*AUTHORS NOTE: This is an old story I just found.
He entered a damp and antiquated building of brick and soot, taking with him a brown paper bag filled with heavy, steel marbles. His walk was a healthy stride; the pace of a Grandfather’s secondhand. Atop his rounded skull the graying hair was a prominent and pristine fixture, unbalanced by a still-dark mustache resting over his chapped, pursed lips. The brown paper bag was being choked, a swinging pendulum ready to give out.
The people in the building moved their eyes to him, stared, lost focus, were reminded of their responsibilities, and went back to their work; and still checking his position in relation to themselves every other second or so. A woman jumped, startled by his approaching presence. She was heavyset, but strong-armed with curly, red hair and no upper lip. Her partner shook her, reminding her of the work at hand which startled her again.
The sun shone bright white, as his form broke through a big open door, the white negative space littler than his black silhouette. Was he today the same or possibly different? Was he savior or judge?
“This is the time.”
He dropped the bag and the marbles fell, and scattered to the wide walls.
“Pick one up!”
The workers scattered as the marbles. There were seven marbles. Seven were chosen. They picked them up.
“Go home. You will no longer need to work,” he said.
They did as they were told, but not without uncertainty and cynicism. “This cannot be true” they said to themselves. He gave them freedom and they did not know why. He had decided that he would stop to become new again; he would no longer be the man that he had been. Though, he was not in this for personal redemption, nor for the satisfaction of being the redeemer of the masses. No, he was doing this because he had nothing left to do. It was boredom, and boredom, above all else, is selfish. He’d been so selfish and evil for so long that he ran out of things to do. No, you say, that is not possible. I tell you: it is.
As former owner of a textile factory and many other businesses that he sold off (as well as his many stocks and gorgeous home), he had decided to procure early retirement for seven of his textile factory employees. He gave them something that they wanted, but could never have asked for or expected could actually happen. His gift was impersonal, he never met the people or learned anything about them, but he inexplicably gave them $2 million each. They thanked him uproariously, as did their coworkers, and the media; but he never learned of the thanksgiving or cared to. He was long gone by then in another foreign land rescuing endangered children and endangered animals.
*
This man is the most evil, the most corrupt, and the most disgraceful human being I or anyone can ever know. But only I know this. I am sitting in a steel cage, because the state believes that I am responsible for the deaths of this man’s wife and two children. I am not, of course, responsible for their deaths. He is. He framed me. You see, I am Roger Rudolph, now known as inmate 47213649 at the Illinois State Penitentiary. The man you know as the gracious and astute philanthropist, Phillip A. Riley, is the hardhearted and cold-blooded murderer of his own wife and children. You may not believe me, as many have not, but it is in your greatest interest to heed to my words for no other reason than it may save you. The plain fact that they are the truth can be discovered later.
He planted my DNA at the scene of the crime. I was the family butler for sixteen years, a mostly glorious sixteen years with the exception of the time that Mr. Riley spent at the home (which was not often.) I was hiding in the master bathroom and watched him shoot his wife Joy in the head after he had already gathered his children into the room and suffocated them with their pillow cases. Little John’s and precious Kate’s bodies were lifeless at the foot of the king-sized bed that I made every morning, as Joy’s brains were splattered all over the headboard. He saw me out of the corner of his eye. He intended to blame the crime on an intruder looking for his millions, but when he saw me he put the freshly fired barrel to my head and shoved me into the dead bodies. I was smothered with blood and human remains. My hairs and skin and fingerprints were thrust into the middle of a family tragedy.
He had an alibi, he was sure to have taken care of that. He was on a flight to Beijing, that’s what the ticket said. His passport was cleared at O’Hare. He had sent an imposter, and he flew out an hour after the crime was committed. They blamed the double booking on computer error. They threw out my testimony, calling me jealous and obsessive with the intent to keep his family to myself. If only I was attentive, I could have kept innocent people that I loved safe from the harm of a madman. The DNA evidence was enough to convict me. I’ve been serving his sentence for two years. He was a “grief-stricken” man giving hope to the masses, while I rotted in his cell.
I could not stand for it any longer.
*
The man brought his gun into the forest. Animals, dangerous animals, could appear from behind a wild bush or from the heights of any exotic tree. The same, paced walk shadowed him, and he grabbed the gun from his belt.
“Who are you?”
I came into his sight. At first he did not recognize me, or he could not believe that I had escaped from prison or that my seven consecutive life sentences had been served. I held my gun and aimed it between his eyes.
“No, it can’t be you,” he said, his voice loud and desperate.
“No?—Drop your gun,” I said. “Drop it!”
“Why should I? What’re you going to do? There’s nothing you can do that will make life any better for you.”
“You think so?”
“If you shoot me you’ll still rot in jail, YOU’LL DIE and I’ll be a worldwide martyr.”
“You’ll still be dead, and rotting in hell…the world can believe anything it wants. I’ll know the truth.”
“What truth? The truth is perception.”
“I’m afraid you’re mistaken.”
He fired at me. Luckily, he wasn’t a good shot when his target was awake. I fired and hit his leg, causing him to fall. Even if he was evil, the world was still his. He went down like a scorned hero, a likeable villain. Some things are unchangeable. I shot him in the other leg. Two pools of blood grew on his blue jeans. He no longer had a firm grasp of his gun. My shadow covered his body, my gun still aimed between his steely gray eyes.
“What do you want?”
“I want you dead…and to exonerate me.”
“I’ve got men back in the village. They will look for me.”
“We’ll make them come to us.”
“How? Where? How’d you get here?”
*
Escaping from prison is easy. They do it on TV shows and in movies all of the time. You just confuse the clueless guards; dig your way under the walls (which takes time and effort, sometimes, or you could just use the power tools from the shop); cause a riot; frame the warden; shoot the guards who aren’t quite as clueless with the clueless guards’ guns; and walk out the front gate. It’s not quite that easy, but my escape went something like that.
I tracked Mr. Riley by following his Tweets to his adoring fans. He did this not because he cared at all about the people that were making him the king he was perceived to be, but because he was being made a king. I received my fake passport four weeks after escaping from prison on a tip I got from a buddy on the inside who knew a guy who knew a guy who knew a guy that made passports that were as good as real. Phil was in El Salvador. I took the first flight out.
*
“I escaped.”
“Like hell.”
“I’m your worst nightmare. We’re going back to the U.S.”
“Like hell.”
“You keep sayin’ that. You’re going there so…”
“How do you expect to get me to go with you with two bullets in my legs?”
“We’ll go to the doctor.”
*
I paid a doctor to take out the bullets and slipped him $200 for some ether. I drugged Mr. Riley on every bus ride until we crossed the Mexico-U.S. border and I ditched the gun. When we stopped in Dallas I told him to call his lawyers and tell them to go to the courts and admit his guilt and exonerate me and then I told him to call his accountants to send all of his money to offshore accounts in my name or I’ll shoot him in the head. Of course, he didn’t do any of the things I asked.
I shot him in the head.
*
He prepared to change his life…and the world. He dropped his soft, large hand to the desk; gathered seven golf ball sized steel marbles that were part of a decoration on his desk and put them in the brown paper bag the lady at the liquor store used to wrap his fifth of brandy. He grasped the seventh ball and rolled it over in his damp palm. He chewed on a bitten and delicate fingernail. He spit it out into the garbage can as he made his way down to the warehouse where the minions slaved.
*
He didn’t die. His ear was gone but he was still alive, I made sure of that. The floor in the hotel room was soaked with blood. I made him clean it up, but he kept dripping. He passed out. I carried him to the hospital. At the hospital in Fort Worth he went into surgery. I told the doctors he had accidentally fired a hunting weapon into his ear. Luckily, they didn’t recognize either of us at first—Phil, because of the injured head; me, because of the fu man chu.
I didn’t let him out of my sight. The surgery was successful. He was the same man, still evil, but less handsome. When he had recovered I took him with me to a house that I was renting. His men had tracked us. They found the house and held me at gunpoint while I held Phil at gunpoint, the proverbial Mexican standoff (in Dallas). I shot Phil in the heart. He was dead instantly. They shot me everywhere. I was dead instantly.
*
He stepped slowly down the metal staircase that went to his office and across the showroom. Through the door was the white sun. He swung it open, hitting the frame with the bag of marbles. The walk to the warehouse was short. The sun was bright so he sheltered his eyes. He turned the corner.
*
I made him a martyr. I was unsuccessful. No…no, he is dead. I was a great success. I acted before I set any goals. In my opinion (the opinion of a dead man) the loss of my own life and the fact that Phil Riley will be remembered as the greatest philanthropist the world has ever known and I will be remembered as the crazy, jealous butler that murdered him and his family is only a minor failure. He may have the perception of the living, but I have the true redemption and justice of the eternal truth. From where I’m at that’s all that matters.
albatross base 