Boss Citadel sat at the front row
of the church pews, Ms Citadel at his side. The priest spoke but his voice was
muted, as though he was an insignificant detail in a vivid dream. Behind the
preacher was a great monument to his God, risen high to draw one’s gaze in
implied reverence. The high ceilings housed the many who had filed in so
dutifully and found their place in the lowly slums, cautious not to stray too
far from their own. They stared past each other’s backs towards the holy man in
diminished hope as he completed his daily rounds.
It was this sight, the droning
organ, and the dour smell that immediately struck Boss when he had entered. He
loathed this place.
As a child, Myrtle, his wretched
mother, had brought him here to worship. She would tell him to repent through
rituals of guilt and incomprehensible assumption. She would hiss at him if he
dared mumble a word of the ancient recitals of bias and contradiction. And at
the end she would curse him for reasons that only her twisted God could explain.
But Boss had always found one
thing compelling, and that was the blank faced mass of people who so freely
allowed this dictation to enter their lives; so wilfully manipulated by a
back-ended promise. They would pledge their lives in anticipation of the payout
which, in the end, could not be measured. That was an invaluable lesson. He
applied it to every aspect of Citadel Inc.; from media to sporting ventures to
supermarket chains. All the way to Walter Wallace.
But Boss was back in church now,
staring at a princely box that contained the body of his brother. Locked inside
the casket was the disfigured face of Mark Tanenworth, patched together in vain
by the mortician but ultimately sealed away from the innocent eyes of the
public. Instead they were to remember Mark according to his jolly grin, framed
and resting atop the coffin.
Boss remembered the last time he
saw Mark smiling like that. He had cracked a joke in the meeting days before
his death. For a fleeting moment he grinned, awaiting the laughs of the
attendees. But nobody laughed, they wouldn’t dare unless Boss himself had
laughed. But Boss never had time for his brother’s humour. He was too proud and
too weak to laugh at himself and he envied Mark’s ability to play the clown.
The memory of that grin was forever soured.
Boss held a much more vivid image
of his brother’s face. One he could not shake. As the scum behind him sobbed he
wondered how many of them had seen it. There was the video of his suicide, it
was broadcast online. Super slow motion and screenshots that captured the
blurred chunks as they were blasted out of screen. How many had searched for
the leaked photos from the morgue? Flagrantly displayed on the main page of the
William Unston cultwebsite. How many had visited the apartment where the blood
was still scattered like some sick memorial? How many had stood and watched as
the coroner drew back the sheets to reveal Mark’s face, only with certain parts
of it simply missing? It almost looked comical, like a poor photoshop job. Boss
had shot people in the face before but he had never hung around to see the
damage and he had never considered how odd it would look with all the blood and
excess cleaned off.
Boss had not wept then, and he
wasn’t crying now. He had not once cried at the news of his brother’s suicide.
He had despaired and he had raged but he was yet to break down emotionally. He
stared at the casket and imagined Mark’s spirit rising up and inevitably
meeting Myrtle’s. She would be looking down at Boss shaking her head. Mark standing
idly at her side, unwilling to disappoint her with his independence. He looked
sheepishly down at his feet with his one remaining eye.
The priest called Boss to the altar,
asking him to give his eulogy. Boss rose calmly; he found himself completely
aware, a clarity which he had maintained at unprecedented levels since Mark’s
passing. He strode to the stage, no notes in his hand, no speech stored in his
head.
“Thank you, father,” he said with
a stern politeness. He looked out at the people. His wife gave him a nod of
strength. He accepted it, continuing to take his time. He brought his gaze
slowly to Sammy. He had known where he was seated but did not want to go
straight to him. Nor did he linger. He cleared his throat.
“Mark was a great man. It is not
fair that he should pass and less so that he should pass in this fashion. I
could take this not as a blight on his character but as a fault in society and
how we filter ourselves, stifling the impulses of someone such as my brother.
But would that be fair to acquit a man who chooses death in a world founded not
in the perimeters of a human society but in the natural selection of a billion
possibilities?
“Don’t be so quick to blame
yourselves for not knowing Mark. He was funny and creative and had an open
heart. But he was weak, and he was submissive. In the wild he would have
fallen, and in this society which is designed to protect us all he still found
that drop. But he was a great man.
“Imagine a world where everybody
was as Mark was. It would be slightly backward, much less progressive and
ultimately would struggle to sustain itself for even half the lifespan of our
current society. But in that time there would exist an indescribable joy. A
fearless joy and love for one another. In this world where happiness is
confused with economy and determined as our ultimate joy we have failed to
achieve even a millionth of a percentile of what Mark’s world would attain.
“But he’s dead now. My brother is
dead.” Boss looked down at his hands, resting upon the lectern. He throat
suddenly stung with gripping intensity. “It’s our loss,” he choked. “It’s my
loss.”
Boss stepped down from the altar
and walked. He passed his seat without acknowledging his wife as she stood to
hug him. He walked down the aisle, his eyes searing like the dried up desert
plains receiving the first rain after a fierce drought.
He left the church and climbed in
the back of the black sedan that awaited him. As the vehicle pulled out onto
the road he squeezed his eyes shut and dried the tears. He still saw the
bastardised outline of his brother’s face, only now as he focused he saw Sammy
staring back at him with a hint of fear in the one remaining eye.
Boss pulled the trigger and blew
the fuck out of that one as well.
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