It started as just a game. Though, perhaps, not so innocent.
Said the infamous Mr. Body to his illustrious guests, “It is true that I have almost anything any man could want. Save one thing. I secretly long for one piece: this evening to me you will bring the perfect picture. The winner gets a million cash.”
And a mad dash began as the master disappeared. The bastard was always playing hide and seek. Bit of a geek. But handsome enough. Clever. And of course, obscenely rich.
Accustomed to his sport, though not such an ample prize, his visitors finished their cocktail conversation—which had followed wine-tasting on the terrace, which had followed dessert and jazz in the conservatory, which had followed an indescribably decadent 7-course feast in the dining room—and flowed through the foyer to commence the competition. Their mission began, as each prepared their perfect pictures to present to Mr. Body.
Mr. Green crept ‘round the billiard room, smoking a glass pipe. Body entered and leaned against a table, preparing a match of Quick Fire.
“Imagine yourself fitted with your fabulous friends,” said the glittery Green. “The piles of box seat tickets to whatever fucking event you could want, jet-setting for weekend benders in Rio, naked beach houses in the south of France, hand-picking harems of the finest young models, showers of the purest cocaine in the western hemisphere.”
Mr. Body could picture it, perfectly. The figurative fantasy was ferocious. But did not floor the master, as it was not the piece he sought.
Ms. Scarlet prowled about the ballroom, toying with silk rope. Body stepped in and pulled her close, taking in her musky splendor.
“Imagine yourself lavished with your luminous lovers,” said the sultry Scarlet. “The orgies with precious Persian princesses, the plump-lipped heiresses who could suck the diamond studs from Harry Winston’s bed posts, wet weekends at sacred fertility fortresses, the gorgeous girlfriends on each arm willing to bend and open to your every whim.”
Mr. Body could picture it, perfectly. The symbolic seduction was strong. But did not slay the master, as it was not the piece he sought.
Misses Peacock lurked in the lounge, lighting Venetian candlesticks. Body entered and sank into a velvet chair, turning his pinky ring.
“Imagine yourself trudging through your tremendous treasure,” said the prideful Peacock. “The chateaus in every nation of the European Union, silver screen yacht trips to the not-so Virgin Islands, an exquisite collection of classic cars to rival the ostentatious armoire of Imelda Marcos, pocketing politicians and policemen like skipping stones to play on a slow day.”
Mr. Body could picture it, perfectly. The poetic poison was potent. But did not pulverize the master, as it was not the piece he sought.
Colonel Mustard skulked around the study, fingering a nineteenth century revolver. Body sauntered in and stood attentively, admiring the armament collection.
“Imagine yourself enthralling your enormous empire,” said the malicious Mustard. “Learning the tricks of trade from masters of industry on every continent, buying up blocks and banks like a goddamn monopoly game, having world leaders bow to you and bend on knee to borrow, wielding the power to squeeze blood from stone and coin from bone.”
Mr. Body could picture it, perfectly. The metaphoric malevolence was mean. But did not murder the master, as it was not the piece he sought.
Professor Plum hid in the library, studying a priceless sculpture that resembled a wrench. Body wandered in and lounged at the desk, flipping through financial reports.
“Imagine yourself immersed in your innovation and intellect,” said the perceptive Plum. “Private school days when you valued library books over the dirty magazines your roommates passed around, club meetings with sons of tycoons and dignitaries – debating everything from Hedonism to Hegel, the prestigious research grants so elite they remain unknown to the pedestrian president, days you were ignited by your work and the burning desire to contribute something of consequence.”
Mr. Body could picture it, perfectly. The witty word was wonderful. But did not win the master, as it was not the piece he sought.
Mrs. White waited in the kitchen, chopping vegetables with a shining knife. Body entered, greeted her and folded his arms, watching.
“Imagine yourself through the eyes of the only one you ever loved,” said the wise Mrs. White.
“Before the slow friends and fast women, before you turned your father’s millions into billions, before you stopped looking your mother in the eyes – except to boast of fame and fortune. Remember… when you knew true love? Remember yourself before you were shrouded in shadow?”
Mr. Body nodded, silently. And suddenly fell to his knees. For he could picture it, perfectly: an image so clear and bright that it blasted though him.
Mr. Body felt terribly unclean and unworthy in its presence. Consumed by the need to rid himself of the darkness, he took the dagger from her gentle hands
and cut out his own heart.
Here he found his missing peace.
Mr. Body. In the kitchen. With the knife.
Said the infamous Mr. Body to his illustrious guests, “It is true that I have almost anything any man could want. Save one thing. I secretly long for one piece: this evening to me you will bring the perfect picture. The winner gets a million cash.”
And a mad dash began as the master disappeared. The bastard was always playing hide and seek. Bit of a geek. But handsome enough. Clever. And of course, obscenely rich.
Accustomed to his sport, though not such an ample prize, his visitors finished their cocktail conversation—which had followed wine-tasting on the terrace, which had followed dessert and jazz in the conservatory, which had followed an indescribably decadent 7-course feast in the dining room—and flowed through the foyer to commence the competition. Their mission began, as each prepared their perfect pictures to present to Mr. Body.
Mr. Green crept ‘round the billiard room, smoking a glass pipe. Body entered and leaned against a table, preparing a match of Quick Fire.
“Imagine yourself fitted with your fabulous friends,” said the glittery Green. “The piles of box seat tickets to whatever fucking event you could want, jet-setting for weekend benders in Rio, naked beach houses in the south of France, hand-picking harems of the finest young models, showers of the purest cocaine in the western hemisphere.”
Mr. Body could picture it, perfectly. The figurative fantasy was ferocious. But did not floor the master, as it was not the piece he sought.
Ms. Scarlet prowled about the ballroom, toying with silk rope. Body stepped in and pulled her close, taking in her musky splendor.
“Imagine yourself lavished with your luminous lovers,” said the sultry Scarlet. “The orgies with precious Persian princesses, the plump-lipped heiresses who could suck the diamond studs from Harry Winston’s bed posts, wet weekends at sacred fertility fortresses, the gorgeous girlfriends on each arm willing to bend and open to your every whim.”
Mr. Body could picture it, perfectly. The symbolic seduction was strong. But did not slay the master, as it was not the piece he sought.
Misses Peacock lurked in the lounge, lighting Venetian candlesticks. Body entered and sank into a velvet chair, turning his pinky ring.
“Imagine yourself trudging through your tremendous treasure,” said the prideful Peacock. “The chateaus in every nation of the European Union, silver screen yacht trips to the not-so Virgin Islands, an exquisite collection of classic cars to rival the ostentatious armoire of Imelda Marcos, pocketing politicians and policemen like skipping stones to play on a slow day.”
Mr. Body could picture it, perfectly. The poetic poison was potent. But did not pulverize the master, as it was not the piece he sought.
Colonel Mustard skulked around the study, fingering a nineteenth century revolver. Body sauntered in and stood attentively, admiring the armament collection.
“Imagine yourself enthralling your enormous empire,” said the malicious Mustard. “Learning the tricks of trade from masters of industry on every continent, buying up blocks and banks like a goddamn monopoly game, having world leaders bow to you and bend on knee to borrow, wielding the power to squeeze blood from stone and coin from bone.”
Mr. Body could picture it, perfectly. The metaphoric malevolence was mean. But did not murder the master, as it was not the piece he sought.
Professor Plum hid in the library, studying a priceless sculpture that resembled a wrench. Body wandered in and lounged at the desk, flipping through financial reports.
“Imagine yourself immersed in your innovation and intellect,” said the perceptive Plum. “Private school days when you valued library books over the dirty magazines your roommates passed around, club meetings with sons of tycoons and dignitaries – debating everything from Hedonism to Hegel, the prestigious research grants so elite they remain unknown to the pedestrian president, days you were ignited by your work and the burning desire to contribute something of consequence.”
Mr. Body could picture it, perfectly. The witty word was wonderful. But did not win the master, as it was not the piece he sought.
Mrs. White waited in the kitchen, chopping vegetables with a shining knife. Body entered, greeted her and folded his arms, watching.
“Imagine yourself through the eyes of the only one you ever loved,” said the wise Mrs. White.
“Before the slow friends and fast women, before you turned your father’s millions into billions, before you stopped looking your mother in the eyes – except to boast of fame and fortune. Remember… when you knew true love? Remember yourself before you were shrouded in shadow?”
Mr. Body nodded, silently. And suddenly fell to his knees. For he could picture it, perfectly: an image so clear and bright that it blasted though him.
Mr. Body felt terribly unclean and unworthy in its presence. Consumed by the need to rid himself of the darkness, he took the dagger from her gentle hands
and cut out his own heart.
Here he found his missing peace.
Mr. Body. In the kitchen. With the knife.
