Devil in Disguise

It’s not often I end up somewhere I don’t plan, nor want, to be. This was, however, one of those situations. Idly, I reflect on what landed me here and conclude it was likely a case of me trying to get Misty to shut up and quit haranguing me. Our relationship is entirely superficial—as I like it. She’s got more curves than an F1 race in Monaco and is just as fast. Her big blue eyes sport a vacuous look that is entirely legit. In other words, I’m not banging her for her brain power. 

Don’t judge me too harshly; I feel it’s a pretty equitable trade-off. I, too, am easy on the eyes—not bragging, just reality. Misty benefits from having a handsome, semi-famous escort who can get her into all the best parties and events, drives an Aston Martin and spends ridiculous amounts of money on her. She is living the pinnacle of her dreams.

However, we are already several weeks past the due date. The usual restlessness is creeping in. Ennui and irritation have become more commonplace when I hear her speak. I prefer the physical, not cerebral, version of her. Lately, even her wildly exuberant feats beneath the sheets are not enough.

But here I am, nonetheless, with a low-grade feeling of surprise at how the home address I am here at this wedding reception for a couple I barely know and care even less about. Sure, they’re rich as Croesus; that goes without saying, but I don’t need to earn extra gold stars for hanging out with paparazzi targets. So, what am I doing here? My thoughts come full circle.

I vaguely recall waking up with the mother of all hangovers a couple of months back, and Misty was channeling her inner chihuahua—high-pitched yap, yap, yap in my cringing ears.

“PEYTON, OH MY GOD, HONEY, LOOK AT THIS! PEYTON! PEYTON! ARE YOU LISTENING TO ME? YOU WON’T BELIEVE THIS!!! WE’VE BEEN INVITED TO LORD RATHERTON’S WEDDING!!! OMG! THIS IS TOO EXCITING! WAIT TIL I RUB THIS IN VERONICA’S FACE. I CAN’T WAIT TO SEE HER REACTION. THIS IS SOOOOOOO GOOD. PEYTON? HONEY, PLEASE SAY YES! PLEASE, PLEASE PRETTY PLEASE? I WILL ABSOLUTELY DIE IF WE DON’T GO TO THIS. IT IS THE EVENT OF THE YEAR.”

I swore I was bleeding from the ears at that point. I was considering saying ‘no’ to see if she would actually keel over as promised, but she started up again, and I think that’s when I made the egregious error of saying yes so she’d shut up and I could suffer in peace and quiet. Now, I was paying for that hasty decision because here I was at this pretentious display of wealth. It was the typical attempt to convince all six hundred of us witnesses that the newlyweds really, really, really loved each other. How banal.

I suppose I could have begged off at the last minute; I’m not particularly sure why I did not. Sometimes, even I surprise myself. You'd think you'd learn when you’ve been around as long as I have. Alas, it isn’t so, and here I am.

Tomorrow, I’m ending it with Misty. I decided that a week ago. Tomorrow, I have no business dealings, no schmoozing to do, and no hair or massage appointments to keep. Therefore, tomorrow would be an ideal day to break off my relationship. Having a clear schedule always makes it easier to adjust my plans according to the new ex’s reaction. Sometimes it’s simple—here’s your payout (read jewels, car or money); now be a good girl and mosey along—and they do.

Other times, it becomes a tad more dramatic. Sometimes, the parting gift is thrown at a very expensive mirror, vase or other breakable item, perhaps even at me. There are theatrical tears, screaming and begging. These scenarios usually peter out to some pathetic sniveling and eventual acceptance of said gift. I see them to the door, we share a poignant hug, and they dejectedly leave.

I dread the angry ones—so much bother. They feel I’ve personally insulted their desirability by breaking things off. It’s usually the first time they’ve been told ‘no,’ and they don’t like it. I don’t care, but it usually means I must use my security detail to escort them out and revoke their passes at all my establishments. In some rare cases, my security detail made it a permanent break-up. Dance with the Devil is an idiom for a reason. Thankfully, this has only occurred on two occasions. The logistics of ensuring no evidence links back to me is mind-numbing. Really a pain in the arse—I avoid it if possible.

I’m guessing Misty will be dramatic, but not to the point that I’ll need to resort to Plan D. Yes, “D” stands for death if I’m not being obvious enough. It’s one of my areas of expertise. Some might even say it’s a calling.

However, I would liken my “position” or “job” more to the old British peerage. Sons inherit positions of importance from their fathers, much like in my family, except my family works in a different realm altogether.

I chuff out a sigh as we wait in the interminable receiving line to fawn over our hosts before we are allowed in to eat and drink on their dime. We slowly inch forward, Misty still bouncing in place with excitement, challenging the spaghetti straps of her Chanel dress with her bounteous bosom. She steps out of line to ogle some famous person, see how much further we have to go and wave at people she knows or wants to know. I keep my head down and pretend to be fascinated with the business messages constantly pinging on my phone.

By the time we reach the happy new couple, I’ve decided I may as well have some fun while I’m here. The bride sports a rictus grin; I’m sure her facial muscles hurt from the perma-smile she’s had to endure greeting all the guests. Her eyes widen upon seeing me, and I see her spouse puff up and take a subtle, owning step closer to his newly minted wife.

“Ooh, Mr. D’Veil, such a pleasure to finally meet you in person. Thank you so much for attending our humble affair,” she gushes, her eyes hazy with lust as she steps close enough that her body almost brushes up against me. What can I say? I’m like catnip for women. And before you hand me some crap about the lack of creativity in my chosen name, you try coming up with thousands of aliases over the years and see how creative you feel after the nine-hundred-and-ninety-ninth new moniker. It works; it’s good enough.

I smile, and I swear I hear her purr. I’m vaguely aware of the angry porcupine, Misty, raging at my side with jealousy. I consider instigating a fight between these two, but that would cut short my fun too quickly. Instead, I slip a finger under the strap of the bride’s dress and slowly slide down from her shoulder to just above the swell of her breast.

The bride freezes, and I know she is considering just how bad it would be if she were to jump my bones right here. I practically hear Misty’s claws unsheathing beside me, and I know I’m a hair’s breadth away from losing control of this situation.

“Is this Vera or Oscar,” I ask, dropping my voice to a husky level that makes her regret her recent vows.

“It’s a…” Her bosom heaves frenetically under my finger. She swallows audibly. “It’s a Vera.”

“It’s a lovely,” I reply smoothly, releasing my hold on her dress and her libido as I step away.

I turn to her husband, whose face is a mixture of impotent rage and terror. I know he wants to pound me into the ground, but the self-preservation part of his brain realizes that would be a tragic mistake.

“Congratulations, Lord Ratherton, you’ve got a lovely bride, and the wedding was astounding.”

Mollified somewhat, Lord R inclines his head. There is no need to tell him I meant astoundingly boring and pretentious.

Misty and I move away through the double doors into the massive ballroom. As expected, no expense has been spared. The light from multiple chandeliers sparkles, enhanced by myriads of tiny fairy lights, candles and kitschy lanterns. These beams of light are reflected and refracted in never-ending patterns by mirrors, ice sculptures, and black marble that make up many surfaces within the room. The light rebounds in starbursts from the jewels and gems adorning the people within.

Just inside the door, I pause briefly as if admiring the view. What I’m really doing is listening to what is happening behind us. And I am not disappointed.

“Oh, Lady Ratherton! I believe there’s something wrong with your dress!” an unknown female voice exclaims.

“What?”

Confusion. Then, “Oh my God! Harold! My dress! It’s…it’s melting or something. AAAGGHH! My underthings, too!”

I hear several gasps and other words of disbelief from the crowd still in the foyer.

“Here, Wanda, quick, put on my jacket.”

I believe that was Harold, the panicky tone indicating a vested interest in covering his probably near-naked wife from prying eyes. There is a flurry behind me. I choose not to look at my handiwork; instead, I clasp Misty’s elbow and start dragging her away from the scene erupting behind us. The rapidly deteriorating decorum rivets her, but she still allows herself to be pulled into the ballroom. Like a magpie, she is easily distracted by shiny things.

“Would you like something to drink?” I ask my nearly ex.

“Yes, please,” Misty says, still staring avidly at the lavish displays.

Several ice sculptures along the edge of the room hold an assortment of cold appetizers. As we walk past, I lightly drag my fingertip along each sculpture. By the time we reach the bar, I hear the first fierce whispers of concern, then some panicky shouting. I place our order with the distracted barkeep and turn to survey the damage thus far.

The crowd quickly moves away from the area as the seven magnificently large ice sculptures rapidly turn from solid beauty to liquid nightmare. Water cascades off the tabletops; little appetizer boats sail over the edge and topple to their doom as the flood expands across the lacquered floor. People are almost trampling one another, trying to escape the developing lake and protect their Choo’s and Gucci’s. The venue staff are in a flurry of activity; red vests zip around, trying to capture the overflow in hastily grabbed bowls, buckets, and other assorted containers. Others go running off towards the mysterious bowels of the building to find mops and such.

I take our drinks from the barkeep. Although mesmerized by the unfolding disaster before him, he somehow still managed to mix Misty a martini and pour me a bourbon. I hand Misty hers, then take a sip of mine, enjoying the expensive smoothness gliding across my palate.

“Oh, my goodness, Peyton, just look at that mess! How could that have happened?” Misty pondered mightily beside me. I hear the hamster wheel in her head working overtime.

“The ice vortex motor must have malfunctioned,” I reply lazily.

“Oh, that’s no good,” Misty says, easily swallowing the claptrap I’ve fed her.

A ubiquitous voice breaks through the growing hysteria. I glance over where the band is set up and see a man in a tux, holding a mic, with a look of barely contained panic.

“Hello, everyone,” he says, “could I have your attention, please.”

He’s obviously not used to mics as his voice booms through the room like the voice of Dad. At least it has the desired effect of cutting through the growing hysteria. People stop scrambling and yammering; they are always such lemmings, looking for someone to lead them.

“Uh, hello,” he repeats, his voice a bit unsteady as he realizes his ploy has worked and everyone is staring at him as if he’s their next savior. Sorry, that job went to my step-brother.

“My name is Rick Ward. I am the best man. You might have recognized me from the church earlier.”

He smiles weakly, and there’s a smattering of pity laughs.

“Yeah, uh, anyhow, I just wanted to let everyone know that the staff has things under control. If you could please stay away from that side of the room for now, everything will be tidied up in no time. As well, the bride had a bit of a…er…wardrobe malfunction but will return shortly. The couple has asked for everyone to move to the dining hall and find your seats so we can officially begin the celebration.”

Having been given a destination, the lemmings happily move en masse towards the large double doors swinging open to reveal the banquet room. It takes a while to seat nearly six hundred people, and several minutes have passed before we are all in our octet sets. The usual ebb and wave of conversation go around the room until good ol’ Rickie boy marches up to the mic at the podium near the head table. His gargantuan head blocks most of the view on the large screens. They’ve been set up along the hall length so everyone can see the VIPs at the head table. The videographer jumps to attention and adjusts the view until Rickie looks like a normal melon head.

“Hi again; thank you for finding your places so quickly. Could we all please stand and welcome our newlywed couple, Lord and Lady Ratherton!”

Rick finishes with a flourish worthy of any MMA announcer. The speakers start booming a fun little hip-hop song. The new couple prance into the room, holding hands and beaming. The new missus has on a lovely ensemble—must have grabbed something out of the honeymoon suitcase. The sound of a needle dragged across an LP cuts in, making everyone pause. Yes, that was odd, people; there isn’t a record player in sight. Somehow, Elvis’ “A Devil in Disguise” comes on. There’s a brief hesitation, but the couple, too happy to care, shrugs and continues.

After they get to the dais through the cheering, clapping crowd, we all sit again.

Rick clears his throat alarmingly loudly into the mic, settling everyone down with a startle reflex.

“Ahem, sorry about that,” Rick states. “We will start the speeches, and dinner will be served directly after.”

Of course, it will. Now, I cannot slip out unnoticed after I’ve eaten what I anticipate will be a delightful dinner. I must pay penance and listen to several inane or soppy speeches. This is one part of the tradition I hate; I’ve had to endure variations of the same damn theme over and over and over—ad nauseam. So, I decide I’ll help move things along.

The bride's father usually takes forever, so I help speed things up a little.

“HellomynameisCharlesandIamtheproudfatherofWanda.” 

Charles stops, looking stunned. He tries again.

“SorryaboutthatIdonotknowwhyIamtalkinglikethis.” 

Another pause.

“IuhIdon’tknowwhatishappening.IwilljustsayIamsuperhappytowelcomeHaroldintoourfamilyandthatIlovemylittlegirlsomuchThankYou.”

Well said, Daddy, next.

Father of the groom. He’s developed a bad case of the hiccups. Too bad. Next.

The groom approaches the mic hesitantly. Smart man.

“Hello, everyone, and thank you for joining us on our special day.”

                   Yadda, yadda, yadda.

Pfft.

The briefest look of shock crosses Harold’s face when the mic picks that up.

He quickly recovers, continuing as if nothing happened. Yadda, yadda.

Toot.

A bright red flush rises to his roots.

“Uh, excuse me.”

Yadda…

BLART.

A hand to the stomach, a look of panic.

“I’ll be right back,” he whisper-cries into the mic. Then he penguin waddles out the hall door accompanied by sounds of his own brass section and stifled giggles from the crowd.

Next.

The maid of honor wisely reneges. Now, just the best man, and then we can move on to the soup course.

Rickie creeps to the podium like a man pinned down under sniper fire. He glances nervously to the left and right. He timidly taps the mic as if it is jinxed, which, to be fair, isn’t too far off.

“Hi again,” he starts quietly, pauses, and waits for the bullet to strike. But I’m saving ammo for the kill strike.

“I…I am going to toast the bride now?”

Another hesitation.

With a deep breath, he begins, “I have known Harold since we were kids. When he met Wa—Whore.”

His face pales, and he immediately stops speaking.

Turning to Wanda with pleading in his eyes, he says, “I’m so sorry Whore, I didn’t mean to say that. I mean WHORE!” He states emphatically.

“Dammit, that’s not what I meant, I meant to say she is a great person, and I love them both dearly.”

Everyone sits in shocked silence. We hear a far-off tinny percussion. Harold’s really showing some power in there.

“I’m done; I’ll text you my speech. Let’s just eat,” Rick says defeatedly and goes to sit down.

The red vests hustle in with many trays laden with soup bowls, and we begin our delightful repast. Harold crawls back in at some point; I’m not sure when. I wait until dessert for my final trick when everyone is stuffed to the gills with free food—really, really full.

It’s funny how the odor of puke will also trigger others to vomit. Perhaps it’s a long-ago evolutionary thing where you all ate from the same kill, and if one of you gets sick from lousy meat, then you all should purge. Whatever the underlying reason, starting a chain reaction from only a few weak stomachs is quite simple.

I quietly exit a side door before I get anything splashed on me. Misty didn’t see me leave; she was too busy spewing in her purse.

I’m done here; I’ve had enough fun for one day. Will I eventually meet the bride or groom again? Nobody knows. Well, except me, I do. 😈