Ichabod walks up the cobblestone drive toward his uncle's house. He raps on the door lightly. It isn't long before Ichy hears the soft thud of footsteps approaching the door. A click and a tap and the door comes open with a noiseless motion. There in the doorway is his uncle, a short, dark haired man in his early forties. His hair does not thin, and Ichabod knows this is due to constant treatments that cost him an arm and a leg to keep up with. Even his light goatee looks young and fresh, like that of a twenty year old. Only the slight wrinkles pulling at the corners of his mouth indicate his age.
How ya doin, Wayne?
Ichabod. Hmmm. What you want?
Only to talk, uncle, only to talk. May I come in?
I suppose. Take off your shoes.
Ichabod purposefully shakes the dirt out of his boots all over his uncle's rug before placing them beside the stoop. He steps in a with a great false smile on his face, looking around at his uncle's decadence. Ichy smirks knowing how his uncle got all of this. He had long ago learned the trade secrets of mixing the black market with the stock market, buying up large companies that he knew were destined to crumble after reading the Wall Street Journal, and then selling the shares with a Chesire Cat smile to street urchins--who knew nothing but the want of getting rich quick. The return? The street urchins were able to hook up with the uncle's connections--brokers, lawyers, factory owners, and big merchandise dealers who were itching for "the good shit." He sold stocks at outrages prices, nearly a hundred times higher than the dirt cheap prices he paid for the doomed papers, and when the company's profits plummeted, the dope pushers accepted it like it was all part of the game. Yes, Ichabod's uncle dealt with idiots. Idiots with a wad of dirty money to blow, and an itch for the big time that was the stock market. And how did he keep all these customers happy? Why, with the next crop of big business stock vouchers always ready of course.
Ya know, Ichabod, your aunt and I were divorced six years ago. We aren't family anymore.
Relax, Wayne. I just came to ask you a few questions. How does it feel to be elite?
Wayne's bored look suddenly turns to one of slight appreciation for his smart mouthed ex-nephew had never complimented him before. Ichabod, he felt, had always considered his eccentric ways to be a pox on their simple family.
Ichy! (he had never used the nickname before, and it disgusted Ichabod) I'm just good at what I do. The best really. The innovator and the pioneer in a business that no one else controls. If that is what you consider elite, then I guess I'm elite. And it feels damn good.
This is the answer Ichabod had wanted. His false admiring smile turns suddenly to a dangerous shit-eating grin and Wayne knows something is up.
Ya know, nothing gold stays, uncle. What is elite one day may be broken the next. You consider yourself elite because you think you are the best in the business. But you, like all other "elites," lull yourself into a false security, thinking that you are untouchable. Let me be the first to tell you, uncle, that you are not. There is always someone better, or some crazed psycho, or some drunk redneck son of a bitch waiting to take you out.
What the hell are you doing here, Ichabod? What do you want?
Only to send a message to the Elite of the world, old man. A message that their time is coming very soon.
With that, Ichabod produces a taser from seemingly nowhere. Wayne rolls his eyes, and pulls his pistol he always carries with him, even at home.
Very sad, Wayne. Even in your own ring you don't feel safe from those who would rebel against your power. Its too bad we were family, I know you so well now.
Wayne pulls the trigger and the hammer falls on nothing. His eyes grow very large and the red-streaked whites seem to take his entire face. Ichabod nods.
As I said, I know you too well. I already had that gun taken care of uncle. You never carry the same one twice, and thats your home gun. So when you left today, taking your car gun and your business gun, I removed the bullets in this one. Say goodbye, Wayne.
Ichabod attacks with the taser.
The shapes bobbing before him are all dark and out of focus. Wayne shakes his head a little and everything swims into view. Ichabod is gone, and Wayne realizes he is tied to a chair in his own kitchen. He begins to wriggle against the bonds, but he suddenly feels really lightheaded. The combination burnt egg and cabbage smell of natural gas fills the air. He looks over to see his gas range has been turned on full blast-all four burners and the oven, which has been left wide open. He turns his head in a panic as he notices the half a cigarette still burning in the ashtray in the next room.
As the flaming splinters finally stop falling on the neighbors houses and the street, Ichabod smiles while standing next to the Monster a block away.
Nothing gold stays, Triple X. Elite... broken... boom...
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