Reeking of Irony

“I suppose that’s one of the ironies of life: doing the wrong thing at the right moment.”

- Charlie Chaplin

It was a bright gray day when Mr. Dives fell out of his house. He had been adding a safer rail to his balcony. Some say he landed on his head, others say he landed on his face, and still others say his cranium, but the result was the same either way. Some say the result was fruit-shaped, others say it looked Martian-ish, and still others say like Saturday’s leftovers, but regardless, the damage was done; the driveway was forever doomed to boast an extensive red-brown stain like a mark of shame that no one had considered it important enough to hire a pressure-washing company or even lend a hose to lighten the rudy hue.

The morticians were at a loss since the aforementioned unfortunate had specifically requested an open coffin in the “highly unexpected” scenario that his existence was to be prematurely terminated. In the end, a Special Effects makeup artist fresh off the set of the fantasy box office bomb The Red Sword was hired to create replicas of the damaged portions of the display. More than one uncertified critic remarked that this latest work was indubitably influenced by the design for the goblins that were supposed to be the crown jewel of the picture. Still many more replied that it was still an improvement on the original undamaged copy. 

The funeral was conducted in solemn and stagnant boredom. Humidity presided over the service with much more force than the dripping minister. Black laces adhered like fake tattoos applied with sweat to women’s arms and blazers were discarded like disposable film. Most reporters abandoned their posts while make-up-plastered newscasters pulled sweaty strands of hair out of their mouths and hoped for something interesting to say. When the coffin finally closed to relieve spectators of its nightmarish new inhabitant and sunk into the dirt, the relief was a silent unanimity. Hordes of black-clad non-mourners shuffled through the graveyard to their cars and within no time poured like sweat into the reception at Dives’ mansion where no newscaster dared enter. Ironically, the events surrounding this death proved worthy of more intrigue than surface warranted . . .

Exactly six days prior, Xachary Cadwile had casually arrived at his uncle’s mansion and a devious plan simultaneously. Like an ant on crack, Xachary was the type that couldn’t keep still. The man would need intense therapy were he ever to be denied the ability to constantly tap his foot, twiddle his thumbs or pace the room. The one thing that continued to defy his need for rapid progression was his uncle’s life - that is, the succession of his wealth through his will. And that is why, arriving for Dives’ 80th birthday, he had bought cyanide - reeking of bitter almonds and deadly as nightshade - as a present. 

Dives was bald, ugly, and the perfect weight to crash through a balcony. He was also a multi-millionaire. He was quite tolerant, unless he strongly disagreed with you. He was very generous, provided he would profit. He was an enigma of a man who could not be understood even by his oldest friends. He had made his fortunes on Lush, a miracle-working hair-thickener, Trim, a weight-loss program hailed as “highly effective,” and Slick, a “beauty enhancing” facial lotion. Dives loved one-word product names; it was the only time he was a minimalist in language. His latest was Elixir, the life-lengthening wonder product proven to extend lives and looks by decades. And so far it had worked on Dives, at least - although perhaps his looks might have benefited from the excuse of old age. One critic said it was the “long-sought fountain of youth finally discovered by humanity,” although the product was still under the microscope by more cynical, or perhaps wise, skeptics. At any rate, Dives believed it, and had already proclaimed himself the savior and champion of humanity. His name had gotten its fair share of printing in the newspapers over the past four decades, but with the release of Elixir it was now drenching headlines. 

Dives’ given reason for being rich was that he hadn’t married a wife who would spend all his money, but regardless, his only living relatives were a scrupulous and stoic estranged brother and his late sister’s son, Xachary. When Dives had written his will, Xachary had been the main inheritor. Like his uncle, Xachary had held promise at a previous time in his life. Overlooking the first fact, Dives was now generally disillusioned after Xachary had been virtually incapable of holding a job for a period longer than three months. Xachary was aware of both facts. He was also aware that his uncle wasn’t aging. 

The household staff were exerting themselves in birthday preparations when Xachary pulled up to the house. There in the front was a new, marble, life-sized statue of Dives, squatting in excessive majesty as if alerting any guests of whom their worship was required. It was even more hideous than the real-life version and seemed more of a gargoyle than a man. Xachary glanced at it in disgust before slipping in the side door and discreetly marching into the kitchen. There he loosely planned to find a servant to frame and a way to slip cyanide into one of his uncle’s meals. Dives was a self-absorbed taskmaster and anyone might kill him for various reasons. But Xachary was deterred by a monstrous guardian. 

Beatrice Sizzle, Dives’ sharptongued, buxom cook who was the unquestioned authority among the staff, loomed eight feet high in the eyes of any who dared trespass into her sacred domain of the kitchen. She had a nose like a bloodhound, ears like a fox, a laugh like a hyena, and a rolling pin she wielded like the lightning bolts of Zeus. In 55 years, no ant scurrying by could escape her watchful senses, no pin could drop without her picking it up, and no intention go unnoticed, however disguised.

She was quick to remark that Xachary smelled like almonds and that he had lost two and a half pounds. She was quicker to think that he was completely nervous about something and that he must be running low on money. Xachary soon saw that she had no intention of leaving the kitchen for the rest of the day and trudged sullenly to his room to unpack until dinnertime. 

Dives reigned at the head of the dining room table, larger than life and larger than the acceptable weight for his age. He was like some overweight god, dishing out immortal life to those he saw fit. He obviously pictured himself in something of that role. He could as easily be Dionysus for all his lavishness as Buddha for his fleshiness. Everyone was expected to pay their homage to him, and everyone did - even if it was noticeably disdained, like Xachary’s. Dives kept his scrutinizing eye on his sullen nephew. Xachary was in a foul mood after the day’s failure and resented Beatrice forgetting in his way. As Dives spewed self-exaltation to his guests, comprised of a few unlucky business partners and an odd assemblage of friends collected over the years like dusty knick-knacks in an antique shop, and elaborated on the expense of his statue, Xachary turned his food over like a spoiled child. He rudely complained aloud to the server that the food was spoiled. He wanted nothing but to get on Beatrice’s nerves. The dull, mechanical clink of dishes and chatter of guests puttered out like air leaking from a child’s birthday balloon and Dives glowered down at Xachary from across the table for disturbing the peace. Beatrice snorted indignantly and simply called out,

“It used to be a bad idea to insult your cook. She could poison you if she wanted to.”

Dives made some vague remark about manners and the noise painfully resumed. Xachary made a face and turned away sullenly. But already a new plan was forming in his mind: one that would take care of not one, but both his enemies. 

It rained all night. The next morning dawned bright and gray and slippery wet. Dives was in a mood. The rail to his balcony had broken for the third time that week. He yelled some well-developed insults at his staff and decided to fix it himself. Of course, he eloquently lectured Xachary about his life choices over breakfast first. He believed his nephew had taken it quite well. 

Xachary had carefully (if any of his actions could be considered careful) forged a document stating that Dives was firing Beatrice because of recently bad cooking. To state the obvious, Zachary was not a creative murderer. Knowing she would probably refuse to bring him his lunch were she to believe she was fired, he carefully placed the open letter in the kitchen as soon as she had left carrying Dives’ cyanide-doused lunch. Beatrice thought she caught the scent of bitter almonds from the lunch as she opened the door to Dive’s study. How funny. . .

But the lunch was ruined. Beatrice dropped it when she saw Dives slip and topple headfirst to his death below - at the feet of his statue. The crack of his skull hitting the pavement and smashing open was drowned out by the clatter of falling dishes.

A maid had unceremoniously cleaned it up by the time the police arrived to investigate foul play. They found none. But they found something else. A half-hour later Xachary Cadwile was in the emergency room being treated for cyanide poisoning: he had somehow ingested it. Beatrice noticed the scent of bitter almonds as he was bustled to the ambulance. 

When he was released from the hospital, he was the lucky recipient of a hard sentence of three years in prison for possessing cyanide illegally under New Hampshire state law. Of course, he could hire a defense attorney with his new fortune - the fortune that was now in the hands of Dives’ estranged brother, who wanted absolutely nothing to do with it. Dives had destroyed his will in a deluded confidence he would be immortal, and therefore all his assets passed to his closest surviving relative. Soon after, Elixir was sued for causing serious health problems.

Whenever she was asked for her opinion of the events surrounding Dives’ death, Beatrice Sizzle would only ever say, “It positively reeked of Irony.” All-knowing, she had detected three grammar mistakes in the supposed dismissal notice. Dives never made grammar mistakes. Neither did she. Six months after Dives’ death she submitted a mystery book manuscript based on true life events to a publisher. The editor told her the ending was weak. So she revised it, published the book, became a New York Times best-selling author, bought Dives’ mansion for herself, and lived happily ever after. Some say the first thing she did was put the statue of Dives on the street, while others insist it was scouring the bloody stain off her driveway.

The End

Ozymandius

By Percy Bysshe Shelley

I met a traveller from an antique land, 

Who said – “Two vast and trunkless legs of stone

Stand in the desert . . . Near them, on the sand,

Half sunk a shattered visage lies, whose frown, 

And wrinkled lip, and sneer of cold command,

Tell that its sculptor well those passions read

Which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things,

The hand that mocked them, and the heart that fed;

And on the pedestal, these words appear:

My name is Ozymandius, King of Kings; 

Look on my works, ye Mighty, and despair!

Nothing beside remains. Round the decay

Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare

The lone and level sands stretch far away.”