked Honeywell.
“Let’s just say that I got a five thousand dollar discount and it would still pay for half a semester at a private university.”
“That’s so vile.”
“And yet,” said Tristan, pouring it into his mouth and swallowing. “Ahhh... it is so delightful.”
“Don’t you ever want to do something better with your money?” asked Honeywell.
“That reminds me,” he said. “I still want to help fund Feinstein’s victim’s legal expenses. Whatever it costs. Make it happen.”
Honeywell did a double-take. “Even if he agrees?”
“Of course.”
“But isn’t he giving his company over based on the promise that you wouldn’t do that?”
“I will do as I please whenever I please and however I please. That is how things are, and how they were always meant to be,” he said with icy simplicity. “He’ll still get my money. Everybody wins, Ms. Honeywell. Everybody wins.”
But mostly it’s you who wins, thought Honeywell. “Yeah I’ll take a glass,” she said grudgingly. She took the glass from him and put it into her bionic hand for him to pour.
“Don’t drop it,” he teased.
“One of the benefits to having a robo-limb is that my grip is not to be trifled with,” she retorted.
“Now the game becomes making sure that it doesn’t spill even with the takeoff. And speaking of which...” and with that, the plane rushed forward and began its ascent.
Chapter 3: Sports
“Thank you so much Dr. Ballard!” said Mrs. Williamson. “I really don’t know what I would do without you.”
“Not a doctor, and it’s my pleasure,” said Bethany.
“Well Doctor or no, you’re a treasure.” Mrs. Williamson began to walk off.
“Oh! Erm... I hate to be this way, buuuut....” said Bethany awkwardly
“Oh! Right, of course.” Mrs. Williamson pulled out her checkbook. “Do you have a pen?”
“Always,” said Bethany, reaching behind her ear and handing it over.
Leaning on Bethany’s mailbox, Mrs. Williamson scribbled out a check for three hundred dollars. “Here honey!” she said. “See you same time next week!”
“Adieu,” said Bethany. Mrs. Williamson drove off.
“I see you’re handling yourself well,” said Colleen, who had stepped outside, cigarette in one hand and cosmo in the other. She dragged from her cigarette then took a sip from the glass, smoke rising from her nostrils as she swallowed the deliciously toxic concoction. Bethany sighed. While Colleen’s drinking did not make her uncomfortable per se, she had grown up in an environment in which drinking was all but nonexistent. So to suddenly be friends with what Bethany decided to loosely consider a “functional alcoholic” definitely gave her pause. She addressed her gardener for a moment. “Fernando, please refrain from drowning my chrysanthemums.”
“Apologies Ms. Blackwood. But you see, it hasn’t rained for days, and it’s unusually hot, so—”
“Just because a man is dying of thirst does not mean that he could breathe underwater,” Colleen interrupted. “So please
be delicate. And while we’re at it, you seem to be ignoring the pansies. Do please divide and conquer, good sir.”
“As you say, ma’am,” said Fernando, rolling his eyes the moment Colleen looked away.
Colleen refocused on Bethany. “Well? What was Rita going on about this week?”
Bethany grimaced. “Doctor-patient confidentiality. Sorry!”
“But didn’t you just say you weren’t a doctor?”
“You have good ears,” laughed Bethany. “But don’t split hairs.”
Colleen shrugged. “Well given that I got you most of your clients I felt compelled to track their progress.”
“They are progressing spectacularly. Thank you so much for asking!” said Bethany, clear sass in her voice and her eyes twinkled at Colleen. In truth, she was quite grateful for her nosey neighbor. Colleen’s circle of friends (and in turn friends of her friends) were all wealthy enough such that they didn’t question Bethany’s admittedly inflated rate of three hundred dollars a session.
In truth, Bethany suspected that Colleen could probably desperately use a cognitive behavioral therapist of her own, but she wasn’t about to suggest it. While the woman had an antiquated snobbery about her, she also made Bethany feel quite welcome. She just had an odd way of communicating it.
“Anyway, that was my last session for today,” said Bethany.
“Oh? So early?” inquired Colleen.
Bethany raised her hands in a shrug. “Both my 4:00 and 5:00s canceled.” She smirked. “Between you and me, the 4:00 didn’t cancel until this morning, so they’re still going to pay for it.”
Colleen made a face that Bethany had come to recognize as the closest the woman ever came to smiling. “I admire your tenacity, Bethany. It’s quite becoming, especially of somebody your age
“That means a lot,” said Bethany. “That said, now I’m not sure what I’m going to do with the remainder of my afternoon.” She turned to head back inside.
“Bethany,” said Colleen quickly.
“Yes?”
“Do you golf?”
“Uh, sort of “I’ve done so with my father a few times, and I’m not the worst. Maybe second-worst?”
“I haven’t played in quite some time. But as Fernando was saying, the weather has been uncharacteristically nice. I was wondering if you would like to join me?”
Bethany beamed. “I would love to! Oh shoot, I don’t think I brought my clubs with me from Utah. That was pretty dumb, huh?”
"Well as it happens I have a perfectly good set of clubs that are of no use to me," said Colleen.
“How’s that?” asked Bethany.
“I’m left-handed. A well-meaning friend once got me a set for my birthday but it was for righty golfers.”
“You’re looking pretty ambidextrous right now,” teased Bethany, gesturing to Colleen’s cigarette and cosmo.
“Don’t be absurd,” said Colleen. “I drink with my left hand so that I still have my right hand available to do other things.”
“Like... smoke?”
Colleen rolled her eyes. “If I so choose to, I could put the cigarette in my mouth and still have this hand available,” she said. “My gosh, it’s like you’ve never had a drink before!”
“I haven’t, remember?” pointed out Bethany.
Colleen sighed. “One of these nights I’m going to have to insist that you live up to the LDS initials.”
“Pretty sure that by not drinking I’m definitely sticking to the Latter Day Saint schtick,” she said.
“What? I thought it meant ‘let’s drink scotch,’ does it not?” asked Colleen.
Bethany cracked up, and even Colleen briefly chuckled at her own joke.
“Well this former missionary needs to go get changed before heading out with you,” said Bethany. “Be out in a few!”
“I need to change as well,” said Colleen. They returned to their separate homes.
* * *
“Well,” said Bethany after they wrapped up their 18th hole. “It’s official. I stink.”
“You do not stink you merely have deferred talent,” said Colleen.
“I can’t tell if you’re trying to be nice in a super corny way or if you’re mocking me ruthlessly.”
“And which of those two options seems more consistent with my personality?” asked Colleen.
“Oh. Right.”
“Perhaps it’s because of all the extra weight you were carrying,” said Colleen.
“Excuse you?” snapped Bethany.
“You carried your own golf bag! Who even does that?”
“Yes. It was very nice of Benedict to caddy for you,” muttered Bethany, looking forward to the tall man in the semi-distance bringing the car around for them. “Not to mention drive us.”
“But of course!”
“Only you would have your driver caddy for you in a casual game of golf when we already have a golf cart,” laughed Bethany. “You’re a piece of work, Colleen.”
“Perhaps but I enjoy living my life the way that I live it.”
Bethany snorted. “What, swimming in servants and more money than you know what to spend it on? I can’t imagine why.”
“Money is freedom,” said Colleen. “There’s nothing worse than feeling like you don’t have control over your own life.”
Bethany gave Colleen a funny look, suspecting there was more to that sentiment than Colleen let on. “If you say so,” she said. “So what does your evening hold for you?”
“Actually I am going to meet some friends for dinner.”
“What, no invite for me?”
“There is no human in this world I can tolerate being around for more than a few hours without suddenly wishing that Harold Camping had been right about the world ending.”
“Gee, thanks.”
“Oh grow up,” said Colleen, rolling her eyes. “We had a lovely time today, don’t ruin it.”
“How am I ruining it?!” demanded Bethany, but Colleen brushed it off.
“Don’t take me so personally dear, I assure you that my patience for you exceeds my patience for others. There’s a reason I can endure golfing with you, whereas with my friends this evening it is dinner, meaning that their mouths will spend at least some time eating rather than talking.”
“Remind me again, when’s the last time I called you a piece of work?”
“Charming. Now come along! Let us go to the car. And might I ask, what are you planning on doing this evening?"
“Well I got a Groupon for some kickboxing classes in Fairfield so I thought I might give that a go. And after that I’ll probably order pizza and binge some Daredevil.”
“So to clarify,” said Colleen icily, “you plan on working out and then undoing it by ordering pizza?”
“You just don’t get it Colleen,” said Bethany. “The pizza’s happening no matter what. The kickboxing is only there to help justify it!”
“Your generation,” muttered Colleen. “When I was your age I was racked with guilt when my dinner consisted of two tablespoons of cottage cheese and a celery stalk.”
“Yeah, because body positivity is just the darnedest thing,” said Bethany.
“Oh don’t gloat,” said Colleen. “You get to have your ‘body positivity’ now with all the feminism and songs about how everything is about bass drums or whatever.”
Bethany stifled a laugh, resulting in its coming out as a snort. “Thank you, Colleen,” said Bethany.
“For?”
“For not making a piggy joke when I snorted.”
Colleen stared back at Bethany for a moment before her lips curled into a smile. They got into the car together. “Doesn’t mean the thought didn’t cross my mind,” Colleen added quietly.
“Aaaaaand there it is,” said Bethany, shaking her head.
* * *
The kickboxing class wasn't quite what Bethany had in mind, but she nonetheless enjoyed herself. What was meaningful was what happened in the parking lot afterward.
“Hey the
re!” came a voice from behind her.
She turned and saw one of the guys who’d been in the class with her. She had noticed him eyeing her a couple times. A sly smile emerged on her face. “Why hello Hitler’s wet dream,” she said.
The guy faltered. “Erm, say what now?”
“Tall, blond, blue-eyed, you know.”
“Oh! Right, OK fair. You kind of threw me off my game there.”
“Aww he thinks he has game,” Bethany teased. “So what’s up?”
“Oh, I just liked watching you in there,” he said.
“Bold, but go on,” she said.
He smirked. “Well you know, it looks like you actually know what you’re doing, not like all these soccer moms.”
“I had some experience back in the day,” she said. “Back where I come from I took classes on and off for a few years. They seem more interested in fitness here though. Not that the other places weren’t, but they focused on technique, and by doing the technique right, the good workout would follow. Here, they don’t seem to get that they’re teaching a martial art. Still, I’ll work through my Groupon at least. Although if they keep trying to make me say ‘woo’ I may or may not burn the place to the ground.”
The guy laughed. “I’m Richard,” he said. “Bethany, right?”
“Well I’d be shocked if you didn’t know my name after they gave me a dang round of applause for ‘killing it’ in my first class,” she said grudgingly. “But yes. Bethany Ballard.”
“Well double-B, do you have any interest in grabbing a drink?”
She sighed. “Well number one, I’m sweaty and disgusting.”
“I don’t care about—”
“But I do,” she clipped in, “which brings me to number two, which is that you are sweatier and disgusting-er ,not a word don’t care, and before you interrupt me again number 3, I don’t drink.”
“Ah...”
“But, I’d happily exchange numbers, and next week when I’m free, you can try and charm me some other way.”
