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Project 30, Chapter 16 |
| Written by Project 30 | |
| Wednesday, 06 August 2008 | |
Chapter 16 - Brandon Scott
The clock on the radio read 6:04 as I parked my Jeep Wrangler behind the line of vehicles on the circular driveway in front of the mansion.
That was me: fashionably, chronically late.
I checked myself in the rearview mirror and exited the Jeep. As I walked up to the front doors of the mansion, I noticed a lack of decoration and flair that usually accompanies a party. I had expected balloons and banners on the outside and blaring music, dancing girls, and cold kegs of malted beverages on the inside. This was obviously not one of those parties. Perhaps I should have worn a tie.
I made my way up the stairs to the front door and was about to ring the doorbell when the door opened for me. I stepped inside and was immediately greeted by a short man in a black tuxedo, standing ramrod straight, holding the door open for me.
"Mr. Scott, I presume," he said in a thick English accent. "The other guests are waiting for you in the sitting room. This way, please."
I suppressed a grin, amused at his clichéd butler-ish ways. If he told me his name was Jeeves, Chesterfield, or Worthington, it wouldn't have surprised me a bit.
I was led into the sitting room, where everyone was sitting around sipping drinks from bourbon glasses and glancing awkwardly at each other.
"Mr. Scott has arrived," announced the butler.
I walked meekly into the sitting room and took a seat in a chair next to a Victorian-looking fireplace. As I looked around the room at the other guests, I began to try to figure out who each one was in relation to his or her profile on Storiesville. A younger teen seated beside me sipping a dark amber colored beverage stood out of the crowd, and I assumed that this was the ever-popular Max Booth III.
"Vould you like a drink, monsieur Scott?"
This voice from beside me and to my right startled me out of my name-to-face guessing game. I looked over to see a lovely blond lass in a skimpy French maid outfit standing beside me.
"Uh, yeah, uh, I'll have a rum and coke, thanks," I stammered.
She began to walk away toward the hallway from which I had just entered, when a dried leaf on the floor caught her attention. She bent over to retrieve it, and her short black skirt climbed ever farther. Startled and somewhat embarrassed, I glanced quickly over at the teenager. He looked at me with a large grin and nodded his head with approval. This was definitely Max.
The maid, not noticing the entertainment she was providing, walked off with the leaf in her hand.
Less than two minutes later, she was back with my drink. As I took a sip, Butler Billingsworth, or whatever he was called, stepped through the threshold.
"Dinner is served, if you will all follow me into the dining hall," he declared.
One by one, we got up from our seats and followed the butler into the dining room. As we entered the room, each of us gasped and muttered under our breath in amazement. A massive fireplace, almost cave-like, assumed the majority of the far wall, save for a doorway leading to another room, presumably a kitchen. From the ceiling hung a giant crystal chandelier, which was suspended above a long table. A white tablecloth ran the length of the table, and candlesticks stood as sentinels every couple of feet the entire way down.
A quick count told me that there were thirty-one place settings on the table, and at each setting was a neatly wrapped package, as well as a name card on each plate. We began our walk around the table, each of us searching for our name card. I found mine farther down the table, six seats from the head.
Each of us seemed to be most interested in the package that was set beside our plate. For each of us there was a box, the lid held neatly in place by a ribbon of a color different from that of the box. The only difference between the boxes was the color. My box was a deep blue color, with a gold ribbon holding the lid on. As with everyone else's gift, the top of my box held the ends of the ribbon, which were tied in a beat bow.
Questions flowed around the room in whispers, like the breeze being passed from one tree to another. What's in the boxes? Can we open them? Were we supposed to bring gifts? Is this a birthday party?
"Allow me to answer your questions: yes, you each get a present; yes, you may open them; no, you weren't supposed to bring a gift; and no, it's not anyone's birthday."
All heads turned toward the entry to the doorway by the fireplace, where stood a tall, bald man in a tuxedo. Without the giveaway signs that always come with a head of hair, his age could range anywhere from thirty to fifty.
"However, before your curiosity gets the best of you," he continued, "please allow me to first introduce myself. My name is Bruce Rouleau, Administrator for StoriesVille dot com. You may call me Admin."
We all gasped at this revelation. Some of us had been members of the world famous site for years now, and some for only a few months, but we all had ideas and dreams of what the most powerful man in StoriesVille looked like. Now we were meeting him face-to-face.
As we gazed star struck upon the countenance of the one and only Admin, the French maid and the butler went around the table, setting champagne glasses in front of us and filling them with highly carbonated spirits. They set the last glass in front of Admin, filled it, and exited the room.
"Go ahead, please, open your gifts," said Admin, who seemed to be as excited about us opening our gifts as we were.
We pulled the bows off and opened the lids in unison. Gazing down into my small box, I pulled out a folded piece of paper. Upon unfolding it, I found it to be a map, with a big red "X" drawn off center toward the upper left hand corner.
Bewildered, I looked around the room at the other guests and their gifts. A flashlight, a ping-pong ball, a paperback copy of Shakespeare's Julius Caesar, a gift certificate to Wally's Water World, an antique butter dish, and other curious items were pulled out of boxes and being inspected.
"I know that you all have a lot of questions," began Admin, "and I promise that I will explain the significance of each item and how it relates to the other items received in the group. I will also explain how these seemingly ordinary objects are going to send you on an adventure that will change your lives, and how I selected each one of you from the website to be with me here tonight to share in this fascinating moment. All of this I will do after dinner. But first, let me propose a toast."
Admin stood up and raised his glass. Each of us raised our glass in synch with his.
"To StoriesVille; to the power of words; to the next 48 hours, which will be the most amazing 48 hours you will ever have; and to the greatest writers of the century, which have gathered with me here tonight. Cheers!"
"Cheers!" we echoed, and took a mouthful of champagne.
Suddenly, Admin dropped his glass and began grabbing and clawing at his throat. As he dropped to his knees, his face turned bright red, and then purple. Blood began to pour out of his nose, mouth, and tear ducts. He fell to the floor, jerked around a couple of times, and then was still.
The party guests, horrified, spat out their drinks and began either screaming or wiping their tongues with their napkins before running to the aid of Admin. Everyone but me.
For as I sat there, mortified by what was happening to Admin, I unconsciously swallowed the champagne. Copyright 2008 Project 30 |
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