After a thorough scouring of the folios in Oscar's study, they decided on a perfectly depressing tale about a young handmaiden's attempts to poison herself over a period of two weeks to escape a life of abuse at the hands of her lord.
"It's a love story," said Oscar.
Then they set off, the old writer walking the streets in a dark suit with a girl young enough to be his granddaughter by his side. They followed the directions that had been scribbled on the slip of paper, arguing about the appropriate turns and the quality of the landmarks the Banks family had given him. Two and a half miles later, they found themselves in an obviously wealthy neighborhood, where most of the homes were several stories tall and adorned with Grecian columns. Behind one large house, a grotesque brick chimera of Victorian and Georgian architecture, the yard was covered in decorations and trampled beneath a mob of mostly white-clad children and adults.
Double-checking the address on the front of the house, they rounded its massive walls with heavy hearts and heavier feet, disappearing into a throng of people that silently watched and judged them as they passed.
"Mr. Bruges, I'm glad you could make it," said a man with perfect hair and perfect teeth.
"Mr. Banks?"
"That's me! And who might you be, young lady? Were you famous, too?" Mr. Banks asked with a mischievous grin and a particularly greedy look in his eyes.
"Not yet," Kate replied with a smile.
The grin disappointingly dissapated.
"Oh, well," he said, then wrapped an arm across Oscar's shoulders, to the old author's annoyance, drawing him away in the pretense of a private conversation. Kate, of course, leaned towards them, listening in. "Now, then, I know we agreed upon the sum of five thousand, but I'd be willing to throw in an extra five hundred if you could change the name of one of your characters in your little story to Dakota."
Oscar raised his eyebrows.
"A tempting offer, Mr. Banks, but I'm not certain it would be appropriate for this story, not to mention the blow to my own artistic integrity."
Mr. Banks shrugged. "What about an extra thousand?"
"You have a deal, sir."
"Great! You're on in ten minutes," said the man, believing himself the ideal, perfect father as he walked away, his head held high.
"Wow, you are such a sell-out," said Kate, rejoining Oscar as he flipped through the stapled pages of his story, laughing quietly to himself.
"My dear, there are no sacred cows in this business, only the whims of the people who have all the money."
"The bruises on her wrist, the black marks of his fingertips against her porcelain flesh, stung as she stirred the final concoction. Her dinner consisted of a bit of stale bread and murky water, yet she applied the drops to both, desperate to hide any trace of poison from her tongue, if only to further convince herself that this was not her doing, not her own hand that destroyed her. He had managed that long ago.
"Thus Dakota," he continued, emphasizing the name, "supped for the final time and lay her wearied body on the cold stone floor, having at last found escape."
Once he finished, there was a faint ripple of applause from those who had given what they could of their attention. Kate alone clapped earnestly, and a few of the younger children stared at Oscar with looks of disbelief, wondering if they were the only ones who'd actually listened to what had been recited.
Mr. Banks reappeared, clapped Oscar on the shoulder, and handed him a check for six thousand dollars, which the writer accepted with a polite smile and nod.
"I can't believe you got away with that," said Kate as they began the walk back to Oscar's house, where they would again take to the study and return to work.
"Trust me, it becomes easier to believe every time."
The next morning, Oscar awoke in his bed. He felt around, just to be certain his eyes weren't playing tricks on him and that he wasn't actually lying in a field somewhere. With a sigh, he began his day as if it was any other, though he could not help but feel disappointed.
"It's a love story," said Oscar.
Then they set off, the old writer walking the streets in a dark suit with a girl young enough to be his granddaughter by his side. They followed the directions that had been scribbled on the slip of paper, arguing about the appropriate turns and the quality of the landmarks the Banks family had given him. Two and a half miles later, they found themselves in an obviously wealthy neighborhood, where most of the homes were several stories tall and adorned with Grecian columns. Behind one large house, a grotesque brick chimera of Victorian and Georgian architecture, the yard was covered in decorations and trampled beneath a mob of mostly white-clad children and adults.
Double-checking the address on the front of the house, they rounded its massive walls with heavy hearts and heavier feet, disappearing into a throng of people that silently watched and judged them as they passed.
"Mr. Bruges, I'm glad you could make it," said a man with perfect hair and perfect teeth.
"Mr. Banks?"
"That's me! And who might you be, young lady? Were you famous, too?" Mr. Banks asked with a mischievous grin and a particularly greedy look in his eyes.
"Not yet," Kate replied with a smile.
The grin disappointingly dissapated.
"Oh, well," he said, then wrapped an arm across Oscar's shoulders, to the old author's annoyance, drawing him away in the pretense of a private conversation. Kate, of course, leaned towards them, listening in. "Now, then, I know we agreed upon the sum of five thousand, but I'd be willing to throw in an extra five hundred if you could change the name of one of your characters in your little story to Dakota."
Oscar raised his eyebrows.
"A tempting offer, Mr. Banks, but I'm not certain it would be appropriate for this story, not to mention the blow to my own artistic integrity."
Mr. Banks shrugged. "What about an extra thousand?"
"You have a deal, sir."
"Great! You're on in ten minutes," said the man, believing himself the ideal, perfect father as he walked away, his head held high.
"Wow, you are such a sell-out," said Kate, rejoining Oscar as he flipped through the stapled pages of his story, laughing quietly to himself.
"My dear, there are no sacred cows in this business, only the whims of the people who have all the money."
***
"The bruises on her wrist, the black marks of his fingertips against her porcelain flesh, stung as she stirred the final concoction. Her dinner consisted of a bit of stale bread and murky water, yet she applied the drops to both, desperate to hide any trace of poison from her tongue, if only to further convince herself that this was not her doing, not her own hand that destroyed her. He had managed that long ago.
"Thus Dakota," he continued, emphasizing the name, "supped for the final time and lay her wearied body on the cold stone floor, having at last found escape."
Once he finished, there was a faint ripple of applause from those who had given what they could of their attention. Kate alone clapped earnestly, and a few of the younger children stared at Oscar with looks of disbelief, wondering if they were the only ones who'd actually listened to what had been recited.
Mr. Banks reappeared, clapped Oscar on the shoulder, and handed him a check for six thousand dollars, which the writer accepted with a polite smile and nod.
"I can't believe you got away with that," said Kate as they began the walk back to Oscar's house, where they would again take to the study and return to work.
"Trust me, it becomes easier to believe every time."
***
The next morning, Oscar awoke in his bed. He felt around, just to be certain his eyes weren't playing tricks on him and that he wasn't actually lying in a field somewhere. With a sigh, he began his day as if it was any other, though he could not help but feel disappointed.
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