Hello, readers.
How are you coping in the heat? I’m not doing so well, myself.
Around the middle of last week, I moved into the fridge, which is where I’m typing this from. It’s alright, for the most part. The peas don’t give me no trouble, frozen mash keeps to itself, usually. The fish fingers, on the other hand, are uppity little fuckers.
Today’s story comes to us from ‘Literotica’, and is by ‘LadyReedzAlot’, a name clearly chosen to invoke superstar Seattle-based rap-man Sir Mix-a-lot. Which is why I’m not going to mention him.
Shite.
***
I am in love with a wonderful man, and he doesn’t love me, but in 24 hours he will be my husband. Isn’t that always the case in these stories? I digress, maybe I should start at the beginning.
This opening doesn’t work. At all.
Firstly, when she says ‘isn’t it always the case?’, it’s not clear what she’s referring to. If she means there’s always a marriage exactly 24 hours away, then no. If she means there’s always a woman protagonist suffering from unrequited love for a man, also no. The more popular literary trope had always been the reverse.
If that bit doesn’t work, the ‘I digress…’ part doesn’t, either, because it relies on a shared piece of knowledge (what kind of story this is) that the author hasn’t managed to communicate to us.
Lillian Rodgers is my best friend in the world, and her twin brother, Ian, my future husband hates me.
‘Rodgers’. There’s a name you don’t often see outside of 70′s sex comedies.
Growing up, I never fit in my environment. Why? Simple, I was a black inner-city kid forced to leave with white people.
But where did you go? And who forced you to leave?
(Facetious pedants like me are exactly why you should always spellcheck before you hit ‘publish’)
It was actually a joke at the prep school I attended, as I was known as the Fresh Princess of Bellaire.
You mis-spelled the one worthwhile thing Will Smith ever did.
How does an underprivileged chick from Chicago South Side end up sitting and socializing with Chicago’s children of elite. How the hell do I know? Seriously, my parents were scholarship students at Harvard Law.
You just answered your own question. And not in a way that seems like you’re aware of it.
Good, right? Wrong.
*gasp* Not wrong!
Instead of working for prestigious law firms that would pay them hundreds of thousands of dollars, they chose to go back to hood to help the poor and the disenfranchised. Noble, right. True, I was proud of them, but nobility does not pay the bills.
It could.
I mean, what’s to stop them from taking the high paying jobs, and then putting their money into community support programs? It would probably help a lot more than whatever they’re doing now.
However, on the other hand, they had some powerful and rich colleagues.
Who could also help.
My mother’s best friend was one, and my Aunt Monica was a cool play-aunt. She would take me on shopping sprees at the beginning of every school year to make sure that I had the latest fads, and her payment from my mama was one homemade sweet potato pie.
Oh, that can’t not be slang for something dirty.
Aunt Monica loved those things, and loved my mother like a sister that neither of them had.
Well, when I was sixteen years old, my parents were killed in an car accident by a teenager. There was no liquor involved, just an unfortunate accident. In their will, Aunt Monica received custody of me until my eighteen birthday. She also was authorized to released my college fund and monitored it through my college years.
One thing this story does have: Pacing.
Most fuck tales (A-Woo-oo!) would have telegraphed who the main character was going to have sex with by now. I’m still guessing.
I was lucky, Aunt Monica loved me like her beloved niece and daughter, but she refused to let me graduate from my old high school and placed in a preparatory school where the minority percentage was below two percent. I say two percent because there were two black students in each grade.
There were exactly 100 children in each grade?
Was that also the number of times a day your Principal washed his hands?
I say below because I was the only one in my class.
You didn’t!
You did not say ‘below’!
Then I met my best friend. Lillian. Her twin brother, Ian attended this school as well. So what you say.
This is why punctuation is important. With it, that last sentence is a question. Without it, she’s Borat.
Yeah, I get you, but Ian was the teenager that was in the wreck with my parents. Our first meetings was not at school, but my parents’ funeral. I was touched by their presence because it really was a freak accident that wasn’t anyone’s fault, but they did not shy away from the heartfelt responsibility. In fact, their parents, Miriam and Robert Rodgers III grieved this tragedy as much as Aunt Monica and I did.
Robert Rodgers the Third. Wow.
Have you met his friends?
Bob Shaftington? Fred Glans? Pole McBeeflong?
They knew it could have easily been Ian in a coffin as well, and his life was spared, primarily, according to the police due to the my father’s driving. As a result, they wanted to ensure that I was taken care as well as their children. Of course, the Rodgers were everything that I wasn’t: very rich and very white, but they were also the kindest people I ever met.
You would think that when Mr. Rodgers told my Aunt Monica that he wanted to secure my future like his own children, he meant a trust fund. Good you say, he appeased his conscious and everybody goes home, right? Wrong.
Not wrooong!
Mr. Rodgers met with my Aunt Monica and me one month after the funeral. My Aunt Monica was rich, but the Rodgers was so rich, you did not say the word, rich, you whispered it. As we did, when we walked into the mausoleum, they called home.
They may not be in the right place, but at least she now has commas.
The butler escorted us to his library for the meeting.
“Olivia, once again, my family offer my deepest condolences. Please have a seat, both of you. ” Mr. Rodgers stood and greeted us as we were led into the room. Miriam was seated on the sofa with us, and another man was seated at large ornate desk in the room.
“That’s his entire job.” said Mr. Rodgers, gesturing to the man behind the desk. “We pay him to do that.”
“Thank you again, Mr. Rodgers. I appreciate you arranging everything so my aunt and I did not have to.”
Their kindness still astounded me, because white people at this echelon of society was supposed to hate blacks, but I didn’t feel anything except inclusion and love. Yep, love.
Is this set in the forties?
“The reason, Miriam and I asked you both here is to ensure that all your needs are taken care on all levels. You will have everything that my children have, even up to the same trust fund.”
Lillian and Ian walked into the room. Their responses were different, Ian’s head stayed down and he wouldn’t look at me, but Lillian smiled at me and her eyes showed compassion. Who are these weird people?
Yes, what an utter freak Lillian is, feeling compassion for the recently bereaved.
“As I was saying, this family is committed to your happiness, since we were apart of its destructions and… “
“Mr. Rodgers, I read all the reports, and I don’t blame your family for my loss. Thank you, but my parents provided for my future and my Aunt Monica will give me love and wisdom to guide the rest of the way.” I tell them.
Aunt Monica, gonna jump in at any point, here? No?
Just gonna let the not-adult handle this emotionally and intellectually complex situation all on her own? Alright.
“Thank you for generosity, dear, but in our hearts, you are now one of my children. Miriam and I wanted to ensure this. Lillian and Ian have a 35 million dollar trust that will be released to them on their twenty five birthday, you will have a similar trust fund as well.
I couldn’t believe it. I looked at Aunt Monica, but she was crying at my good fortune. That’s why, I am not a racist, because I knew that nobody outside of my parents loved me like her.
What?
Being racist involves making ignorant and incorrect assumptions about people based on their ethnicity. Whether or not you also love someone has nothing to do with that, and it’s frankly baffling you felt the need to bring that up.
She has fiery red hair, and sea green eyes, and under her fashionable make-up, freckles for days.
“She also has creamy white skin, a trait that affects my opinion of her NOT A SINGLE JOT.”
“There are stipulations, you, Lillian and Ian must follow before the funds are released.”
Stipulation is that a fancy word for “catch”. I knew it was too good to be true, and looking at Aunt Monica’s smirk, she did too.
Ah, Aunt Monica.
Sweet, wise, caucasian Aunt Monica.
“Due to the nature of the accident, Ian is now responsible for your protection.” What?!!? Another sixteen year old is responsible for the protection of another sixteen year old. Yeah, right. Told ya, they are kind and crazy. Kinda crazy. Mr. Rodgers continued speaking.
“Before the trust fund is released to either of you three, Ian will have to marry you on his twenty-fifth birthday and stay married to you for five years . If you two do not marry, all trust funds, including Lillian’s will be reverted back to my estate, and upon the death of Miriam or I, whoever expires last, the family fortune will be divided among various charities and you three get nothing. If you and Ian meet the stipulations, all three of you will divide six billions dollars equally, along with all family holdings. Also, on your thirtieth birthday, an additional seventy five millions will be released from the estate to you three.”
This is Brewster’s fucking Millions, if Richard Pryor had a vagina.
And an agenda.
A vagenda, if you will.
Also, “six billions dollars”. Mr Rodgers apparently has the mind of a four-year-old.
All persons in the room was shocked into total silence. Everyone, except Mr. and Mrs. Rodgers and Ian. Thank goodness for my aunt.
“Say what? An arranged marriage, Mr. Rodgers. Are you serious?”
“We are most definitely serious, Ms. Larson. I want these three to be a family. I want every aspect of their lives to impact one another. Olivia lost her parents, now she will have new parents, a sister and a husband.
Not entirely clear why he couldn’t just be a brother.
These people seem to have heard ‘Sexual Healing’ and taken it literally.
I know that Ian was not at fault for the accident, but his disobedience caused him to be at the wrong place at the wrong time.
So in a purely philosophical sense, it kind of was his fault.
Chaos theory, dickface.
All investigations including my own shows that her father sacrifice himself and his wife for Ian, so equal retribution demands that Ian sacrifice his life for their daughter.”
I may be wrong, but I think mortal sacrifices actually stopped being legally blinding quite a while ago.
“This is totally crazy, Olivia. Baby Girl, I know that you are only sixteen, and you have about nine years before this becomes a reality. You will have to make this decision, and I will support you.”
WHO’S TALKING?
“Mr. Rodgers, I appreciate your kindness, your son’s protection is not necessary. So if I turn down the trust fund, then your children will not get their trust funds either, is that correct?”
“You are correct, young lady.”
“That’s not fair! They had nothing to do with anything, especially your daughter.” I shouted, forgetting that I was home-trained better than this, but this shit was crazy, wouldn’t you agree?
“Home-trained”. Like a dog.
That’s some interesting self-image you’ve got there.
But yes, by all means. Shit is totally crazy.
“This is not about fairness, Olivia,” spoken softly as if I was a child. Hell, I was. “This is about responsibility and commitment. These two and you will run my conglomerate one day, and you all have to have personal investment in one another. Run it together, or lose it together. Lillian and Ian are already informed on this condition as well, and have agreed.”
I do love the classic kajillionaire’s assumption that just because they run a massive company, their children will also be remotely qualified to.
As we all know, business savvy is genetic.
I looked at my “family” that will be legally held together by a trust, and I verbally agreed. I observed the actions of my “sister” and my “husband”. Lillian’s eyes reflected compassion, and heavenly thoughts.
Fuck off, Doyle. We don’t like your kind here.
In my mind, that made sense, she was a perfect depiction of white people’s angel, blond hair flowing down her back, and crystal blue eyes and porcelain skin. Ian was the direct opposite of the spectrum. Ebony hair, dark tanned skin and green eyes, burning red from unshed tears directed at me with anger and disapproval. What’s his problem? I’m the one without my parents. I’m the one trying to save his inheritance, why does he hate so much?
I don’t know.
But hopefully, when we eventually do find out, there’ll be even more rhetorical questions.
***
Aaand that’s the end. Seems this is a multi-parter.
One that I think we’ll be following.
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- Alex
