Atticus’s Big Day
The day was long and difficult. The train was late, and it had rained and Cecelia's umbrella had broken. She stepped out of her office building.
Her stupid fucking boss named Aelivia had messaged her and said she had to be across town for a meeting. She popped by Starbucks to pick up her pre order (since she was always on top of everything) when some man she didn't know stepped backward suddenly and caused her to bump into him. His black coffee in his hand spilled a singular drop onto his suit.
"What the fuck is wrong with you, you stupid bitch?" atticus spits out his damp and somehow chapped lip curling up in an annoyed scowl. He gestures and his henchmen step forward to grab the girl.
"Oh dear. I am so, incredibly apologetic. this was entirely my fault." She deadpans before pulling out a hundred one hundred dollar bills from her leather wallet in her custom purse.
She looks like she’s seen that suit before, the ugly obviously overly starched one he's wearing.Her father had pointed it out on a trip to Spain once, he said only the desperate men seeking visual power buy them.
Custom. 10k per piece.
His didn't even have custom embroidery.
The fact his didn’t have the custom stung whenever he looked down at his collar. His agent had asked several times, reached out to the fashion adviser on multiple occasions but he was declined each time.
atticus blinks his eyes in shock. He was hoping for a big scene so his henchmen could hold Cecelia at gunpoint and he could force her back to his mansion and trade the price of the suit for sexual services and a 100 year NDA, as he does every few weeks.
Instead here she is staring at him with a bored expression holding a rubber-banded stack of $100 bills.
atticus is a rich man and knows what $10,000 looks like.
That's what he pays for his his special toilet paper sometimes, by the way.
He stares at her blankly with a dumb look before he schools his expression, snarling his wet crusty lips again and snatching the large stack from her with a quick flick of his wrist. He was hoping for some kind of resistance, getting to see the look of fear on her face when his henchmen grab her, or something.
Not this bored, almost pitying look.
That's the worst part. This stranger girl is looking at him with pity. Like that white-coat doctor woman did that one time when his mother died in that cold hospital room ten years ago. He clears his throat and glances at his Henchman named Pootiferous for security reasons, but his real name is Larrison.
Larrison -- Pootiferous — looks back at atticus and gives a subtle shake of his head. atticus knows what that means. Pooti knows what's best.
he wont restrain this stranger girl. he doesn't like how casual this weird girl is being. Casual like she doesn't care.
And the thought she doesn’t care about him, atticus Vanos, the man that made the New York Times Most Prominent Man Under 50 List two whole times in three years. (spaced out by two and 3/4 years) pisses him off more than anything. He's used to people caring, no, worshipping at his feet.
Even PornHub stepped up and created a custom fleshlight just for him.
He smiles at her coldly like the winter in Siberia, where he has a lot of stock in, by the way.
"Why do you carry that much cash on you?" He asks her, stepping closer so he feels like he's taller, and he loves power.
Cecelia doesn't respond to the cold smile or the fact he puffed his chest like how some rodents do. She looks up at him with a bored expression.
"I'm headed off to the Gold Standard Bank,"She says, looking into his eyes with no fear which pisses him off further. "I was just doing business in Siberia with some of my father's investors. I've just flown back and I'm headed to the bank to deposit the funds."
Siberia?
atticus narrows his eyes before crossing his arms over his chest, which he tries to make large by going to the gym but seems to not be able to build up muscle despite drinking protein shakes every day and paying for the most elite personal trainers in all of LA, which he lives in, by the way.
atticus knows about Siberia. More than knows the name of the country — he has deep settled toots there. Strong roots. Empire level toots. Large 10,000 square foot warehouses full of contraband such as illegal lab grown mushrooms and custom fleshlights. And also some dead bodies hidden there in freezers he had some rando he forgot the name of label as Wagyu Steak.
But forget about that. What matters is this strange girl, saying she was doing business in Siberia.
His Siberia.
No. Not his. It's not like he owns it. He has roots there. Roots that make him have power, which he loves. He needs more information -- what if she somehow has more power in Siberia than he does?
He needs to know.
He chuckles cruelly at her, doing his best to make it sound like an evil chuckle. Low and humorless like he practices with his acting coach.
"Siberia?" He repeats, like that's the only word he can think or speak.
She looks bored. "Yes. Siberia. My father has large political power there and I am doing business in his place. I am his firstborn and only child. He entrusts me with handling the finances in the states."
atticus looks confused for once in his life. Maybe even intimidated. His eyebrows lift for a second and school back into his usual attempt at a scowl.
“Siberia?” He repeats dumbly, but it seems like that’s all he can say, just stand there in his coffee stained custom 10k suit — that doesn’t even have custom embroidering, and repeat ‘Siberia’ like it will draw any more meaning.
He finally finds some of his voice again.
“Who is your father?” He asks in a gruff, snarling intimidating tone, one he uses when he wants the women that work in his office to suck his dick when he’s had a bad day.
“My father is the King of Siberia,” the girl says simply, looking almost bored. Her lack of care might intimidate atticus if he knew what that feeling was, which he doesn’t, obviously.
The lack of knowing annoys him more than anything.
The King?
atticus knows who the King is. He’s lucky enough to have a 0.04% investment in his underground city, which equates to 1 billion a year earnings for atticus, which he uses to fund his addiction to paying for SexyWomenDotCum, which is one of his favorites.
“The King?” the strange girl repeats, looking at him like he’s stupid.
She, who looks like she just picked an outfit from GoodWay, or whatever that poor person store is, and she probably thinks atticus is stupid.
Never.
This girl is wearing simple jeans and shirt, baseball hat like some commoner that uses public toilets and transit like they used to do in 1492.
And HE for god sakes, is wearing a custom GUCCI suit. He doesn’t have the threads, but does that matter? It’s not an ultimate status symbol.
Then he sees it.
The tiny, hand- stitched gold initial threads in this girls simple tshirt.
X.V.
Xavier Vanderstork.
He tries not to have any reaction whatsoever.
Xavier Vanderstork is the name of one of the fashion designers for Gucci. atticus’s fashion designer had tried several times to get him a custom suit, but his designer had been denied every year for seven years straight.
He had practically begged on the phone, which for him that means screaming and threatening a wage cut or termination.
He’s still grimacing at this girl standing before him with the special Xavier Vanderstork stitching, meaning that her father must earn more than 100 billion a year.
atticus’s throat tightened in jealousy. Not jealousy. atticus was never jealous. This was a different feeling. One like how he felt when he saw that random doctor walked into his mother’s deathbed room and looked at him like they pitied him. He hates feeling like someone is pitying him. He hates feeling small and stupid, like when his grandfather Rodrickle Fitzpatrick used to call him Little Weenie.
His henchmen — Pootiferous and Rattington — (Rattington’s real name is Fredrick Hampershirt) look at eachother with slightly concerned looks (which annoys him because they looked at eachother before they looked at him which makes him feel like they’re hiding something from him, like a secret conversation about how incompetent he is. And maybe he is. His father called him that last week when he lost 2 million in investments in his stock in BigBigOil. ”incompetent, atticus. I knew you’d eventually fail” his father had said over the phone.)
atticus cleared his throat and the two men looked up. The two men spring into action quickly.
They take two steps towards the girl, but a familiar soft whirring sound makes atticus snap his head up. The two other men also look up.
The G96000 Pro. A special, limited gold encrusted helicopter with accessories. atticus knows this from when he saw it in pictures when he pathetically begged his financial advisor if he could buy it. Gold Standard.
Fredrickson Porchlight The Third said no.
(Fredrick Hampershirt the real name of one of his henchman, Pootiferous and Rattington, is different than Fredrickson Porchlight, his financial advisor, who is paid for by his father. (by the way.)
Now it’s touching down right in front of them.
Cecelia reaches her hand up like it’s nothing. atticus doesn’t notice until now that Cecelia’s sleek leather backpack has turned into a jetpack. A rope falls down from the Gold Standard helicopter, the one he can’t even afford and his financial advisor said he’d tell the lawyers about the paid women if he tried to buy the helicopter.
But Cecelia reaches up like it’s nothing and gets whisked away before his two Henchmen, Pootiferous and Rattington, can grab her.
She clings to the rope like it’s nothing. As the helicopter ascends into the sky, the rope doesn’t rise. She continues to dangle like it’s nothing.
atticus snaps his fingers right quick, a snap snap. His two Henchmen, Pootiferous and Rattington, spring into action and rush to open the back door for him. He gets in and after his two Henchmen, Pootiferous and Rattington follow.
He gets in his limousine and they speed off. He watches the girl dangle from the rope from her Golden helicopter and he realizes —
the jetpack is only for safety
As the limousine speeds off he snaps his fingers and tells the driver he doesn’t remember the name of to drive in the direction of where the girl is going.
Suddenly, the helicopter lowers, over Merriweather Enterprise Towers, which he owns 0.1% of, by the way, and he would own more if his stupid father trusted him more. Which he doesn’t, by the way, which makes atticus mad.
He almost gasps in surprise when the helicopter lowers her onto the roof, if he did ever do anything like gasp, which he doesn’t, by the way.
He yells at his driver to speed up and go to his tower, which he owns 0.19% of, which is almost 0.2% which equates to 2 million dollars, by the way.
His driver speeds up, which is good, and then takes him to the tower. He goes up quick.
He rushes up fast like a grizzly bear in Yosemite (which he’s been to, by the way) protecting her young and presses the penthouse button and his passcode, which is 1987, which is his birth year, by the way.
He’s asked several times for them to speed up the elevator and they have not responded to his email yet or done anything to speed up the elevator which annoys him.
When he gets to the top something takes him completely by shock. If he expressed any emotion his jaw might slack slightly. His apartment is empty.
No.
Not empty. There’s a few cardboard boxes but that’s it. No desk, no assistants. No fur rug. No special zebra skin rug.
Nothing.
He looks around in shock. Then he sees it — a bouquet of flowers and a card on the table.
Pink Armanian orchids. His mothers favorite. He had them spent special to her when she was in hospice, the one thing that she loved and made her smile besides that one blueberry cheesecake from that small town in Vermont.
Now they’re sitting here on his moonstone counter. Something makes a small sound in the background. The shower turning on.
But — it doesn’t squeak before it turns on. That’s the first thing he notices, not the fact that the shower turned on and there’s another person here, but the fact it doesn’t squeak. He’s asked the management of the apartment several times, sent hundred angry emails telling them how it’s unlivable conditions.
Nothing.
And now?
The shower is silent when it turns on. He can’t do anything but stare at the orchids on the counter. He dares takes a few steps forward, he doesn’t know how long it’s been.
He looks at the card next to them.
“Welcome to your new apartment, Cecelia! We hope this is up to par. We also hope your stay in our city is wonderful! We’ve set out some snacks and filled the fridge for you. The previous tenants belongings will be cleared out by noon and we apologize for the inconvenience!”
Atticus can only stare. and think about the non-squeaky shower.
inconvenience?
His heart pounds. If anxiety was an emotion he felt he might feel that. But he doesn’t, by the way.
The shower continues to run as he stares at his mother’s deathbed flowers. Now being used as welcome home flowers; For the same woman that he yelled at for bumping into him and flying off in a helicopter.
He stands there dumbly like an AI model when it’s not being prompted and doesn’t know what to do.
He can’t stop staring at the flowers and imagining his dead mother. The special blueberry cheesecake didn’t arrive in time before she died, a storm, and the helicopter couldn’t make it. He tried to sue but something in the clause about weather didn’t allow him.
The shower turns off.
It’s a few minutes he doesn’t know how long but then Cecelia leaves the bathroom. Custom robe and Gucci slippers.
She stops when she sees him.
Stops, doesn’t scream or anything. Atticus doesn’t know what to do. He stares back and he’s silent and knows he looks dumb.
She snaps her fingers at him and he flinches.
Actually flinches and he feels like a skittish lamb or a small kitten or something.
“hello?” Cecelia asks. He can’t say anything due to how dry and parched his mouth is.
“Hello?” She repeats, grimacing. Then she starts walking to the wall, a and lifts a hidden panel in the wall.
She’s going to call for help.
“Wait!” He exclaims.
Then, a giant BOOM can be heard from outside. They look.
A giant headless octopus alien, slimy, black, with orange and blue tentacles and suction cups slams onto the ground and strikes twenty floors at once.
Cecelia has no reaction. Still a blank face.
That’s what scares him the most.
He feels a giant headache and he falls.
When he comes to people are shining lights in his eyes.
“Sir? Are you okay? Can you tell me your name?”
He cracks his eyes open, and he’s in a room. Simple, beige walls.
He doesn’t speak at first. Can’t. His tongue is like spindly rocks, his spit dry like the Sahara desert, which he’s been to, by the way. He saw a camel patch on the nurses weird v neck shirt that didn’t compliment her large beautiful breasts at all and told her about his stocks in the Sahara desert and his special oasis full of sexy women and illegal drugs which she’s probably never had.
The lady nodded at him and smiled and said that’s nice and then wrote something in her chart. Probably a note to remind her to Google his special sexy oasis, which she won’t find anyway because he pays Google to keep it off public listings.
When he came to he demanded to be transported to his private hospital. But he still couldn’t shake Cecelia off his mind. Was she real?
He couldn’t shake her off his mind no matter what he did.
He let his sexy women in his basement and his sexy servers go with 5 million dollars each.
Then he swore to be a better man, because he decided she was the devil sent to make him better.
(Atticus has a large frontal lobe brain tumor.)