You're Dead Meat

You check the time. Perfect. As intended, you’ve arrived fashionably late.

You look around at the people clothed in mismatched outfits that scream minimalism and pointlessness. You shake your head. Fashion has never been your strong suit. As you walk through the crowd, heads turn to look at you, you in your ornate clothing, you in your intricately woven fabric that depicts the story of a fat naked Dionysius handing out wine to a bunch of equally chubby cherubs. Your assistant chose well. You know people will be talking about your clothes for the next couple of weeks. Which is, of course, better than their talk about your failed marriage and the humiliating breakdown you had in McDonalds at 1 am. 

You take a deep breath. You know you have to keep your head up. You are important. You carry the weight of the world on your shoulders. You cannot afford to look weak.

You make your way to the table assigned to you. You look at the other members of high society draped around the table in cushy velvet chairs. Disgusting. Even without looking at them, you can tell- their heads were empty and bodies full to bursting. Skin leaked out through their expensive clothes, flabs of fat spilling over tight trousers. The trademark of the wealthy. Not the powerful, you think to yourself. Just the wealthy. Although, with each day the lines between the two adjectives blur more.

“Oh, darling,” the woman next to you simpers. “I heard all about how you beat up the old goon. Absolutely marvelous, I must say.” She touches you on your shoulder, her fingers slowly tracing your biceps, your elbow, your forearm, your hand. She interweaves her fingers with yours. “And of course,” she continues, her eyes watering with pity. “I heard about your divorce. It isn’t easy being the Hero is it? You need someone to lean on.”

You have the irresistible urge to rip the beads of pearls that were holding up her hair. You want to splash her face with the wine she was cradling in her hand, to expose the ugliness that lurked beneath her inch-thick make up. But all you do is get up, politely excuse yourself, and make your way to the bathroom. You turn to look at her as you leave, and she wears a look of triumph and anticipation. She thinks you’re coming back. She thinks she finally won a trophy lover. How naive and ugly. 

You intend to go to the bathroom, but you remember your role. Your purpose. You are the Hero. You have to charm, impress, even submit if needs be. You need to be a vision of power, of exquisite taste; you have to act. After all, you are only an honorary member of high society; not a real one. And they know. And you know. An unspoken fact.

Seemingly out of nowhere, an arm is draped around your shoulder, then the owner of the arm slams in to you from the side, holding you close to him as he guffaws.

“The Red Warrior, ladies and gentlemen!” he announces loudly to no one in particular. A few confused claps, but they die down quickly. He turns you around to take a better look at you. 

“You were simply amazing, my boy! Your battle with the Horned Giant was broadcasted everywhere, of course. You are indeed the hope and light of humanity.” He thumps you on the shoulder; three heavy thumps. Thumps echoing unsaid words: You might be famous. But, you are vermin. You do not belong here.

You smile and nod and slowly detangle yourself from the clutches of the blonde-haired vulture. Vulture was an understatement- Mr. Bradley was known far and wide to be ruthless in his business dealings, and worse in his family ones. 

Just as you escape from one monster, another, more dangerous one stops you in your tracks. No animal metaphor could capture the evil that was Mr. Morsel. He was a snake, slithering between accusations of sexual harassment and domestic violence, but hungry as a lion pouncing on the vulnerable and the defenseless. He was known to fire his employees in fits of rage, or attacking them with whatever was nearest: a book, a lamp, a chair. You’re not sure what his employees prefer: getting fired or getting crushed under a flying refrigerator. This man, you think, as you stand inches away, facing him head on, was wealthy and powerful. And truly terrifying. He made the Horned Giant you fought last week look like a baby.

“Mr. Warrior,” Mr. Morsel says, slightly inclining his head. 

You would bow low if he asked for it. You would kiss the ring on his finger if he asked for it. But thankfully, he didn’t.

“Mr. Morsel,” you say, rather quickly. You try to slide away from him. But despite your speed and agility, the speed and agility that had saved your life in multiple battles, Mr. Morsel manages to stop you with just one hand. His hand on your shoulder is heavy and firm, like it was made of solid metal.

“I hope you have given thought to my request, Mr. Warrior,” he says quietly. You knew this was coming. And you still couldn’t avoid it. 

“I have, Mr.Morsel,” you say weakly. “But, I’m afraid the answer is still no. I hope you understand-”

“Thank you for your time, Mr. Warrior.”

With that he was gone. You stand in the middle of the well-lit hall, in the middle of people dancing on their shoes and stilettos worth more than all the houses in the city put together. You stand there and you realize, you are done for. He will be coming for you soon. Mr. Morsel will be coming for you. Your last act of self-righteousness. Your last act of dignity. Your last act of morality.

You hear it before you feel it; the bullet speeding towards you. You can dodge it, you can even kill him, snap his neck in an instant. But instead you let it pass through you. The world is rotten and you’re a small man.

 Tell me, what can you do alone, in a world festering with millions of Mr. Morsels?