The First Trillionaire

Ralph chugged down a fresh influx of tar and let out a wry smile. He took the image of perhaps the most content man in the universe... heedless that he would be dead in a mere matter of seconds.

Inside The Clubhouse, winning leers were fixated unanimously. The suited men took a similar image, dressed head to toe in dull suits, with similar pale leers of arrogance wiped across their immaculate faces. They circled together in a cult- like huddle, awaiting their leader.

'Is it done', spoke a boisterous voice, way before the speaker could be seen. He didn't question... this was no question. In stepped Mr B, tall and rigid, with a black suit, darker than deep space, and an ogle that was somehow emptier still. The rest of the crew stood alike, robotic and subservient, ushering his presence closer to them with a step and waddle. They hovered around the television and made a gap for Mr B, way larger than his frame suggested. The Television flickered and let out the answer: 'Breaking News coming to you this evening from down-town Manhattan. The world's first Trillionare, Sir Ralph Oughertine, has sadly died at the age of 49. The cause of his death is still under investigation, but early reports are indicating foul play. More to follow... as soon as we learn more'.

The report was sombre in tone, delivered by a sad- eyed newsreader who looked as if her world had just been torn in half. The news was dominated with one story this evening, tonight this is what everyone would talk about, but tomorrow the murmurs would squawk no more. Inside the clubhouse the men huddled around, peering up towards Mr B in total silence.

'Right, yep... good work everyone. Go home now... you know what not to say'.

He started the disbursement, following his empty speech with a purposeful march towards the exit sign that illuminated the entrance from where he had slithered from. The gang left in small clusters and all of them would return to their temporary homes tonight , but Mr B had no home, not even a temporary one, for he longed to escape this foreign land that the others had grown accustom to. Mr B's arrogance was unparalleled, but his brilliance was dwarfed by another - the one who had died at the hands of The Clubhouse.

Alone In the Moonlight

Mr B found himself among the thick greenery and the muddy path of a location in which he felt familiarity with. His leer drooped to a uncomfortable reality, ravishing in these swift moments where it could almost be themselves. He stopped halfway down the path and fell to his knees, looking upward into the vivid shrubbery that encased him. His pristine suit was warped with foul- smelling filth, watery dirt all over his knees, and smeared across his face. His back was arched, like his spine was made of jelly, and his face flat against the surface, as if his nose had no bones. He lifted his face out from the ground and stared upward into the eclipsed night sky. 'Stand brother' crackled a noise from above the tree line.

Mr B stood up, taller than ever. A facade broke the foliage. A gigantic beast. Two eyes peered towards the ground, like the moon had a twin sibling in the sky, but little else could be seen.

'You removed him'.

'Yes', snapped back Mr B, replying quicker than a cat to a dog's threat.

The moons light's bounced upward, 'tonight their empty mourns... for tomorrow they will forget of his existence on this fleeting world'.

'Are... are you sure this will work... is this... ethical', stuttered the muddy Mr B.

The two eyes ran closer to the ground, 'brother of mine... DO NOT DOUBT ME AGAIN'.

Mr B stood tall, he didn't even budge beneath the crackle and pound of the voice above.

'We will return home now - I will make sure of that'.

Mr B was left with nothing but the returning darkness. Suddenly, the moon was alone again, and the stiff breeze was nothing but winter's chill.

Beneath the Suits

Mr B sauntered into the clubhouse, alone and domineering. His strut was plentiful, and the mud on his suit, completely gone. The news was empty today, behind the scenes there was sure to be a line of aspiring journalists scampering for a story that could grab today's attention. No more Ralph, no more trillionaires, this was still a capitalist goal that had gone untamed... thanks to the gigantic beast's intrusion. Mr B existed, with one destination in mind...

...HOME... Not this foul land.

Inside the clubhouse there was an elevator, in which the entire crew took together. Below the depths of any ground floor, the elevator continued to whir, deeper and deeper into the soil that squelched above them. Their suits immaculate and their smiles winning, today their mission would gain valuable capital, thanks to the Beast - provoked donation from the world's first trillionaire. The atmosphere within the lift grew hotter and hotter, 'suits off', said Mr B, pinching at his skin and tearing it from the base of his skull. He removed his human skin in one swift tug. Everybody followed - the likewise suits were far more than just designer fabric... Mr B smiled from his slanted mouth, poking his fangs outward and his snake - like tongue to flirt with the scorching temperature. His nose was completely flat (so was everybody else's) and it had two dark slits that traveled all the way from his singular eye that overtook his forehead. This eye was darker than the suit that came before it, with no eyelid to hide its frightful gape. On a shelf in the elevator was a barrage of notes, signed with the fruitful twisting of Ralph's squiggly signature. They had the money, the resources, the command... and the notes from a person who had accumulated impossible wealth.

Within the foothills of the deepest reaches of the forest the moon's accompanying light rested, knowing that today was the goal they had set, ever since their banishment.

Dead Man's Bite

Mr B poured his heart forward, the Earth's transformation was in sight. The ship that was their ticket home, transported by the fuel of the Earth's burning heart. He tossed in a fresh crater of liquid that was foreign to his understanding - the ship was complete - or so confirmed the recipe. Within the flames of the burning core below arose a humongous guise. It floated upward, away from the burning ferocity below and apart form their species normal abilities. The image burned, but spoke directly through the flames, sparking dark ash from its open mouth with each word, 'you foolish beings. We are one, but I couldn't be farther away from your stupidity'. Mr B and his crew gawped, as the spiraling effigy sped upwards and spoke with impossible deepness. They opened their mouths below, but their rhetoric was inconceivably silent, compared to the raging fury that spilled magma from the visage above them.

'I conquered this world, but I need more - moreeeeeee - MOOOOORRRRRREEEEEE - FEED ME MORE. The people will praise their one singular new God - let them bow before me and let me consume them some more'.

The burning continued, catching onto the wooden mechanisms attached to the lift that had carried the crew to this spot. He raged and spread rapidly, throwing soil and detritus up in the air and quashing the clubhouse member's. Not that their protests made any sound to the man on fire.

'Believe the name, RALPH - replace it with God - let me consume you - MMMMMOOOOOOOORRRRRRRRREEEEEEE'.

Greed has consumed him, it has consumed them all... and it will consume everybody else in its disordered wake.