The Last Member of Pifflewick

Graybury Pink strutted through the golden gates of Pifflewick Country Club, doing his best to exude a spirit of casual indifference—though inside, his nerves were tap-dancing in top hats. After months of strategic elbow-rubbing and a hefty fee of fifty thousand piffles, his long-awaited Champagne Welcome had finally arrived.

“Ah, Mr. Pink! Welcome—only the finest for you! A glass of our renowned Champagne Royale, harvested from the sun-kissed hills of Piffle Valley, where each grape is personally whispered to by a sommelier before it’s pressed. You won’t find a drop of this nectar outside Pifflewick—it’s far too rare for the masses.”

Mr. Pink floated on Cloud Nine, but he kept his cool—cool like the artisanal cucumber mist that spritzed into the air every forty-five minutes, a kiss of dew on his skin.

He adjusted his cuffs and surveyed the grand hall. Everywhere, members dripped in opulence—sharp suits and furs from Marquee & Mink, gowns woven by a thousand silk sprites, and perfumes distilled from the rare Sugarlace Rosebuds, plucked only from the highest peaks of Mount Cuckamoo, their fragrance the very essence of status.

Pifflewick was the cat’s pajamas! The bee’s knees! The crème de la crème!

Boy, oh boy, Mr.Pink thought, even the drapes were magnificent—woven with real gold, shimmering as they reflected the fractured light of the crystal chandeliers. The champagne flowed freely, bubbling over in a majestic fountain of effervescence, each sip a taste of high society. Towers of cotton candy spun from imported sugarcane, pools so clear they looked like liquefied sapphire.

He inhaled deeply, letting the sugared air melt over his senses, like a confection spun from a dream.

Everything here was bigger, grander, richer. And best of all? He was finally part of it.

Mr. Pink wandered the sacred halls of privilege, his fingertips trailing along cashmere-lined walls, gold-lacquered candelabras twinkling overhead. Everything was luxurious, excessive, perfect.

Then, he saw the door.

A tall, silver masterpiece, engraved with a crest, its handle gleaming like gold. His hand moved toward it.

Before his fingers could seize the brass, a butler materialized out of thin air.

“Ah, sir!” His crisp white gloves flailed as he blocked the door. “May I direct you elsewhere?”

Mr. Pink frowned. “And what, exactly, is behind this door?”

The butler pressed his lips together and wagged a finger. “For Titanium Tier members only.”

Mr. Pink stiffened. Titanium? He cleared his throat. “Well, where am I?”

The butler smiled, as if breaking the news of a distant relative’s passing.

“Ah, you’re a Pearl Level member. A fine tier indeed. You may enjoy your refreshment outside, beneath the orange umbrellas,” he said pointing to the garden.

Mr. Pink narrowed his eyes. “And what’s special about those?”

“Oh, the finest craftsmanship!” The butler beamed. “Handmade from the tiniest snifflecoon hands—ethically sourced, of course! The best sun protection money can buy.”

Mr. Pink clenched his jaw and forced a nod. He turned on his heel, hiding the huff in his breath.

Settling under the orange umbrella, he crossed his legs, swirling his champagne in slow circles. Waistcoated waiters flitted about like well-trained hummingbirds, balancing trays of golden crackers topped with cheese sculpted into delicate roses, each petal dusted with flecks of edible opal.

A fountainhead in the distance gurgled pink lemonade, and beside it, a fellow member in a silk ensemble reclined on a chair made entirely of marshmallows, dabbing his forehead with a handkerchief embroidered from unicorn threads. A woman in a plush robe, glistening like a mermaid’s tail, sipped from a goblet rimmed with edible pearls that dissolved on her lips.

And still, his eyes wandered—again and again—to that silver door. The one only the Titanium members could enter. The door that might as well have been carved from his own longing.

Mr. Pink’s grip tightened around his champagne flute.

-

“Say, what does it take to get into the Titanium Level?” Mr. Pink whispered to the nearest staff member.

The attendant, dressed in a periwinkle waistcoat, tilted his head. “We don’t usually offer such privileges on a guest’s first day…”

“Please,” Mr. Pink said, his voice low.

“For you, Mr. Pink, we might make an exception.”

Mr. Pink straightened. “I’m listening.”

The attendant’s eyes narrowed. “You must saber one of our thousand-year reserve champagne bottles. Blindfolded.”

Mr. Pink arched an eyebrow. Well, that didn’t sound too difficult. He was no stranger to sport; in fact, he was rather good at it.

The challenge commenced. A silk blindfold was fastened. A titanium saber, encrusted with amethyst embellishments, was placed in his hands.

The crowd hushed.

With a deep breath, Mr. Pink swung.

Crack.

The cork shot through the air, landing elegantly atop a twelve foot ice sculpture of a Pegasus. A round of polite applause rippled through the garden.

A triumphant rush surged through him, but he kept his composure in front of the audience. He climbed the flight to the next level.

The attendant bowed slightly, opening the grand silver door.

“Mr. Pink. Step inside. Welcome to the Titanium Level.”

-

He rubbed his palms together and stepped forward, his polished oxfords gliding over the hand carved marbled floor. Inside, the Titanium Level gleamed with extravagance.

Crystal chandeliers loomed overhead, their prisms catching the light in sparkling starbursts. Gilded banyan trees, imported from distant lands, swayed gently despite the absence of a breeze. Around them, rainbow-colored flowers bloomed, defying their native climates.

Before he could fully process the spectacle, a butler bowed at his side.

“Sir, welcome. To begin your indulgence, may I present a fine hors d’oeuvre—prepared by our blind chefs. They are trained by scent alone, free from the distractions of sight, ensuring the purest flavors at Pifflewick.”

Mr. Pink accepted the delicacy—an impossible delicate pastry, shaped like a crown, but crumbled like the flakiest of croissants. He placed it on his tongue.

It dissolved instantly. A kaleidoscope of flavors exploded across his palate—cocoa so rich it felt like velvet, honey with the warmth of golden afternoons, and a trace of cinnamon. The taste triggered the outskirts of his memory. The taste of childhood mischief and a summer night wrapped in sugar. His eyes widened.

“Why, it’s the best I’ve ever had!”

A knowing nod from the butler. “Naturally, sir. You’re in the Titanium Level now.”

“We’ve been here for some time,” a man in an emerald smoking jacket said, idly swirling a glass of faux liquid moonlight. “Trying to make our way up to the Diamond Level. Apparently, it’s quite the challenge.”

Mr. Pink’s ears perked up. “Diamond Level?”

He popped another hors d’oeuvre into his mouth, savoring the fleeting burst of cinnamon before realizing—it tasted a little less magical than the first. His chewing slowed as he caught a murmur from the members beside him.

A woman sighed. “Yes, it’s a world apart. The pools are finer, the chairs softer. The staff wears crystal suits, and you never have to lift a finger to eat. Truly exclusive.”

Mr. Pink swallowed, suddenly feeling the weight of the hors d’oeuvre in his hand.

His eyes darted around. He’d thought this was the pinnacle. The Titanium Level had been the dream. But now? He glanced back at the twinkling corridor ahead, the one only a few had passed through.

His mind was made up.

Abandoning the remains of his pastry on a passing waiter’s tray, he strode toward the club’s manager, who stood near an indoor waterfall cascading with sparkling peach juice.

“I’d like to learn about the Diamond Level.”

The manager regarded him carefully, his hands folded behind his back. “There is a waiting list, of course.”

Mr. Pink waved a hand impatiently. “Yes, yes, but what if I wanted to expedite the process? Surely there’s a way.”

A small smile curled at the manager’s lips. “Well, Mr. Pink, we do have the fast pass option…”

Mr.Pink leaned in.

The manager said in a hushed tone,“You must procure a falcon. Not just any falcon—a pedigreed, silk-plumed Mooncrest breed, raised by the monks of Mount Cuckamoo. Their cries are like opera notes. Only a true Diamond member could claim such a prize.”

Mr. Pink blinked. A falcon? His thoughts scrambled. He did well in sports, had a collection of monogrammed cuff links, and could name five types of saffron. But falconry? That was a different league.

He hesitated before straightening his spine. “Fine. Where do I get one?”

“We have a connection. But, as you can imagine, it is not… inexpensive.”

Mr. Pink mentally tallied his finances. Savings, a rainy day fund, some investments in artisanal marshmallow stock. He’d considered buying a lakeside cabin or going back to school. But really, what was property compared to prestige? What was knowledge compared to status?

Nothing. Nothing at all.

“Done. I’ll take one.”

-

The next afternoon, Mr. Pink drove home with Beako—a sharply-billed, highly judgmental falcon—in a gold-lined cage beside him. The bird sung and pecked at him relentlessly, as if it knew Mr. Pink had no business owning such a magnificent creature.

Still, he felt victorious. He had done it. The falcon was his ticket to ascension.

As he pulled into the Pifflewick valet circle, a murmur rippled through the members gathered on the terrace. “Is that… Graybury Pink? With a Mooncrest falcon?”

Eyebrows lifted. Monocles gleamed. A waiter gasped so dramatically he nearly dropped an tray of caviar tarts.

Mr. Pink stepped out of his vehicle, straightened his jacket, and held his head high, feeling the collective gaze of admiration settle upon him.

For the first time, he was not just another guest at Pifflewick. He was somebody.

Today, he would rise to the Diamond Level.

-

Gold and diamond reigned supreme. Attendees sparkled in crystal uniforms, a servant fanned him with a platinum palm leaf. Mr. Pink didn’t need to lift a finger. Every crumb, every sip was delivered directly onto his tongue. He was no longer a guest, he was a king.

He glanced around—fewer members than before. The air felt thinner, each breath heavier as he climbed tiers. The space felt quieter, weighted with exclusivity. He sank into his diamond studded lounge chair, sipping something that glowed intermittently like a firefly.

Then he saw it—a door, barely noticeable, but there. A gentleman with a golden cane strolled past, a radiant beauty on his arm.

“Who are they?” Mr. Pink asked, mid-bite.

A nearby member leaned in. “The Glexes. Used to be Diamond Level like us, but they’ve ascended… Celestial Level.”

Mr. Pink’s heart quickened. Celestial. What a word. What a place.

“What’s in there?”

The member sighed dreamily. “No chairs. Only clouds. You float where you wish.”

Mr. Pink nearly self-combusted on the spot. The Celestial Level. It had a mythic quality to it. He had to get there.

He approached the manager, trying to keep his voice even. “What do I need to do?”

The manager’s smile was small, knowing. “Ah, Mr. Pink. The challenge is not for the faint of heart.”

He gripped the manager’s arm. “I’ll do anything.”

His eyes, bloodshot and rimmed with exhaustion, twitched with desperation. Sleep had eluded him—Beako had seen to that,operatic wails slicing through the night, each note sharper than the last.

The manager clasped his hands. “You must tame an albino peacock. And—”

Mr.Pink cut him off. “Bring me the bird.”

A nervous chatter buzzed through the Diamond Level. The albino peacock was legendary—a rare, ghostly creature smuggled in from the Ruby Cloud Forest. Vain as it was vicious, it had flung lesser members into the aquamarine wading pools without remorse. Many had dared to challenge it. Few had remained intact.

They led him to a lavish garden, cucumber mist drifting over massive hedges trimmed into geometric shapes. In the center, perched atop a marble pillar, was the creature. A monstrous peacock, feathers white as frostbitten silk and two smoldering fireballs for eyes.

The battle was lengthy. The bird shrieked. Mr. Pink lunged. The peacock tried to fly. Mr. Pink tackled. A tornado of feathers, screams, and scratches. But in the end, Mr. Pink emerged successful, panting, one gashed hand gripping the peacock’s neck.

He ascended the staircase, breath ragged, dragging his scuffed oxfords across the marble. And as he reached the top, the great doors to the Celestial Level swung open.

-

It was quiet.

The air was thinner. The ceilings stretched beyond sight, swallowed by a haze of gilded fog. Chandeliers, no longer just crystal, shimmered with stardust and emeralds, casting an eerie, ethereal radiance over the void.

The furniture was gone. No velvet-lined lounges, no golden thrones, no pillows. Nothing to sit on—except for a cloud. It shifted gently, floating just above the floor, as though alive.

Scattered across the vast expanse, the few who remained sat stiffly on their cumulus cushions. Silent. Watchful. Mr. Pink started to lift a hand in greeting, but let it fall. The Glexes didn’t respond. Their eyes, sharp as jagged knives, swept the room—not with camaraderie, but calculation.

No laughter. No champagne towers.

Only silence.

Each eyeing the next tier.

Each eyeing each other.

His eye twitched. His breath came shallow. Floating golden pastries hovered—delicate, glistening—but he waved them away without a second glance.

He turned to the attendant, voice tight. “What’s next?”

The attendant hesitated, casting a wary glance at the manager before leaning in. “The Infinity Level,” he whispered.

“It will not be easy. No one has survived.”

The task?

To battle the Pifflewick Chimera.

A beast so bizarre, so unthinkably powerful, it was spoken of only in drunken murmurs at the lower tiers. Half-lion, half-serpent, all teeth.

The moment the gates to the Arena of Ascension opened, Mr.Pink understood why no one had made it this far.

It was a fever dream. A living nightmare.

A twisting, thrashing spectacle of fur and venom, a lion’s strength and a slithering iron tail that cracked the limestone floor beneath them. It hissed, then roared—a horrible, guttural sound.

Mr. Pink had no weapon. Only his wits and bare hands.

The combat was brutal. The chimera dove fangs first. Mr. Pink dodged. Claws slashed. Mr. Pink rolled. He moved with desperation, with instinct. He was shaking and slipping on gold and blood streaked marble.

But then—he saw it. The beast’s one weakness.

Its own reflection.

It was proud. Just like the peacock. Just like every member of Pifflewick who had ever climbed these ranks.

And so, with a final, strategic move, Mr. Pink feigned defeat—collapsed before the golden mirror lining the chamber. The chimera lurched, saw itself, and froze.

And in that pause, Mr. Pink struck.

The beast fell, undone by its own vanity.

He could taste the prestige in his sweat—sharp, metallic, heavy with the weight of every tier he had conquered. It trickled from his brow, pooled at his collar, the bitter taste of relentless pursuit.

Step by step, he climbed the final staircase, each breath thinner, more precious. The very air resisted him, as if only the most worthy could inhale it.

And then—at last—the towering doors to the Infinity Level thrust open.

-

The moment he stepped in, Mr. Pink knew something was wrong. His breath came in shallow gasps.

There was no music. No staff. No sounds.

Just an endless empty ballroom, stretching into silence.

This cannot be the right place, he thought to himself.

In the center of the vast emptiness, a single table.

On the table, a note.

He walked toward it, his short breath echoing in the void. Weakly, he picked it up.

The note read:

“Congratulations, Mr. Pink.

You have ascended to Infinity, the highest level.

90,000 Piffleyards above sea level.

The pinnacle of Pifflewick.

The final, most exclusive tier.

You are the only member left.

No one is higher than you.”

This was the summit. The Mount Cuckamoo of exclusivity.

And yet, as he stood in the vast hush of the ballroom, a single shadow hanging heavy on the wall—Mr. Pink had never felt lower.

A slow sinking, like a rare coin dropped into a bottomless well.

He spun in circles. No doors. No exits.

Just him.

Alone. At the very top. With air too thin to breathe.

Somewhere far below, where the champagne still fizzed and laughter still echoed, life went on.

And for the first time, Mr.Pink wondered if there was a way to climb back down.