The Power of the Dollar

Here you go guys. I'm working on making the next chapter of my book perfect, in the meantime (while you wait so patiently) here's a short story I wrote a while back. I hope you enjoy it! 

"The Power of the Dollar", illustrated by the author. 

"The Power of the Dollar", by Alex maria

Cigar smoke swirls lazily, clouding the dimly lit chamber. Thick, blue clouds of the stuff shroud the room and the people gathered there in a mask of haze.

Men and women quake under the thrill. They fidget with their fingers and inspect their glossy shoes. Here and there, excited whispers snake their way through the underlying silence and the room is filled with a quiet, buzzing ambiance. The anticipation is occasionally punctuated by a burst of nervous joking and laughter; but those sounds are quickly choked back and buried under the sacred hush of the party-goers. They wash away their embarrassment with hasty gulps of expensive liquor.

Fat, hairy fingers grip cold glasses full of amber light. Jagged blocks of ice clink against crystal and create frustratingly delicate sounds, like bubbles breaking the perfect stillness of an untouched pond. Golden watches and diamond cuff links glimmer on the wrists of well-fed men. Elegantly composed women, display their wealth too, in the form of beautifully jeweled bracelets and earrings, worn on surgically perfected bodies. They sip glasses of wine, so darkly red that they appear nearly opaque- their faces are raised in cold self-importance- as they sip the black ichors of the gods.

There are three doors to the waiting area. The first two are inconspicuous but sturdy- the one through which they had all entered is now heavily bolted and quite secure, and the second glides open and shut, allowing the serving girls to come and go freely. The third door is a massive double of ornately carved mahogany, and though the first two are plain and unremarkable, this door utterly commands the attention of those gathered in waiting.

Though the room is exceptionally well furnished with a number of tall tables and black leather lounge chairs, only one man has decided to sit- an impressively rotund man. Perhaps the others are too excited to take the weight off their feet. They stand, they shift from left to right. They cast peevish glances at one another like children anticipating a wondrous but uncertain surprise.... They watch the mahogany door. Some tremble. They feign confidence with nervous smiles, and try to hide their jitters by touching their expensive watches.

The servants entry swings open and a finely dressed woman steps through. She is objectively beautiful, a woman who might turn heads in any crowd, but the attendees take only a cursory notice of her. As she makes the rounds with a tray of succulent hors d'oeuvres, she offers to cut cigars, and refill drinks. The men nod slightly, or hold out their cigars but they do not otherwise acknowledge her.

As she makes her rounds, the party falls into a defensive quiet- a silence which is implicitly required not only for the sake of security, but also for decency: they are the elite. She is not. The subject of their gathering is a mystery to her, and so it must remain. They wordlessly pluck sautéed lobster tails and bite sized cuts of blue filet mignon from silver platters.

After the servant has once again made her retreat, one of the female attendees sips her wine and speaks, in a tone of mild condescension, "The whores who serve us wouldn't fetch a dollar in tonight's auction, there isn't any real thrill in women of the gutter."

A nearby man in a gold trimmed suit chuckles, and mutters, "It would be a waste of a nice fuck wouldn't it? To auction such a piece."

The silence enfolds them, their conversation falters and neither seems able to muster the bravery to keep it going.

After some time, alcohol begins to take the barest edge off, excited whispers slowly ascend into the air. An eternity later, the the delicate vibrations become a buzz, then a finally a clamor of excited voices; the gathered crowd has grown impatient.

The servants door does not open again.

They begin to call for speed and the commencement of the night's feature presentation, they call for the appearance of their Master of Ceremonies.

The lights dim into near darkness, and a cheer of irrepressible anticipation erupts from the pit of each and every patron's drunken belly; in the dark and the noise, the room itself seems to vibrate, to quake.

They are wrapped up in cloaks of dim and smoke.

A voice finds its way through the haze, it is giddy and almost frantic, "I feel like a kid who just passed the height requirement for the tallest ride in the park!" The voice sounds young, unseasoned, and thrilled into stupidity.

Others shout their approval, and the seated, fat man offers his own thick, gruff, but jubilant voice: "Or like a kid in a candy store, trust me newbie, it never gets old! Once tonight is over you'll be counting down the days till next year’s auction."

They are but shadows, and voice to each other. One of the silhouettes slaps another on the back in a gesture of camaraderie and support, but they do not know what to say.

The already dimmed lights are finally snuffed out in swirling darkness. Silence swoops down on the small group, they are like owl-scared mice. Not a breath can be heard, they fear to disturb the awesome aura of the moment. It is a profound experience for each of them, not unlike a religious rally, or a spiritual awakening. The only light comes from the hot afterglow of the bulb filaments overhead- and the angry red smolder of cigar ends- one of which shimmers on the floor apparently having been dropped by a hand lost to the moment.

When the faint light of the filaments overhead finally dies, there is a soft clank. 

Then another, then more and more in rapid succession, like the rotation of brass gears inside an industrial machine.

The mahogany doors crack open and a blade of pale light bisects the room, cutting through the swirling blue smoke like a scalpel through flesh. The people lucky enough to catch the first ray are in an ecstasy their eyes wide and staring, their breath caught high in their throats- they want to see the Master.

After an aching moment, the grand double door, of darkest design opens further, and the swathe of light grows into a brilliant flood.

A man stands beyond the doorway, smoke rises and curls past his silhouetted form. 

They could not see his expression but they could hear a smile leaking through his voice like ice water through a sieve, a voice which perfectly embodied- no, rejoiced- the evening’s dark purpose. 

"Welcome, gentlemen, and ladies" their host gave a sweeping bow. When he rose again, he spoke slowly and deliberately "Welcome to the culmination of a year's worth of planning, to the event of a number of lifetimes. How do you entertain the people who run the world? What do you give the people who have it all? I am about to prove that the man who said 'there are some things money cannot buy'... was an idiot. For those of you who I have not yet had the pleasure of meeting in person, my name is Pierre Dumont, and I am honored to serve your discerning tastes. "

"Those who I've met previously: it has been a long year since our last meeting and I am very pleased to see you in good health, pleased that you have enjoyed our last show enough to return today. You already know the purpose of our gathering, for this most sacred and powerful of occasions; I will not bore you with a reiteration- for I am anxious as you are, to get this... show on the road**. Please follow me."**

He abruptly turned on his heels and receded into the lighted hall, offering them all a fraction of a glimpse of his face- which had been glossy and defined in his turning against the light. 

They clambered after him like children crowding to enter a forbidden circus tent, their eyes gleamed under the sterile lights of the hall.

Dumont's speech was punctuated by the clack of his shoe heels as he led them down the unadorned passageway. "Auctioning will take place in the gallery, and will commence as soon as you've been introduced to the night's prizes. Prizes shall of course go to the highest bidder, and shall be collected as soon as a bid is closed. The highest bidder is free to collect... in whatever way they desire."

There was a squeal of excitement from one of the younger female patrons.

Dumont turned his curling grin towards them, never breaking stride. "It's refreshing to see such youthful enthusiasm, we've all been there."

He swung open another door, this chamber was very well lit. There was a simple podium, and a row of high backed, wooden chairs positioned in a broken circle around a slightly elevated platform: a large circular mosaic of shimmering glass tiles.

There was a drain in the middle of the mosaic, at the center of its gently looped pattern.

Beyond the mosaic stage, was a heavily draped curtain of red velvet. Beyond that curtain, barely perceptible to their ears: a low, muffled whimpering. 

"Honored guests, please help yourself to the bar; no serving girls in here, for reasons you can easily surmise." He let out a low, slippery chuckle and took his place at the podium. "Once you have taken your seats, we will begin."

Excitement urged their speed and kept them from loitering over the liquor and finger foods. Most ignored the refreshments all together. They rushed to their chairs, and settled in at once; some shifted in suspense, others gasped and panted under the atmosphere of overwhelming anticipation. 

Dumont stood eyeing them with a shrewd mixture of satisfaction and indifference, he broke the air with a sudden shout, his voice ringing with authority, "The curtain!"

A sliding, rasping sound accompanied the draw of the curtains to the left and right, they opened to reveal... darkness.

Dumont shook his head and planted a fist on the podium, breaking his seemingly impenetrable calm, his voice seethed with implied threat, "And, the lights, you idiots."

A row of powerful stage lights sprang to life with throaty clicks, their isolated beams each stabbing a single point on the empty stage.

"Sheila Jackson, mother of three. Home maker, age twenty nine." At his words a heavily built guard emerged from behind the stage with a chair in tow. The chair glided smoothly across the stage surface, a small wheel bottomed each leg. Then the guard swung the chair forward allowing it to gracefully pivot into the beam of light, revealing a shackled black woman with tears streaming down her face. She shook her head, and struggled vainly against her restraints, unable to make any clear sound around the gag in her mouth.

"We picked her up after while she was watching her kids playing in the park; they will probably think she abandoned them. In fact, Mr. Roberts, you ought to have your broadcasters turn her into a news story! Perhaps speculate about a drug addiction or an affair, make her America's next sensation. The woman who abandoned such sweet, gentle children. They'll be so angry, they won't be able to look away."

Thick snot was dripping from her nose, and she seemed to be having difficulty breathing. The guard delicately held a tissue to her face. A crackle of mucous and her nostrils were temporarily cleared, though they soon clogged again with the action of her tears.

"As you can see she, like all our catches, is unhurt, and unspoiled. We keep them as comfortable as necessary. It's your job to fix that I suppose."

The guard wheeled Sheila Jackson back into the darkness.

"Janice Green. Childless, but**, engaged to be married!" His voice teemed with what sounded like mock congratulation, "Age thirty eight. Does she look familiar Mrs. Stevenson? I doubt it, but you may look familiar to her, she used to be a teller in one of your banks!"**

The guard from before came forward with a terrified white woman, whose skin seemed almost translucent under the glare of the spot lights. Janice Green searched desperately and found the 'Mrs. Stevenson' Dumont had named. She begged with her eyes but only earned a cloying, predatory smile from the wealthy banker.

Then she too was wheeled back into the dark.

"Harvey Bright, just completed his junior year at PS 183 in New York, age seventeen. A model student, with a number of honors and recognitions. He was in the news a couple of times-" at this the crowd murmured to show their approval and excitement, "- for motivating younger, colored kids to stick with their schooling, think of the ratings when he is reported missing."

Harvey was wide eyed and frantic. The dark brown skin on his face glistened with sweat, but even in his state of terror he conveyed a striking intelligence. He'd fetch a high price, to be sure. 

"Trupti Rai. Four kids and ten grand kids. Her eldest paid for her to come over from Mumbai so she could live with him. Age sixty nine."

This one looked more angry than terrified, her eyes glared defiantly outwards, which only stimulated the insane appetites of party goers.

"Missy- Melissa- Hernandez, age nine. She's been battling bone cancer for the past three years, last week she received a clean bill of health. We snatched her a couple days after her welcome home celebration. That's a wig we have allowed her to keep wearing, her real hair has not grown back in. Perhaps we should return it to her mother and father. Perhaps they can sell it to recoup some of their hospital bills- according to their gofundme, 'every little bit helps.'"

Deadly silence greeted the little girl as she was wheeled into the light, every eye was on her. The girl looked more tired than scared, which was a put off, but her youth and her position as a survivor might have piqued the interest of a couple of the more seasoned participants. 

The fat man licked his lips and chuckled.

"Oh, gentlemen and ladies, here's one I'm very excited to present! Jonathon Swan age thirty five, and a father of two. He used to have a job, marketing for the credit company you own Mr. Stenson, but he was laid off. He's really a stand out, because we didn't actually take him, he came to us! I don't know how he found us- and once I find that leak I will plug it, rest assured- but he offered to volunteer if the bid he earned would go to his wife and kids as an anonymous donation; now I'm not typically a man of charitable persuasion, but I told him I'd personally match the highest bid, and I will. Charity be damned, I am a man of my word. So let's help feed the two little Swans."

The fat man who had spent a lot of time sitting uttered a chilling laugh, apparently he was the creditor whom Dumont had named. He called out, "Swan wasn't laid off, he was fired! He kept telling my salesmen to make sure that students really understood the terms of their loans before having them sign- I was losing business, so I showed him the door!"

A murmur of approval for Stenson and glares of disgust for Swan. 

Jonathon Swan looked like a tightly bound bundle of opposing compulsions: dread and resolve. Perhaps the scales would tip one way or the other before the end. Perhaps resolve would win. But for the moment he was in perfect limbo.

Dumont read and introduced fifteen or so more names: men, women, and children- from various careers and walks of life. He drew connections between students and their debtors, employees and their CEOs, soldiers and their generals, citizens and their representatives.

Then he bade them all refill their glasses before the bidding should commence. 

Once they had all taken their seats once more, he beamed at them with the same hungry anticipation which looms behind a vulture's eyes, "My honored guests, we now open the bidding! The winners are about to partake in a more refined example of the finest, truest, and oldest exercise of exchange known to man: money for lives! How much are they worth? You decide, and if you venture the most you gain the prize which our captives hold dearest, to do with 'what thou wilt'".

He began to turn toward the curtain, but let his head swivel back to the partygoers once more, for one final address, "This is not something which I will strictly enforce, but I recommend that we embrace periods of silence throughout the night, whenever a prize is collected. Such moments can be... almost satiating, mystical even. To ruin them with idle talk would be a shame, every sight, every sound, every tingle of emotion should be experienced to the fullest, without interference. Get your money's worth!"

His head snapped back to the curtain and he spoke, his voice taking on the macabre inflections and tonalities of a funeral bell. "We will start the bidding with our very own charity case... Mr. Swan."

The light behind the curtain clicked off, and snapped back on, shining directly at the center of the mosaic. 

The sound of wheels moving in the darkness, and the tied up Jonathon Swan glided into the spotlight. For a split second the guard was like a pale phantom in the shadows behind swan, then he disappeared.

A single bead of sweat dripped off the captives nose, glistening like a cut jewel in the eternal moment where it fell freely through the air. It landed with a delicate splash on the tiled pattern below. Every mote of dust suspended in that beam seemed to proclaim the standstill of time, and the verging of life and death.

Jonathon Swan was a face of oddly cast shadows, drawn in grim lines. His leg started to shake against its restraints. And he mumbled softly through his gag. 

"Now typically I start the bidding at one million US dollars with acceptable bidding increments of fifty thousand, but you have already heard of the extraordinary circumstances which surround this particular prize... I think it will be far more interesting to let one of you make the starting bid, no minimums. Perhaps Mr. Stenson would like to start?"

Mr. Stenson hauled himself out of his seat. "It would be my pleasure, Mr. Dumont. I will start the bidding at -one US dollar." He looked around at the competing bidders. "This man cost me money, and had the audacity to approach us for charity**. I think this sum is, as it is, too generous."**

Swan eyed Stenson with visible contempt. He seemed confident that the others would lay down higher sums, sums which would make his sacrifice worthwhile and keep his family well fed for the rest of their lives.

Dumont spoke in a stark opposite to the rattling speed of an auctioneer, his voice was cool and placid, slow and methodical. He seemed to savor his words and their implications. "Do I hear any further bids? Do I hear, two US dollars?"

No hands. 

A snicker from someone in the crowd, it sounded like a woman, it might have been Mrs. Stevenson, the banker- though each of these wolves were total strangers to the pitifully deluded, self-sacrificial Swan. 

His eyes started to flick from one to the other- pleading, staring into the eyes of the bidders who sat around him. 

They stared back, with cold, sardonic mirth. 

"One dollar, going once?"

Swan's eyes bulged with the blossoming realization. He shook his head in flagrant disbelief... and terror.

"One dollar going twice? Three times? Sold to the man with the silk bowtie and the impeccably stylish vest. He's yours Mr. Stenson."

Swan was stricken white like plaster, all the blood seemed to have fled from his cheeks and lips; it looked as though he might be about to vomit. His eyes communicated disbelief, they could not possible open any wider. Then again, maybe they could... maybe they would**, in the painful moments to come, before they shut again permanently.** 

Dumont smiled like a snake, "We're the most powerful men-" he shot an inclusive glance at the present female company, "-and women in the country- no in the world. The rest exist for our pleasure, this is merely a symbolic, ceremonial demonstration of our difference in station. Look at the company you keep: bankers, creditors, politicians, corporate executives, and media moguls: the emperors of business; then look at our prizes. Even before they were captured, they were ours. The same way the millions of classless Americans wandering outside our walls are ours- and they are oblivious. The modern world proclaims a religion as old as fear: economy. We are the priests and priestesses who minister to the sheep of the world- we who are gifted with an understanding of the divine rite of The Dollar. Our god is green, our god is real, and our god is powerful. So powerful. In fact our god rules the lives of every man, woman, and child on earth. They exist to worship our god, and those who don't are made to suffer. Money controls them and we control the money. Claim your rightful prize, Mr. Stenson."

"Thank you Mr. Dumont." Mr. Stenson- who'd remained standing since the point of his initial bid- waddled to the middle of the mosaic, grinned at the shackled Swan, and gave him a harsh back hand across the face; which left a red streak to contrast his bone white features. His nostrils flared and he tried to scream around his gag. Veins bulged around his neck and water began to form in the corners of his eyes. 

Dumont chuckled, and mused aloud, "I'm quite sure that no prize has ever been bought for such a paltry sum."

"None that I can remember." Stenson delivered another brutal strike across Swan's face. He looked at his knuckles, and wiped them on Swan's shirt, leaving a smear of blood, mucous, and tears.

The spectators were stone silent, hanging on the edge of their seats and soaking in every sensation with open eyes and ears.

"Mr. Swan, you cost me a lot of money, but I don't mind so much anymore, because you gave me a really good laugh-" another sharp smack on a face which was now beginning to swell and ooze, "-I'm sure our host would agree, if he'd thought you valuable, if he thought you worth anything, he could have collected you himself.”

Dumont nodded from the edge of darkness. At his side, a table full of weapons, tools, and various implements of pain had been unveiled. They glimmered softly in the faint light outside the circle.

Another strike, this one with a closed fist, the fleshy smack pocketed a sickening crunch. "Swan, was that your tooth? Wait don't answer that." Another smack. The victim's whimpers where still muffled- "Volunteering, that was so nice of you Swan. You shouldn't have**."**

Stenson spat on his prize, then returned to his seat and continued speaking, "Swan, you are nothing. To show you how little you are really worth, I am going to give you away. I'm going to throw you away actually." 

He pulled out a handkerchief and wiped away sweat and blood spatter from his pudgy face. "That's fitting right, you are our charity case-" His voice seethed with emphasis and loathing. "-the same way we are going to give your wife and children the proceeds, my bid and Dumont's matching dollar**: I am going to give you away.”**

Mr. Stenson tapped the knee of the young man who had been sitting beside him, who’d been hanging on to his every word. "He's mine to do with what I will, so I am giving him to you newbie. I know he's not much, but this is your first time. You gotta start small. He's your candy store, have fun."

The young man blinked in mute silence, and then let a shaky, nervous smile crack across his lips. He stuttered, then laughed, then spoke, "A-are you sure? Mine. My God I'm shaking, what a thrill."

The young man stood, smoothed the crease in his pants and straightened his vest. 

He licked his lips, then turned to Stenson. "What about you? You might miss out on a chance to collect a prize."

"Don't worry about me, my friend. I've got plenty of opportunity. I've got my eye on that little girl, the cancer girl... What's her name?"

"Melissa Hernandez."

This earned a belly shaking chuckle, "Missy, that's right. I keep forgetting how fresh you are kid. Sooner or later you’ll learn their names never matter. You’re sharp though."

Sharp**...**

Sharp.

The young man moved to the table, with its glistening tools laid out.

They all looked like they would hurt.

"Like a kid in a candy store," he said, licking his lips once more, and swallowing hard. Dry mouth. It probably wasn't uncommon for first timers. 

He wheeled the whimpering, moaning Swan over to the table, who looked out through puffy, tearing eyes at the collection of sharp devices which might soon be buried inside of him.

Then the young man tore off the tape and yanked out the gag with one brutal motion.

"Pleathe!" It sounded like Swan had cotton balls in his mouth. No teeth came out with the gag, so he must have swallowed them to avoid choking. 

"Pleathe waid! I wand do change my mind!" 

"Sorry Swan, you're too late. Besides your wife and kids need this donation, now that you’re going to be out of a job, permanently."

"Yeth! My wife and my kidth! I-" he coughed and out came the ever elusive tooth with a collection of blood. "- I thoughd I'd ged more money! Dwo dollarth ith nothing! I wath told there wath a minimum bid of one million!"

While Swan begged, the young man was acutely aware of the silence of the spectators. In this circle, silence was applause. It made him feel powerful. He reached past the babbling, sputtering prize and grasped a long serrated blade. 

"Swan, Swan, Swan.” He wagged the blade like a shaming finger, “Two dollars is everything. It's you who are nothing. We own you now... we always have. Besides, you know we can't let you go running your mouth to the public, right?"

Swan started to answer, but the young man shot forward. One hand clamped over Swan's bruised mouth. The other began to plunge into his belly.

Swan's eyes grew wider and his muffled screams of protest grew more and more frantic every time the tiny blade dipped into his flesh. The thrusting of the blade stopped, and they heard him mutter: “I’ve been duped! Ith nod fair.”

And then the only sounds were the delicate patter of poorly spent blood on the mosaic, cushioned by a few grunts of approval.

The moment of collection was savored, but the bidders were not satisfied. Swan's corpse was cast aside, and the night of ceremony went on.

-------

Swan's widow and children filed a police report... It went nowhere.... But they did receive an anonymous envelope, two crisp dollar bills dirtied with some kind of reddish residue.

The children bought some candy.

---------------------

What did you think? I'd love to hear your feedback- this is a story I'm proud of but you might be able to help me make it better.

If you like my writing check out my other short story, "On the Fly" or check out my book in progress, "Harold and Emily were Meant to Be"... PS, if you are a publisher and want to buy, make me an offer!

Thanks for reading! 

Now back to the garden, to fight the never ending battle against weeds.