Jorge Bisous was about to make the biggest announcement of his life.
The oligarch’s plain-woven, beige linen robes fluttered at each turn as he paced the darkened stage wings, mouthing along with the introductory oration. All was well, until the slightest diminution of the scripted adulations caused him to halt in his arid perambulation.
Jorge tensed with rage. A decade of manicured, baby-soft toes splayed over the end of his sandals to grasp ineffectually at a speaker cable taped to the floor. However, lacking the grip strength of their great ancestors, the magnate’s toes succeeded only in wringing their clammy, fat faces against the impermeable barrier.
Jorge grit his teeth and took a step towards the stage, but stopped just short of the lights.
“Jesus Christ endured forty nights…” he whispered to himself. “What’s four more minutes?”
He took a deep breath to stifle his impetuous impulses, but his incorrigible rage had to go somewhere. It quickly fell upon his administrative assistant, Peter Enfield, who was nearby browsing on his smartphone.
“What are you doing, Enfield, pay attention!”
The gaunt, immaculately shaven gent barely glanced up from his device.
“Looking for a new job, sir.”
Jorge scoffed profoundly.
“Haven’t you listened to a word I’ve been saying – you won’t need to worry about money anymore after today! And here I assumed you were checking the headlines for me.”
“I’ll do it now, sir…”
“Well hurry up. Tell me what they’re saying!”
Enfield flicked his thumb across the laminate touchscreen, scrolling through tabloid headlines, reading them aloud as he went.
“Bisous Tanks Daintree Stock with Massive Selloff”
Jorge scoffed again. “Irrelevant. Continue…”
“Thousands Jobless After Fulfilment Centre Shutdowns”
“Pffft..!”
“Bisous Kisses His A$$ Goodbye… with dollar signs for the… uh, cheeks, sir.”
“Hah! As if…”
Bisous’ nearby head of security, mumbling into his clip-on, parsed the wing drapes with a finger. The momentary aperture revealed an auditorium bursting at capacity. Journalists, paid shills, opportunistic, low-level politicians, and token minority representatives stacked in front for the cameras – all were crammed in like a mob at a stoning, come to watch the wealthiest man in the world give it all away.
“Billionaire Oligarch Turns Faux-Religious Zealot… Narcissistic Loon Redistributes – shall I continue, sir?”
“Aren’t any of them using our seeded phrase?” Bisous spat.
Enfield shrugged. “Only the indie sites we paid directly.”
“Bastards! Everyone wants something for nothing these days.”
“They do, sir.”
“Don’t exclude yourself from that now, Enfield. I’ve noticed your own productivity has dropped markedly since your contract expired!” Bisous jabbed at the touchscreen. “What’s that one?”
“A Friend To All Is A Friend To None: A Critique of Mass Charity Within a Competitive System Predicated on Scarcity by Design.”
“Ehhh… that’s a Taylor Swift line, isn’t it?
“Aristotle.”
“No, no – the headline. It’s definitely Taylor Swift. Maybe get yourself a music subscription with your dividend, Enfield. It’s important to keep on top of these things. Now, how’s my hair?”
“Impeccable, sir, as usual.”
“I meant from the back. Walk AROUND, Enfield!”
Peter took care not to trip over the wires and set boxes shaded by his former-employer’s modestly-sized, obnoxiously-clad figure. Little was discernible in the half-light, beyond his master’s spreading alopecia, although six years of service had obviously taught Peter Enfield better than to burden Jorge with the truth.
“Very good, sir…” he lied, impeccably. “…But I think it will soon be time for a shave, to balance the considerable… girth of your side-locks.”
“Don’t be an idiot. Christ wasn’t bald, was he? Even those barbarians out in whatsthatplacecalled painted him with hair. Always!”
There was a crackle from the security guard’s earpiece. He approached, and whispered:
“Sir… sighting of a possible Judas in the car park.”
“Well,” snapped Jorge. “What am I paying you for? Sort it out!”
The guard subtly nodded, and retreated back into the shadows as Jorge turned his back.
The introductory eulogy was reaching its climax. The orator had his hands in the air.
“Over fifty percent of the world’s wealth and resources are controlled by just twelve people. Tonight all that is going to change.”
(It was true, in a way – by tonight, they would be eleven.)
“This is the end,” said Jorge, triumphantly, re-draping the chasuble upon his shoulders, tugging at the ends to balance them. “They’re going to hate me for this. I’m breaking the system.”
“Are you though?” muttered Enfield.
“What do you mean?”
Jorge turned back around.
Enfield shrugged.
“Go on, spit it out. This may be the last chance you get before infamy places me out of reach of our little chats.”
“I mean,” said Enfield. “Aren’t you just perpetuating a cycle of petty narcissistic philanthropy that ultimately only serves to justify the hoarding of wealth by a marginal global elite?”
“Petty!?” Jorge sputtered. “Don’t be so ignorant. Others will follow my example. He who casts the first stone is without sin – don’t you know?”
“Say again?” whissht the security guard, visibly taken aback.
“I said – he who casts the first stone is without sin.”
But it wasn’t Jorge the guard had been speaking to. Momentarily he came running over.
“Sirs, I’ve just got word – there’s been a bomb threat.”
Any normal person might have been shocked to hear this news. Concerned, even, in the knowledge that their daughter and ex-wife were among those present in the audience. But not Jorge Bisous. A grin set upon his face like that of a child who had just caught Santa Claus coming down the chimney. He whispered one word: “Perfect!”
The other men stared at him in stunned silence as the canned applause began to play through the speakers.
“I knew they’d try to stop me,” said Jorge, checking the alignment of his crown of latex thorns in the reflected glare of Enfield’s smartphone. “You have six minutes. Prepare the side-exits for evacuation. I’ll make the announcement at the end of my speech.”
And with that he marched out on stage, T-posing.
“Did you actually just say, ‘bomb threat’?” Peter’s voice quivered beneath the fading applause.
Bodyguard Tony nodded. “My guys alerted on a suspicious briefcase unaccompanied in the lobby. Apparently there were some threatening tweets floating around too…”
Tony’s face was as stone, lips pressed together like a piece of paper wouldn’t slide through them.
“We should probably do something…?” urged Peter.
“Yeah… probably” said Tony.
Bisous speech continued as scripted, announcing the worldwide, equal re-distribution of his money to every man, woman and child.
“Eat of my wallet, drink of my liquid collateral. All that I am shall be given up for you.”
Peter grimaced. “There’s nothing on social media,” he said. “Any chance it’s a hoax?”
Tony shuddered, biting his lip. For a moment he looked himself like he was going to explode. Then he exhaled, and turned to Peter.
“Listen, I was only messing. My contract expired half an hour ago. I’m just waiting for a lift home.”
Enfield sighed. “You’re joking…” he said, though he was still too shocked to laugh about it. Bisous had already reached the end of his speech.
“Now,” Jorge said. “As is to be expected at the dawning of a new paradigm, there will always be naysayers; haters. Today is no different. The Pharisees have shown their hand, and, I regret I must hasten to inform you all, that there is a bomb in the auditorium.”
At the mention of the word, the audience began to stir and panic. Some screamed. Some ran for the exit. Others yet remained nervously in their seats, waiting for Bisous to accommodate them with a retraction of the alarm, which was not forthcoming.
“Jesus Christ…” said Peter. “I hope he at least paid his lawyer’s retainer.”
Tony just smiled, and said:
“So what are you gonna do with your $6.50?”