Written by RCW
Story inspired by the children’s books Alexander and the Terrible, No Good, Very Bad Day by Judith Viorst & Junie B Jones by Barbra Park.
recommended for mature readers.
Atticus Merriweather Junior’s head pounds. Bad. Big time. He stalks quickly and menacingly across the paved lot of cars wearing his new, custom, Feather-Heathered Grey Christian Louboutin Men's Greggo Patent Oxford Shoes with White Gold and Diamond accents he just got this morning with his father, Atticus Merriweather Senior, The Third.
The wind catches a small piece of Atticus’s luxurious, freshly salon washed thick head of hair smelling like strawberries from the Lorél Kids leave in foaming conditioner he has stocked up throughout various warehouses across the globe.
The light shines perfectly from the sun and glints on his hair. The air smells perfect, and the moisture level is just right. Afternoon, freshly-rained but still sunny, and some clouds in the sky covering the sun just now.
His beautiful silky locks of strawberry scented hair brush lightly over his shiny poreless forehead which he gets biweekly anti-wrinkle injections to ensure he doesn’t get bad and grody gross lines like his Daddy, who is named Atticus Merriweather Senior (III), who has lots and lots and lots which are very very very bad and he doesn’t like that at all.
Atticus’s head throngs bad in a way that is very much uncomfortable for him, prolly from all the irritating meetings he’s had to endure lately plus all his smart thinking and good thoughts.
But it’s nothing he can’t handle! Because he is Atticus Merriweather The Best and he can do no wrongs, not now and not ever and not in the span of Time and Space.
He is the Best! Ever!
He quickly and fashionably slides his customized designer Stefano Ricci Safari Crocodile Leather Sunglasses over his eyes to shield the Sun’s massively large brightness, which hurts those stunningly intense rare Atlantic Ocean combined with Mediterranean Blue eyes of his.
The sun always makes his head hurt lately.
Prolly from all the smartness he has stored up there all the time.
Waiting just for the right time to be used for something super good and smart such as building a golf course with in-house beer stored in hidden refrigerators across the green and some workers would restock them below using a tunnel system so the club members don’t have to interact with them.
Good one, Atticus. Genius. Write that down.
Atticus’s designer shoes catch the light as he steps daintily across puddles towards his new shiny, black Rolls-Royce La Rose Noire Droptail he bought this morning with his Papa, Atticus Merriweather The Third to match his new designer Fancy Pantsy sunglasses.
(He has a denim blue Rolls Royce at home that his Papa paid for custom for him.)
He snaps his finger super quick and menacingly.
(At least he tries.)
And the sound is dull.
Snap Snap SNAPPITY snap snap.
One of his two henchmen who are named Pootiferous and Rattington, this one being Rattington, makes a grunt grunty noise with his grunty mouth and bends down slowly to tie Atticus’s shoe for him.
Atticus hates bending down, so his henchmen, Pootiferous and Ratttington always tie his shoes for him before he leaves the house to play Pick a Car in his garage.
He also has many other cars in his three-story garage too, in case you were wondering. It’s prolly more stories but he doesn’t care to count.
After an annoying long meeting in the large, sort of ugly glass-paneled office building he was ready to be done and go back to his apartment.
His day sucked big time.
BIG BIG BIG BIGGITY time.
Lots of bad and irritating meetings occurred nonstop all throughout the day.
And worst of all was that he missed his time to play Animal Crossing and he loves Animal Crossing.
The shop closed and he didn’t get to sell his extra corn, which makes him super irritated. If he ever felt an emotion like that, which he obviously doesn’t. And probably never will.
So take that, Stupid Yoga Sam!
His day started with a squeaky shower and stupid new interns burning his expensive, apparently “ethcially” sourced Armenian coffee, whatever that means.
Whatever, Atticus. Not worth your time.
Dumb stupid idiot White Coat man babbling at him this morning. Saying things he didn’t even understand during his regular monthly routine checkups in his fancy penthouse. And, sometimes he gets more too.
He loves attention.
Not only that, but his chef Bolognese, or whatever his name is, Bologney or Brocha’s or Bob the Builder or something, he could not be bothered to figure that one out, told him yesterday that his favorite small town steak supplier just went under due to something like something or something something something or whatever.
He didn’t ask and didn’t care.
Point is, he can’t fly in his steak in tonight from them and he only likes their steaks.
Which, maybe it will be fine. He just can have an assistent find a new farm and chef Bouillon Cube can begin cooking up his steak and farm raised pork fat and water grown Potato Galette with the potatos cut into flower shapes, his favorite way to have it. He needs it by the time he gets back so he can have a good evening.
Atticus’s stalks quickly and richly towards his designer car. His feet make a wet sound. A sharp slap slap slap sound on freshly rained on pavement in his designer shoes that Daddy Atticus Senior The Third bought him.
Mr. Always Smart Never Stupid Atticus Merriweather sees a girl walking in the parking lot as he left his meeting with that White Coat Man, the man that gave him advice on how to succeed good so he would always be smart and talented at everything in life for ever and ever, and his brain would always be very strong and completely put together and he’d never make any wrongdoings at all or have to think about bad thoughts ever.
Why would she be here? Why would a random girl be in this area? She doesn’t look fancy.
The person standing struggling with an umbrella that’s not even designer is wearing a simple outfit.
She prolly has a dumby stupidy job too. Like making burritos, and she probably named her calico cat Burrito as well, probably.
And, she probably reads Colleen Hoover too.
(Atticus Merriweather loves those trope romance novels, and he reads them at night on his purple iPad Mini with the pillow pet stickers on the pastel sky blue colored case.)
He stares blankly at her and determines that her stupid boss, probably named a dumb name, like fucking, Gabriella or Topaz or something such as that was bothering her because she has a sour look on her face. A sour look like she ate something bad like non-fresh lobster or something else gross that makes him want to punch someone in the face and make them go to hell or somewhere else equally bad, such as the ball pit at Chuck E Cheese which gave him genital warts once too many times, which was four times, so he stopped going.
Maybe she’s perfect, and never makes any mistakes, ever, in her entire life.
FUCK. THAT.
She doesn’t look where she’s going and she runs into him as he’s busy staring at her.
Coffee spills all over her shirt.
One drop spills on his super duper special silk floral adorned custom designer waistcoat from Gucci all the way from a small town in Spain, and he loves Spain, by the way.
His Daddy, Atticus Senior, bought him that.
"What the hell is wrong with you, you stupid, snarly ugly?" Atticus snarls out sort of gruffly, and he spits a little onto the corner of his pale pink damp lips which are also somehow both chapped and dehydrated and slick with saliva.
His crusty damp lips curls up in annoyance as he wipes the spittle on his sleeve, attempting to maintain his gruff demeanor.
He would never tell anyone but sometimes he bites his lip when he’s really annoyed during his Zoomy Time calls.
If annoyance was an emotion he knew the definition of.
Which he DOES NOT. EVER. BY THE WAY!
And, he never ever feels any bad emotions including anger or sadness or jealousy or any bad or annoying things such as having to wait or do boring tasks like restock toilet paper or stuff.
Clean his shower, put away groceries, standing in lines, that sort of thing.
Why would he be jealous? He has everything he could ever want.
Jealousy is not an emotion Atticus Merriweather Jr. feels.
Atticus Merriweather Jr. is the Best Ever.
That’s what Daddy Merriweather says.
The girl speaks and he looks at her.
"Sorry. Entirely my fault," the strange female-woman-girl deadpans before pulling out one hundred crispy fresh folded hundred dollar bills from her leather wallet in her custom purse.
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. They walked past a designer store and that suit was next to a 25% off Out of Season sale sign.
At least that’s what he assumes when she looks at him.
These suits are very much special. Very special.
Very very very special.
Elite level spesh.
(That’s the insider word for special, only the richest like Atticus say spesh.)
These suits are custom. Rare.
10k per piece.
(Which she already knows, which is why she handed him the 10k.)
Yes, probably.
His didn't even have custom embroidery that is done by the designer himself.
That stung his heart whenever he looked down at his collar without the XV stitches.
His agent had asked several times, reached out to the fashion adviser on multiple occasions but he was declined each time.
Atticus blinks his strikingly stunning and amazingly oceany perfect blue eyes in absolute and utter 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 some special services.
Instead here she is staring at him with a bored expression holding a rubber-banded stack of $100 bills.
Atticus Merriweather is a rich man and knows what $1,000 looks like just from sight, so he knows that’s how much that stack must be.
That's what he pays for 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 which he practices nightly with his Human Interaction coach.
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 that could entertain him.
Not this bored, almost pitying look.
That's the worst part. This stranger girl is looking at him with pity.
And he HATES that.
Like that white-coat doctor woman did that one time when his mother died in that cold hospital room ten years ago.
He doesn’t like to think of such horrid things.
It makes his head hurt sharp and hot like rock candy.
He once got burnt by hot sugar by his babysitter named Lollygagger, or, at least that’s what he remembers his name to be because that’s what his Daddy used to call him.
Lollygagger made Atticus candy once after Atticus begged and something awful happened.
Atticus had gotten too close to the stove after being told repeatedly not to go near it. A piece of hot sugar flew out of the pot and hit his arm.
Loggygagger never came back to the mansion to play with Atticus and Atticus never liked the taste of candy after that.
He clears his throat to distract himself from thinking of Loggygagger and that rock candy incident while he glances at his two Henchman.
One of them is 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.
Poot won’t restrain this stranger girl.
Atticus doesn't like how casual this weird girl is being. This oddly alluring female specimen he can’t figure out. And he hates not being able to figure out things. He’s Mr. Smart Man. He knows everything.
She’s acting casual like she doesn't care. Casual like a Calico Cat.
That was his favorite Webkinz and he named her Pumpki Queen. He forgot to add the N and couldn’t change it which really upset him so his daddy bought him 700 or something more but he never really got over Pumpki Queen and her missing N.
And also, something else. He HATES when people don’t care about him. Atticus Merriweather should never ever be hated because of how great he is.
The thought she doesn’t care about him, Atticus Merriweather, the man that made the New York Times Most Prominent Man Under 65 And Over 64 Born In January 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. They should worship at his feet. Everyone should.
He is the Best!
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 with a gruff tone which he makes gruff on purpose and begins stepping closer so he feels like he's taller, and he loves power, by the way.
He’s never seen that much cash in person, the closest comparison would be when he would watch his Daddy Atticus Merriweather SR count money at the kitchen table with that rose patterned table cloth while he crunched on his chocolate chunk flakes while wearing his favorite pirate hat and his slime monster Minecraft footie pajamas.
His beloved Daddy Atticus Merriweather Senior told him to never carry that much cash in person. Only credit.
Last week, the week before, and all the weeks before that for the last year he’s applied for an American Express Black Diamond Elite Best® card but he was denied every time.
His wallet feels heavy, more than usual as he thinks about his dumb silver card in his custom made Italian leather wallet he got on a trip to Italy that his Daddy, who is named Atticus Merriweather SR by the way, paid for.
Cecelia (he named her that) (in his head) doesn't respond to the cold smile or the fact he puffed his chest like how some rodents do - such as naked mole rats. She looks up at him with a bored expression which makes his chest feel a strange way, if he would to ever feel anything.
"I'm headed off to the Diamond Elite Black Diamond Ruby Sapphire Emerald 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.
He also got saline injections last week in his biceps but the stuff moved to his calves and he had to go get his favorite pants tailored.
Atticus knows about Siberia. More than knows the name of the country — he has deep settled roots there. Strong roots. Empire level toots. Large 10,000 square foot warehouses full of contraband such as illegal lab grown mushrooms and customized things for him to enjoy. And also some 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. Wait.
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 HAS to.
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, Rudy or whatever his name is.
"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.
He sniffs in stupidly because he knows that the stupid suit was only $2k on final sale and it doesn’t even have the special custom stitches and he can only stand like a stupid dumb thing 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 in his office to suck his dick.
“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 actually equates to 1 billion a year earnings for Atticus, in which he uses pay for his various addictions such as the website to look at sexy women, called VerySexyWomen which is one of his favorites, by the way. His other favorite is Waffle Chef.
Which is basically lesbians making breakfast.
“The King?” The strange girl repeats, looking at him like he’s stupid.
Random Girl, looking like she just picked an outfit straight off the rack from GoodWay, or whatever that poor person store is, probably thinks Atticus is stupid.
Never.
Atticus was never ever stupid.
EVER EVER EVER.
This girl who is probably stupid or something worse is wearing simple jeans and shirt, baseball hat like some commoner that uses public toilets and transit with trains and shares horses like they used to do in 1492 and years such as that.
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.
Xavier Vanderstork?
He tries not to have any reaction whatsoever to that name. Those two words.
Xavier Vanderstork.
A single bead of sweat drips off the end of his nose. His lip is still slightly greasy from the remnants of his McDonalds Happy Meal he had for lunch.
His favoritest lunch. Bestest lunch in the world. It reminds him of sitting in the back of his mothers Sudan and getting a special treat after school.
He had it sent in special because it is Thursday, his most favoritest day of the week.
He’s still thinking about not getting the toy he wanted.
Maybe he should go back and complain, but he didn’t want to deal with whatever immature teenager he would have to speak to, unless she was hot, which would be a good reason to talk to her.
He likes hot things. Like hot women. And Hot Wheels toys.
That’s okay. There’s always next Thursday Atticus. Breathe in and out like Yoga Man showed you.
Atticus thinks about the breathing exercises he does in his special private yoga room with his special private teacher Yoga Sam or whatever his name is. Sam or Sloppy Joe or Scorpio Sunday or whatever.
Atticus Merriweather licks his McDonald’s flavored lips.
In what could be envy if he ever felt that, but it’s not envy because he doesn’t feel that so he just licks his oily, crusty lips and makes them damp again with his tongue.
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.
Atticus Merriweather’s McDonalds Flavored Lips curl up into a grimace at this girl standing before him with the special Xavier Vanderstork stitching that he doesn’t have, meaning that her father must earn more than 100 billion a year.
Atticus’s throat tightened in jealousy. Not jealousy.
Atticus was never ever jealous.
Ever ever ever.
This was an entirely different feeling.
How he felt when he saw that random doctor walked into his mother’s deathbed room and looked at him. Looked at him with a look like they pitied him.
He hates feeling like someone is pitying him.
He hates feeling small and stupid and pitied.
Such as when his great 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, Atticus Merriweather Senior had said over the phone.)
Atticus cleared his throat and the two henchmen Pootiferous and Rattington look up. They spring into action slowly like slimy slugs or snails or other small and slimy things that go slow and are slowed down by their own slime.
At least that’s what he assumes slugs and snails do.
The Henchmen take two steps towards the girl, but a familiar soft whirring sound makes Atticus snap his head up. Pootiferois and Rattington also look up.
The G96000 Super Special.
A special, limited gold encrusted helicopter with accessories. Atticus Merriweather 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 Dandyton The Third the Financial Advisor had said no.
(NOTE TO READER: Fredrick Hampershirt, the real name of one of his henchman, Pootiferous and Rattington, Rattington, is different than Fredrickson Porchlight Dandyton The Third. Not to be confused with his financial advisor, Fredrickson Porchlight Dandyton The Third who is paid for by his father, Atticus Merriweather Sr. The Third, by the way.)
Now the special helicopter he can’t afford is 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 with their hands that are washed and Atticus made sure that they did that.
She clings to the rope strongly like it’s nothing. As the helicopter ascends into the sky, the rope doesn’t rise. She continues to dangle like it’s nothing, which, maybe for her it is but Atticus needs to know why she has a better helicopter than him.
Atticus snaps his greasy salty fingers right quick, a snap snap to get everyone’s attention. he thinks about licking them after but he doesn’t.
His fingers, not the henchmen. That would be stupid. And he’s not stupid.
Atticus Merriweather loves attention.
His two Henchmen, Pootiferous and Rattington, spring into action slowly, maybe like a thick liquid. Toothpaste maybe, to open the back door for him. He gets in quickly. His two Henchmen, Pootiferous and Rattington follow without any irritating questions. He hates questions. He’s always answering questions.
As soon as he’s buckled up in his expensive limousine and they speed off very fast since he has a special car that goes faster than everyone’s. Everyone except for Daddy Merriweather Senior.
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 & Co 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. Almost mad enough to create his own enterprise.
Mr. Merriweather almost gasps in surprise when the helicopter lowers her onto the roof, if he did ever do anything like gasp, which he doesn’t, ever.
Instead he sniffs in slightly.
He yells out gruff at Driver to speed and go to his tower faster, which he owns 0.19% of, and that's almost 0.2% which equates to 2 million dollars, by the way in case you didn't know.
His driver speeds up, which is good, and then takes him to the tower.
He goes up darn lickety split.
Fast like a grizzly bear in Yosemite protecting her young (which he’s been to, obviously, and many more times than everyone else because he has a special pass that lets him in to every national park for free for all his life because he’s Atticus Merriweather, of course.) He presses the penthouse button and his passcode, which is 1960, which is his birth year, in case you were curious.
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 very much but he doesn’t have any symptoms of anxiety, ever.
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 polar bear fur rug. No special rare brown striped 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 family run store that made that one blueberry cheesecake from that small town in Vermont she liked.
Now they’re sitting here on his shiny 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.
Now?
It’s different. He can tell right away because he’s smart.
He hears water hit the shower floor. The knob is silent. He can’t do anything but stare at the orchids on the counter. He dares take a few steps forward, he doesn’t know how long it’s been.
He looks at the card next to them and his breath almost catches in his tightened throat.
“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 look forward, think about the non-squeaky shower. His lips turn slightly downward. He doesn’t feel sad or confused but he feels something else along those lines.
Inconvenience?
His heart pounds. If anxiety was an emotion he felt ever at all 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. If dumb was a thing he ever felt, he might feel slightly like that, but he does not! Ever!
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 for 100 million but something in the clause about weather didn’t allow him.
The shower turns off. Still no squeak. 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 Merriweather doesn’t know what to do for the first time in his sixties.
Probably his entire life, too.
For the first time in his life his jaw slacks slightly or maybe it tightens.
He can’t tell.
He stares back and he’s silent and knows he looks dumb which he hates because he hates feeling stupid.
She snaps her fingers at him and he flinches. Actually flinches and he feels like a skittish lamb or a small kitten or something or some other vulnerable freshly birthed animal that’s still slimy with birthing liquid.
“Hello?” Cecelia asks. She grimaces at him like he’s a squashed grub.
He can’t say anything due to how dry and parched his mouth is, like the Sahara desert which he loves going to, by the way and he has lots and lots and lots, many things to do there likely more than her probably; such as dune surfing and private oasis hopping in his nice special helicopter and many more things she can’t that he can, because he’s got lots more than her, and lots more than everyone, by the way.
“Hello?” She repeats, grimacing. Then she starts walking to the wall, and lifts a hidden panel in the wall.
He realizes she’s going to call for help.
“Wait!” He exclaims, rushing forward.
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, like the beige walls in the hallway of his servants quarters.
Not that he’s ever been there to those wings of his mansions but he chose beige as the wall color.
He doesn’t speak at first.
Can’t. His tongue is like spindly parched rocks with barnacles clinging to them like they do sometimes at low tide.
His spit is very much dry, like the Sahara Desert, and not the parts that have an oasis.
Which, again, he’s been to many, many, many times, by the way, in case that wasn’t clear from context, by the way by the way by the way by the way, and he goes to the OASIS and not the dry part, by the way, because going to the dry part would be ridiculous.
By the way.
He saw a camel or some other animal, maybe a lion on the nurses weird animal print v neck shirt. At least he thinks it was a camel, maybe a swan or rat or some sort of mouse with a large ugly white hat holding pasta. But point is the shirt didn’t compliment her large beautiful breasts at all and he didn’t like that at all so he made sure to tell her that again in case she didn’t hear him the first three times he said it.
He told her about his multiple big stocks in the Sahara desert and his special oasis full of sexy women and illegal drugs which she’s probably never gotten to have.
Too bad for her. More for him.
Then the lady nodded at him and smiled and said that’s nice and then turned and wrote something in her chart.
Probably a note to remind her to Google his special sexy oasis.
Which, of course, obviously, 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.
Then he swore to be a better man, because he decided she was the devil sent to make him better and he couldn’t shake the feeling that she was there to give him a message.
Cecelia this, Cecelia that? Everything was about Cecelia.
His chef asked him “Tengo hambre por Cece?” Thats what he heard at least. Not “Are you hungry for your meal, Sir.”
Bullshit!
Atticus could never hear wrong, or do wrong, or think wrong, or say wrong. His head was always right no matter what he did.
The left side of his head was all right too, most likely, probably, by the way.
Once he has employed everyone in the world, he will employ you too.
Probably.
Atticus Merriweather tried to hear what the White Coat man was saying to him but he couldn’t understand anything at all. His head pounds hard.
Something about… a dangerously large order of massive enchiladas and tempura-fried chicken lobster.
Or.
No, that couldn’t be it.
Maybe it was about something else.
Maybe a dangerous enlarged mass encroaching in on his eye sockets in his frontal lobe moving into his temporal lobe.
Maybe....hmmmmmm.
Whatever. He couldn’t hear the White Coat man properly.
His head was pounding hard and he felt scared and nervous as they wheeled him past a red line. He had never felt those strange set of feelings before, and that scared him more.
“Breathe deeply.” Another strange person said, wearing a green, extremely uncomplimentary long jacket and a big purple mask with large purple gloves. They put a strange mask on his face, like the ones from the Black Plague only this one is smaller and clear.
It smells almost like when he used to sniff his mother’s rainboots in secret when he would hide in the closet during an after-homeschool game of Hide and Seek.
She always agreed to play when his friends didn’t want to come over.
He did as the doctor said.
He breathed the stinky air in deeply and hoped for the best, if he didn’t even know what ‘the best’ was.
Which he doesn’t, by the way.
And, he would never figure it out.
As he laid in the bright light room Atticus knew he would never know what “right” truly means.
Right is right where he is right now.
Him, as just him. He didn’t need to be anyone else. He is just him and nothing else.
The boy who dreamed.
Atticus Merriweather.
The end.
Epilogue:
Atticus survived his stage 4 temporal and frontal lobe brain tumor removal surgery and went on to move back home to live with his father, Atticus Merriweather SR and continued his path to self-improvement by joining a “Manifest Your Dream Life” course he found on the internet made by what may be an artificial intelligence professor. He has made many true friends since then, or so he thinks they are, on social media. Facebook, Instagram, TikTok, Character AI, FriendAI, and such so apps. He has found genuine happiness in volunteering as a Teacher’s Assistant for Ms. Kenderson’s eighth grade English class.
…
Atticus’s Backstory:
In his younger days, Merriweather's teachers described him as a ‘quite a very sneaky boy indeed’. He was always getting into trouble, such as stealing extra bananas from the lunch room to put the peels outside the principle’s door.
Naughty Atticus!
Read the companion piece, Atticus, Explained