Chapter 210: The Gift

Chapter 210

The Gift

“Do you believe in Satan?”

The question hung, long. Too long. Tom turned on the carpet. This was a yes or a no.

Melvyn Boyle- President of Star Oil, self-control, redundancy- bubble in his seat like a volcano shy of overflow. He was behind the desk in the building’s visitor center, a small conference room off the lobby. Tom, standing, take a breath.

“Do you believe in sacrifice, Mr. Boyle? Have you ever smeared the blood of an animal on your naked body? The blood of a virgin? Have you ever taken part in ritualistic sacrifice?”

Worse crimes- and their criminals- were rolling through Atari’s mind: Standard Oil, US Steel, AT&T & IBM... but he had to take his time, had to take the kids to school the long way. He hated this man sitting at the table in the visitor’s center, this Melvyn Boyle, insulated and contained, a basket of fruit on the wood between them. Boyle’s fat face sat smooth as a grapefruit.

“Why don’t we talk brass tacks? I know about mind control. I know about Von Braun and Operation Paperclip.” Tom leaned down. “I know about Project Geronimo.”

A drop of sweat fell down Melvyn’s face, irresistible, undeniable. Tom would consider it his first real victory.

Boyle shook it off, sitting back in the comfortable chair, Meredith Daily still howling outside, her arm like a boa after breakfast, purple lump making its way to her elbow, her glossy lips vowing revenge as she was loaded into ambulance.

Philanthropy [fi-lan-thruh-pee] (n.) penance for financial, cultural and agricultural devastation

Melvyn Boyle swallowed the sweat, savoring the taste, cannibalistic, his days spent handing out checks to help wallpaper the city he had almost single-handedly destroyed. He was a good man- now- giving back, after taking steps to enslave every man, woman and child in town. He had sold humanity's future for a chance to build a pyramid... and the presidents of oil corporations were not used to this level of honesty.

Tom Atari, you’re in too deep.

The two men standing behind Boyle- twins? clones?- were not bothered by any conversation thus far. They stood in blank faces, matching suits, weapons evident, at attention and ready to kill, which was just fine with Tom: he was ready to die. 

Melvyn smiled, wasting an inhale, “Mr. Atari, do you really think-”

“Let's go to the photographs.” Tom went to his breast pocket, tossing an envelope onto the desk. Boyle took it, opened, shuffled the snapshots left and right, a mixture of pride and shame, a flipbook of him fucking a five year-old, drinking the blood of a goat, and some truly disturbing images as well. He closed the envelope, hadn’t seen a thing.

Melvyn, surprising, confirming his acquaintance with the Dark Lord by asking Tom, “What do you want?”

Tom picked up the present he'd brought- wrapped pretty. “I'm here as a messenger: Your little parties are over. Your lock on this city and the people that live here... that's all over, too. I'll fight you to the last beat of my heart... and I'll win. If you think the Devil is powerful then you’ve never dealt with God.”

Melvyn, flat as horizon: "Is that so?"

Tom, warm, placed the gift on the table. Boyle looked up, confused, then began to unwrap, pudgy kid at a birthday party bored.

The rattlesnake sprung out of the box and uncoiled on the desk, knocking the can of pencils onto the floor.

Boyle kicked back, the wheels of the chair buckling as he rolled back, one of them popping off and sending him tumble him to the carpeted floor.

The bodyguards didn’t move a muscle as the rattlesnake made maraca- inches from one of the wealthiest and most powerful men in the world.

Tom laughed, uncommon sweet in Sick City, plucking a green apple from the basket of fruit and taking a bite. Boyle eyed the viper, paralyzed.

Tom left the office, chewing, "Tell your friends," Melvyn Boyle on the floor, face to face with the serpent.
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