Oliver Benjamin
“In the end, yes.”
“But why? Why destroy the very thing you’re trying to take over?”
“Come on, my darling. I didn’t destroy it. Just the opposite. Some
stores are damaged, sure. A few lives were even lost. But look what
we’ve gained! People used to think of Biddenbrooks as an oppressive
monopoly, an overly-rich, imperialistic organization that helped
oppress the poor. Now look at it. It’s a symbol for freedom and
goodness in the face of a chaotic world. It’s the embattled underdog!
Now everyone loves it! Insurance will help us rebuild our stores, but
our image is already rebuilt. And image is everything. You should
know that, you who’ve chased meretricious women. I’m not offering
you a business, Roy. I’m offering you a kingdom of coffee. Reborn.
Far greater than anything Undergrounds could have been. Isn’t that
what you’ve always wanted?”
“I never wanted a kingdom. I just wanted a little garden. A
perfect one.”
“Think bigger,” she said.
“That has always been my mistake. Get out of here Leona.”
“Roy,” she fumed, “This is your last chance.”
“There are no more chances for me,” he pounded his chest,
trembling, “Everything I’ve touched has turned to shit.”
She stepped forward to embrace him, but he pushed her away.
She tried again more forcefully, but he slipped her grasp. Gradually
her affection turned more fierce until it was indistinguishable from
hatred. She clawed at his face, tore his shirt, roared in indignation
until the guards stepped in and pulled her away from the unwilling
object of her desire.
She stood there panting, staring him down, waiting for the hint
of a change, but there was only hatred in his eyes. It was not what
she expected at all. She had thought herself the hero. No one was ever
the villain in their own epic. Not rapists, murderers, lovers, terrorists
or businessmen. They just did what they had to within the context of
their own story. But suddenly her own story did not make sense.
She pulled away from the guards, charging towards the door,
pounding it with fists, bursting outwards. The heat out there. The
dry, inhuman desert.
She trod the snaky lanes in reinforced heels and steel-belted
radials, flying down boulevards. The lights meant little to her. She
was colorblind with anger and a fresh lack of context. Waved fists and
fingers flashed in her mirror, gesticulations of wrath.
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