Written by Lazy Chestnut
Based on some situations originated by James Cameron.

Cal stumbled towards his sleek black Marquette, a new model. He might have to sell it soon; the recent crash in the stock market had hit his interests. Hard. He laughed for no reason as he fell into the back seat. His driver, Coleman, shut the door behind him with a snap and started up the car. His spine was stiff; he had been waiting outside in the cold for hours now, waiting for his employer to finish up his business. Coleman detested the red light district; the low-lives there had given him trouble before, and all Mr. Hockley had done about it was give him a handgun and instructed him to show it to anyone meaning harm. Meanwhile, Mr. Hockley would disappear into speakeasies or brothels or opium dens, submerging himself in the banned drink or women of fallen virtue or the intoxicating Chinese drug. It was for this reason that Coleman was going to give his two weeks notice the next day.

Cal, for his part, was indeed drunk, but he was still in full possession of his faculties. He knew precisely where he was and how late it was and where he was going and what he would do once he came home. He groaned and sat up, resting his head in his hands. The whiskey was already affecting him.

"Home, sir?" Coleman asked, praying his employer did not wish to visit another place of limited morals.

"Yes," Cal replied distractedly.

"Very good, sir," Coleman returned, glad to be going.

The ride home was torturous for Cal. The knowledge that his wealth was running out frightened him as nothing had before, not even that damned ship they had claimed was unsinkable. All of his life, he had used money to demonstrate his power, to get whatever he wanted. His money was everything; what would his two ex-wives and current wife and his children do without it? Even though he had spited Violet for divorcing him, he still cared for her more than he was willing to admit to even himself. What if his wealth ran out entirely? Would she be thrown out onto the streets, along with their children? And his children with Gemma--would their stepfather be able to support them? Cal wasn’t particularly in love with his current wife, Alexandra, but he still hated to imagine her in a life other than the glitzy, glamorous life she had with him.

All of his life, Cal had done everything in his power to top his saint-like older brother, Nathan Hockley II, and prove his worth to his now-deceased parents. Nathan had bested him at everything for most of their lives; he had been older and therefore first in line to the Hockley fortune. Nathan had never been caught doing anything bad; Cal always had. Cal hadn’t been allowed to marry until Nathan did. It was a waste in any case; Nathan’s wife, Emily, had delivered a stillborn child, and the subsequent work the doctor had performed to save her life had prevented her from having any children ever again. That had been Cal’s shining moment; he had heirs to their enormous fortune, something his brother would never be able to provide unless he divorced Emily and remarried. That had never happened, just as Cal predicted; Nathan was too much in love with his wife to ever consider leaving her.

From that moment on, Cal had taken his brother’s place as the favorite of Nathan and Eleanor Hockley. He had showcased his beautiful Gemma at all the parties and cotillions and took their sons on outings, making sure he was in the papers often. And then, one day, she found out about Violet. Violet was his mistress, a woman born in a small mining town he had never heard of. She adored him and had given birth to his son a year before Gemma had found out about them. The arguments that ensued after Gemma’s discovery of Violet led to a divorce after the birth of their third child and only daughter, Amelia.

"Now you can marry your whore!" Gemma had spat at him as she left court the day the divorce was finalized.

But Cal did not marry Violet. She was a common woman, a whore of sorts who had already borne his illegitimate child. He couldn’t marry her. And so he searched for a new wife. There were plenty of willing women; his wealth had earned him fame, and many of the eligible ladies of society were highly attracted to it. They all bored Cal; they were all the same. All except for Rose DeWitt Bukater. She wasn’t like the others; she didn’t want him. She was impossible to please; a challenge Cal more than readily took up. Her mother, Ruth, seemed to adore Cal, and before long, Rose was wearing his enormous ring for all the world to know that she was his.

And then that Dawson fellow came along. Dawson had seduced his lovely Rose, tricked her into thinking that he could offer more than Cal ever could. He had loved Rose, he truly had. He wasn’t trying to be a villain; he wanted to protect his possessions, especially Rose. He had never forgiven Dawson for taking Rose with him on the Titanic when he died. Cal had hoped to reconcile with Rose after she had realized the Dawson fellow was nothing but trouble for her, but there had simply not been time for that. Cal drank himself into a three-day depression when the Carpathia docked.

After that, there was only one reasonable thing for Cal to do; he married Violet Parker and ignited a storm of gossip. If people had thought John Jacob Astor’s marriage to Madeleine Force was scandalous, it was nothing compared to Cal’s marriage. They told everyone that their son, Johnny, was Violet’s son from a previous marriage that she was now widowed from, but that Cal was adopting him as his own. People had sympathized with Cal, defending him with the excuse that the loss of his beloved fiancée had torn him up and led him to wed a common woman with no tangible wealth, save what Cal had given her. He lived a good life for awhile; he was still able to spend time with his three children by Gemma and he was married with children to his long-term mistress.

And then he had hit Sarah. He hadn’t meant to hit her; it was just that she was so loud and he had an enormous headache. She had been begging him to play with her, and no matter what, he just couldn’t shake her off. And so, without thinking, his hand had flown on its own. Violet had walked in then, holding Christine’s hand and promising to take her to the park later. She had stopped short at the sight of Cal, his hand still in the air, standing over their sobbing seven-year-old. She had filed for divorce when she discovered that he had hit Amelia a few times as well. Society whispered as the papers were signed and the annulment finalized. Violet had humiliated Cal, had left him heartbroken and angry.

He declined after that. His children avoided him when they could; he had taken to drinking, despite Prohibition, and did little to restrain his temper anymore. Gemma, the first woman he had ever really loved, remarried and had a child with her new husband, a man who Cal knew to possess far less wealth than he. Violet had given birth to a daughter, Jenny, eight months after the divorce; a daughter she had not told Cal about and whom he had no custody over whatsoever. His father died, leaving his fortune to Nathan instead of Cal. Nathan and Emily, who had never been overly fond of Cal, ignored him completely and refused to acknowledge him after hearing accounts of him from their nieces and nephews. Cal’s baby sister, Vivian, gave up on any hope of salvaging him.

And then one day, Cal had woken up in a hospital; he had been hurt in a fight outside of a speakeasy and had almost lost his life from the knife injury he received in his stomach. During his recovery, Cal cleaned up his act and sought to mend the severed ties to his family. His mother was a trusting woman and truly believed her son had seen the error of his ways and would never drink or womanize or hit a child again. Nathan and Emily agreed to acknowledge him again, and even Vivian decided that there was hope for him yet. He spoiled his children rotten and did everything in his power to win over their affections again. It worked for the boys; the girls were still reluctant to spend time with him.

At a yacht party, Cal was introduced to Alexandra Pascal. She was from a well-to-do family of French origin, fifteen and absolutely beautiful. She was not impressed by Cal at first; she had heard of the Hockley Curse; supposedly, any woman involved with Caledon Hockley ended badly. His mother was widowed, his sister and sister-in-law were unable to have children, he had divorced a wife, been divorced by another, he had lost his fiancée on a sinking ship and his own daughters avoided him. But her parents opened her eyes to the opportunities that came with such a match, and Alexandra was dazzled by his wealth. And so, less than a year after meeting, they were married.

Alexandra was no Gemma and she was no Rose and she was no Violet. Cal grew bored with her faster than he had become bored with any woman and he had turned to the red light district quickly. Alexandra bothered him; she did not love him as Gemma and Violet had loved him, and he had never loved her. It was a marriage of convenience; he had married her so he wouldn’t have to look like an unmarried fool and she had married him for his money, which was now running out.

Coleman pulled up in front of the house and helped his employer inside.

"Where have you been?!" Alexandra demanded to know from the stairs, tying her robe. Her hair was not yet tousled; she had been waiting up for him.

"It doesn’t matter," he told her brusquely, pushing past her towards his study.

"No, I suppose your drinking and affairs have nothing to do with your wife," she said shrilly; at the age of eighteen, she was already turning into a termagant.

"Go to bed, Alexandra," he said wearily, going into his study.

She hurled a slipper at him. It bounced off his back. "I am your wife!" she screamed; she would wake up the whole household. "Don’t I matter? You promised to love me and honor me until death do us part!"

"I do love you and honor you!" Cal snapped. "Now, leave me be. I have some business to finish up."

"What, didn’t get your money’s worth out of your tramp?" Alexandra hissed. She whirled on her heel and stormed up the stairs; she had fallen into the Hockley Curse and she intended to divorce Cal if he kept this up much longer.

Cal, meanwhile, had closed the door behind him and sat down at the desk. He pulled out an envelope he had buried in his desk drawer, along with the small silver handgun. There was nothing left for him now; no loving wife, no adoring children; just a cold girl young enough to be his daughter living in his house and soaking up his wealth and children and ex-wives who hated him. Not even the money he still had could comfort him now. He read over the letter one more time before setting it down carefully. He turned the handgun over in his hands. An old poem he had learned years ago came to mind, a poem he and his schoolmates had often recited after getting tipsy in their Harvard days. He paused before reciting it once more.

Good people all, of every sort,
Give ear unto my song;
And if you find it wondrous short,
It cannot hold you long.
In Islington there was a man,
Of whom the world might say
That still a godly race he ran,
When e’er he went to pray.
A kind and gentle heart he had,
To comfort friends and foes;
The naked every day he clad,
When he put on his clothes.
And in that town a dog was found,
As many dogs there be,
Both mongrel, puppy, whelp and hound,
And curs of low degree.
This dog and man at first were friends;
But when a pique began,
The dog, to gain some private ends,
Went and bit the man.
Around from all the neighboring streets
The wondering neighbors ran,
And swore the dog had lost his wits,
To bite so good a man.
The wound it seemed both sore and sad
To every Christian eye;
And while they swore the dog was mad,
They swore the man would die.
But soon a wonder came to light,
That showed the rogues they lied:
The man recovered of the bite,
The dog it was that died.

Cal chuckled, making a low sound in the back of his throat. "The dog it was that died indeed." He paused before writing down more instructions in the letter; who better to deliver his eulogy than Oliver Goldsmith? A more fitting eulogy than the Elegy could not be found. When this had been done, Cal placed the letter back into its envelope, picked up the gun, and eased it into his dry mouth. He quivered as he cocked it. "The dog it was that died," he mumbled around the gun.

Caledon Hockley put a pistol in his mouth.

The man recovered of the bite,
The dog it was that died.

The End.

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