Upon entering my life I always thought I knew what I truly desired. My heart always sought after what the wealthy had. I would go down to the pier during the autumn days to gaze upon the rich at play. One fine mademoiselle struck my fancy more than any other ever had or would. Her arm would dart through the air like white doves, the silver coins leapt from her hand like shooting stars. They would strike the poor upon their faces, chins and noses. They knew not they were lucky as gypsy's curses to bask in her presence.
I collected one of these coins one early morning and sought her out basking in a chair by the marina. I to this day remember what I said to her, "Miss Hanes I have returned your silver dollar as a handkerchief dropped in favor." She only looked at me with her eyes cold and black as the bottoms of the oceans. A crimson smile flickered across her dead face. She retorted she knew not of courtly ways, but that I may teach her of such over dinner. We dined upon morsels of dead cow, salmon and the finest bitter fruits. We fell into what she believed was love, for me a grasp at power, a grasp at life.
As I sit now in my study smelling of rich mahogany and leather bound books I can only think of my chair. I sit upon my throne crafted from one hundred dollar bills I know not where it came from, why it is here or who made it. I estimate its worth at times of boredom. I estimate it in the number of lads it would afford an ivy league education to, four. When I pass gas upon the chair I like to think I have farted on their faces and how they would writhe in what must smell to them of cinnamon and other favorable spices. I wonder what color the chair would burn.
As a boy I thought these riches would bring me happiness and favor. I have nothing to do. My life is empty as the halls of this house. I ran for senator once against a back woods hick. I blame my demise in the election on my inability to catch baseballs. A problem I have had since I was a child and the other children would hit me with them. I wonder if the pain they feel from the widely distributed black lists their name have fallen upon is the same pain I felt as a boy. One boy, the worst of them Mike Donald would hit me with balls and mock me. His words wrapped around me suffocating me holding me down my whole adolescence. The same way he is now wrapped in a heavy duty hefty bag under the estate.
During the election I would watch the people on the streets below the estate from my balcony. Oh how they looked like ants. One day I built a wall out of caviar along the rail so I would not have to look at them. The crows attracted to the smell ate my wall. I could hear them mocking me from miles away, it almost seemed they would mock, "why the long face Joe?" I can still hear them upon the television late at night in the den "why the long face… Joe?" Maybe it is just in my mind, maybe even the men upon the television take glee in my sorrow.
In these long empty halls and barren chambers of the house I seldom see my wife. Happening upon her I tell her "I love you honey." On two occasions I have slipped saying "I love you money." In her confusion I tell her I said "honey", I think she believes me. I know now that wealth and fortune mean little when only the blood of the innocent can sustain a man's wife. In my dreams I often remember the ceremonies of blood and awake with the taste of vomit in my mouth. I never would have imagined how many virgins one can acquire for a single pair of wrinkle free pants. I ponder death now. My sixty two years weighing heavily upon my shoulders. I think of the sweet grip of death taking me hanging nude from the high ceiling above my wife's bed. I believe she would wake see me dangling there and casually state "I've never seen that before," and go about her breakfast.