Atticus Merriweather’s Big F*cking Day
by RCW & OM
original copyright July 2026
peer reviewed by CW and JM
This is a satirical work of fiction not intended to hurt or harm. Names, characters, places and incidents in this story are products of the author’s imagination. Resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
July 9th, 1:13Pm
Atticus Merriweather Junior’s brain ricochets horridly throughout his superb skull.
Menacingly, he stalks across his huge Lot wearing Christian Louboutin Men's Greggo Patent Oxford shoes featuring White Gold & Diamond accents in colorway Feather-Heathered Grey. Atticus makes his way toward Spin A New Car Wheel game, ready to be done. Irritating meetings took up his morning.
He can’t wait to go to Apartment and listen to his favorite songs.
Atticus got new shoes with Papa, Atticus Merriweather Sr, III. His Treatie for enduring Boring Meetings before they begin.
The air is perfect. Moisture level scrumptious. Freshly-rained but sunny. Clouds in the blue skies covering the mean Sun. Gentle breeze. Atticus’s luxurious strawberry-scented salon hair brushes over his poreless forehead.
(He has a large stock of Lorél Kids leave-in foaming conditioner throughout various warehouses. He also gets biweekly anti-wrinkle injections, ensuring he doesn’t develop bad, grody-gross lines, same as Daddy Atticus Merriweather Senior (III) who has lots on lots on lots of those which are very very very bad.)
Atticus’s head throngs awfully. Prolly from those irritating meetings he’s endured lately on top of his smart thinking.
Nothing Atticus Merriweather The Best can’t handle!
Atticus can do no wrongs. Not now. Not ever. Not ever in all Time & Space. Mr. Merriweather Jr. quickly (and fashionably) slides Stefano Ricci Safari Crocodile Leather Sunglasses over beautifully stunning Atlantic Ocean slash Mediterranean Blue eyes when the clouds part due to his aura.
(He learned about that word when he overheard a Boat Boy say it as he cleaned Merriweather’s tootling yacht. He asked Rat for his iPad to look it up later. He enjoys having aura.)
Bad Sun with low aura hurts Atticus’s incredible eyes. Bad Sun makes his inner skull itch. Prolly from smart ideas slash general ingeniousness he stores to be used for a good thing.
Incredible ideas nobody has thought previously. Bad Men having nefarious intentions would steal his brain thoughts if he said his smart ideas aloud.
Golf courses with House beer in refrigerators, such as. Workers restocking using tunnels. Ensuring no Club Member interaction on the Green.
Good one, Atticus. Genius. Tell Beatrice later to get some honest feedback.
(Beatrice is ChatGPT.)
Atticus’s designer handcrafted shoes catch a gorgeous sunray, glinting fashionably.
Atticus athletically avoids muddy puddles, stalk-bounding daintily slash richly toward Jeannette, his black Rolls-Royce La Rose Noire Droptail, wearing designer clicky clacky shoes. Papa Merriweather bought him Brent and Tony (his loud shoes) after breakfast to match his Jeanette and Fergie (his sunglasses).
(He has denim blue Rolls Royce at home named Stevie his Papa also had made custom for him.)
He tries snapping super menacingly. A dull sound comes out.
Snap Snap SNAPPITY snap snap.
(Sort of.)
One of his two Henchmen, (whose names are Pootiferous and Rattington) this one bring Rattington, makes a grunting sound with his grunty mouth, bending down slowly to tie Atticus’s shoe. Atticus hates bending down. Henchmen Pootiferous and Ratttington always tie his shoes every morning.
His favorite part of Morning Time is Customize A Car in his three-story garage.
In Garage he’s got lots more cars, in case you were wondering. It’s more stories than three, prolly. Atticus doesn’t care to count. Doctor, Advisor, Yoga Sam, whatever his name is, made him have annoyingly long meetings earlier. Good thing he’s all done now. He wants to go back to Apartment. His day sucked big time.
Worst of all, he missed Animal Crossing playtime. Atticus Merriweather loves Animal Crossing Time.
Mr. Whatever Animal Shop meanly closed. That’s what his Henchman Rattington told him because he didn’t give him his Switch.
Atticus didn’t sell his extra corn, making him super irritated.
If he felt bad emotions, which he obviously doesn’t.
His day erupted with a squeaky shower followed by stupid interns ruining his “ethcial” coffee. He’s asked them to fix the sound but they keep lying to him about it being “sounds from water pressure.”
Whatever that is,
Stupid White Coat man babbled, lecturing words during his meeting in his fancy penthouse.
Sometimes, he gets more special meetings too. By the way. He loves attention. But a very very bad thing happened. Chef Bolognese, Brocha’s or Bob The Builder or whatever, told him a truly awful piece of information. Bob, Builder, Basil, Chef Bagel Bite or something or other informed him his favorite small town steak supplier went under! Yesterday!
Due to something horrible.
Something something something something something or something, illegal shipment of uncooked meat to a non tax payer, something whatever. Means they’re not gonna send his raw steak anymore unfortunately which is what Chef BeefPatty explained to Atticus.
Whatever. He doesn't care.
Or want to know why but point is, he can't have their steak tonight.
Atticus only wants their steaks.
Maybe it will be fine. Assistant will find a new farm. Chef Bouillon Cube will begin cooking up steak with water grown Potato Galette fried in farm raised pork fat. Potatoes cut into flower shapes. His favorite way to have Gallette.
He needs it to have a happy tummy.
Mommy Merriweather patted his tummy at bedtime while calling him Happy Tummy Atticus.
He misses her tummy pats.
Only affection Atticus got besides the occasional hug from his Nanny, named Nanny, was tummy pats from Mommy.
Atticus stalk-hops wealthily across small puddles.
Dolly, his Baby Blue Rolls Royce, arrives into his view. Henchmen Pootiferous and Rattington hold multiple umbrellas above his head. It’s not actively raining, but scary imperfections in pavement rudely hold a small amount of rainwater.
Later he will ask them to re-pave.
Atticus’s feet slap slap slap on wet pavement, his spesh shoes Daddy Atticus Senior bought him are extra loud, as he requested it.
Mr. Always Smart Never Stupid Atticus Merriweather sees a girl. A strange girl walking in his eyeline. A very very strange girl, not one of those people at his earlier meeting with White Coat Man.
(The White Coat Man gave him advice on how to succeed good.)
Told him how to be smart, talented, and great at everything in life to ensure his brain would always be very strong and completely put together. He’d never make wrongdoings at all, or have to think about bad thoughts ever.
Why would a random girl be in this area?
She doesn’t look fancy. She’s struggling with a non-designer umbrella and wears an outfit for a 1942 commoner doing a dumb job. Making burritos, prolly. She named her calico cat Burrito as well, prolly. She probably reads Colleen Hoover.
(Atticus Merriweather loves Colleen Hoover. Burritos too. He reads those novels at night on his purple iPad Mini with Pillow Pet stickers on his pastel sky blue colored case.)
He stares blankly at her, determining her boss, prolly with a name, fucking, Topazoniolishous or something or other, was bothering her, which would explain her rude sour look.
Prolly she ate non-fresh lobster.
Gross things, non-fresh lobster things, makes him wanna punch someone in their rude face to send them to a horrible place. A public toilet in a 24 hour 7/11 past 2am after someone ate spicy hot wings. Another bad place maybe. Perhaps Chuck E Cheese during a birthday party. There’s always a birthday party. Unclean mats gave him genital warts once too many times, which was four times, so he stopped going after that.
Maybe it's because he scooted around too much when he needed to go potty, but that couldn't be it, could it?
She’s prolly perfect.
Never makes any mistakes ever in her entire life. Mean Woman runs into him rudely, due to her not looking where walks while he’s busy staring at her figure. Coffee spills all over her shirt. One singular drop lands on Atticus’s custom Gucci designer floral silk flower adorned Waistcoat he got from a small town in Spain yesterday, which Papa bought him.
He loves Spain, by the way.
"What the hell is wrong with you, you stupid, snarly ugly?" Atticus snarls out gruffly, spittling a little bit, wetting his pale pink crusty chapped slug lips, both dehydrated and slick with saliva.
Atticus Merriweather’s Crusty Slug Lips curl up in retroactive annoyance.
Atticus wipes spittle off using his handkerchief sewn by Martha Stewart whilst he attempts to regain his manly gruff appearance. Gruff as the First and Most Scary Billy Goat of course. He’s never read it but First is always Best. Never would he say this out loud but during his Zoomy Time calls he bites his lips when he’s really annoyed.
(If annoyance was an emotion he knew the definition of but he doesn’t feel bad emotions. EVER. To note, he never feels bad emotions. Anger, sadness, jealousy, anything of that nature of sorts, or has to wait or do boring tasks. Restock toilet paper or stuff.)
Why would he be jealous? He has everything he could ever want.
Jealousy is not an emotion Atticus Merriweather Jr. feels. Atticus Merriweather Jr. is Big Special Boy.
Daddy Merriweather uses special names for special boys. Mainly Big Boy Atticus.
Girl speaks. Now that sound comes out of it, (‘it’ being her mouth) he looks.
Might be interesting or useful.
"Sorry. Entirely my fault," Stranger Girl rudely pulls crispy fresh hundred dollar bills from a leather wallet. Big stack.
She's seen his suit before, prolly. Obviously overly starched.
(Father, her father, pointed it out on Spain trip once. Said only desperate men seeking visual power buy those. They walked past a designer store and saw the suit next to a 25% discount Out of Season sale sign. That’s what he assumes when she looks.)
These suits are very much special. Very, very, very special. Elite level spesh.
(The insider word for special is spesh. Only the richest men, including Atticus say spesh.)
These suits are custom. Hand-sewn built in Squishmellow shoulder pads. Beautifully crafted by bestest paid sweatshop workers.
Atticus blinks his amazingly oceany perfect blue eyes in absolute and utter shock! Those are 10k per piece!
(She already knows. Obviously, she handed him 10k.)
Yes, probably.
His didn't have custom embroidery done by Designer XV, which stung when looking down at his collar. No special stitches. Agent Bestauvcloves asked. Reached out to Gucci Fashion Advisor on multiple occasions but declined each time. Mr. Merriweather enjoys big scenes. Maybe Henchmen, Poot and Rat, could hold Cecelia at gunpoint, allowing him to force her back to his mansion and trade special services for the suit cost.
Instead, she is staring meanly holding a rubber-banded stack of $100 bills. Atticus Merriweather is rich. Knows how much a stack is just from sight.
He pays 1k for his special toilet paper. He gives a dumb blank stare before snarling his wet, crusty lips and snatches the stack using a quick practiced flick of his wrist.
(He loves practicing wrist-flick techniques at the local L.A Bowling League, lavishingly eating their pizza and showing hot waitresses his wrist flick when paying the bill.)
He tips 5%. Good man, of course.
Meanly, Cecelia is not doing what he wants. He wants resistance. Getting to see a fearful on her face when his henchmen grab her. Something entertaining.Not this bored, almost pitying look. Stranger Girl is looking at him with pity.
White Coat doctor woman looked at him with pity, when his mother died in her cold hospital room ten years ago. He doesn’t care to think of such horrid things. It makes his head hurt sharp and hot. Sharp like rock candy. Once he was burnt by hot sugar by Loggygagger, his babysitter. Or, at least, he thinks what he remembers his name as. Daddy used to call him Lolly. Lollygagger made candy after Atticus begged, and something awful struck the Merriweather household. Atticus threw his Barbie parachute too the stove after being told repeatedly to not go near it. Hot sugar flew out of the pot and hit his arm. A lot got on Loggygagger too, prolly. but Atticus doesn't remember much. Loggygagger never came back to the mansion to play with Atticus.
Atticus didn’t enjoy the taste of candy after. He clears the spittle from his throat to distract himself from thoughts of Loggygagger and the rock candy incident.
He named one of his Henchmen Pootiferous for security, but his real name is Larrison.
Larrison — Pootiferous — subtly shakes his head. No. Atticus knows. Pooti knows best. Poot won’t restrain Stranger Girl. Atticus doesn't enjoy this distressful casualness Weird Girl exhudes. This Oddly Alluring Female Specimen Girl he can’t understand. He’s Mr. Smart Man and knows everything! He hates not being able to figure out things. She’s acting casual. Casual as if she doesn't care. Calico Cat casual. Pumpki Queen was his favorite Webkinz, a calico cat. He forgot to add the N and couldn’t change it. Daddy bought him 700 or something more but he never really got over Pumpki Queen and her missing N. Something else important as well. Atticus hates when people don’t care. Atticus Merriweather should never be hated, due to how utterly indecisively great he is. Random Girl not caring? Him? The man who made New York Times Most Prominent Man Under 65 And Over 64 Born In January List two times in three years, spaced out by two and 3/4 years?
That pisses him off.
More than anything. He's used to people caring. Worshipping at his feet. They should worship at his feet. Everyone should. He is the Best!
He smiles at her. Coldly. Colder than winter in Siberia.
(He has lots of stock there, by the way.)
"Why do you carry so much cash on you?" Mr. Merriweather crosses his arms with a gruffy tone which he makes gruff on purpose and beginning moving closer so he feels taller.
He loves power, by the way.Mr. Merriweather has never seen so very much cash in person. Closest comparison would be when he would watch Daddy Atticus Merriweather SR count money at the kitchen table with the rose patterned table cloth. Crunching on chocolate flakes wearing a pirate hat and slime monster Minecraft footie pajamas. Beloved Daddy Atticus Merriweather Senior told him never to carry cash in person. Only credit. All during the last ten years he’s applied for an American Express Black Diamond Elite Best® card but was denied every time. His wallet feels heavier than usual. Lighter, horrifyingly? Means he has less money. Her Gold Elite Best and his dumb Silver. His custom made Italian leather wallet doesn't make the sting less stingy.
Daddy Atticus Merriweather SR paid for his wallet on an Italy trip. It doesn't matter when he doesn’t have the Best Card. Cecelia (he named her) (in his head) doesn't respond to his cold smile. Or him puffing out his chest. How some rodents do, naked mole rats, to wit. She looks bored. Makes his chest feel a strange way.
"I'm headed off to the Diamond Elite Black Diamond Ruby Sapphire Emerald Bank," Girl says with no fear, pissing him off further.
"I was just doing business in Siberia with some of my father's investors. I've just flown back and I'm headed to the bank to deposit funds." Girl looks at him like he’s a garden grub.
Siberia?
Atticus’s stunning blue slash green eyes narrow, crossing his average arms. He tries to make his chest large, going to his gym often, but seems to not be able to build up muscle despite drinking protein shakes every day and paying for only the most elite personal trainers in all of LA, where he lives, by the way.
Atticus also got saline injections in his biceps but the stuff moved to his calves so he needed his favorite pants tailored.
Atticus knows about Siberia. More than knows the name of the country. Atticus has deep settled roots there. Strong roots. Empire level toots. 50,000 square foot warehouses full of contraband. Illegal lab grown mushrooms and customized things for him to enjoy. Bodies hidden in freezers. Had some Rando label it Wagyu Steak.
Not the point. Strange Girl matters. Her doing business in Siberia.
His Siberia.
No. Wait. Not his. He can’t own it. He has roots there. Roots making him have power, which he loves. He needs more information.
What if she somehow has more power in Siberia than he does?
Atticus needs to know. HAS to. He chuckles cruelly. Attempting to make it sound evil. Low and humorless as he practices with Acting Coach Rudy, whatever the name is.
"Siberia?" Embarrasingly the only word he thinks or speaks right now.
Girl looks bored."Yes. Siberia. My father has a political empire. I do business in his place as the firstborn and only child. He entrusts me handling finances in The States."
Atticus is confused for once in his whole entire life.
Intimidated? Impossible.
Mousetail-thin eyebrows lift out of a scowl for one second.
“Siberia?” Atticus repeats dumbly.
All he can do is stand dumb. Stand in a coffee stained custom 10k suit repeating words. He knows the suit was $2k on final sale. Plus it doesn’t have special stitches. Atticus stands repeating ‘Siberia’ trying to suction more meaning from it.
“Who is your father?” He asks in a gruff, snarling intimidating tone, one he uses when he wants the women in his office to suck his dick.
“My father is the King of Siberia,” Girl says simply, looking bored.
The lack of care might be intimidating Atticus given if he knew what intimidation was, however he doesn’t, obviously.
The King?
Atticus knows who the King is. Lucky enough to have a 0.04% investment Underground City, which equates to 1 billion a year earnings for Atticus, to which he uses pay for various addictions. The website to look at sexy women, called VerySexyWomen is a favorite. Other favorite is Waffle Chef.
Basically, many lesbians making breakfast.
“The King?” Strange Girl meanly repeats, looking at him and thinking he’s stupid, prolly.
Random Girl, in an outfit freshly picked straight off the rack from GoodWay, or whatever that poor person store is, probably thinks Atticus is stupid.
Never
Atticus was never ever stupid.
EVER.
Girl wears simple jeans, shirt, and baseball hat.
Atticus hasn’t interacted with some commoner in a very long time. Commoners that use public toilets and transit, trains and shared horses. They’ve been doing that a long time, since around 1492. HE for God Sakes, is wearing a custom GUCCI suit. Doesn’t have the threads, but does that matter? It’s not an ultimate status symbol.
Atticus sees it.
Tiny, hand-stitched gold initial threads in Girl’s simple tshirt.
X.V.
Xavier Vanderstork.
Xavier Vanderstork?
Atticus tries not to have any reaction whatsoever. Those two words.
Xavier Vanderstork.
A single bead of sweat drips off the end of his nose. Atticus’s lips are slightly greasy from remnants of the McDonalds Breakfast Sandwich. His favoritest breakfast. Bestest breakfast in the world. Reminds him of sitting in his mothers Sudan, getting special treats before school. Sent in special since it is Thursday, his most favroitest day of the week. The toy he wanted wasn’t in the bag. Maybe he should go back and complain. He didn’t want to deal with whatever immature (but definitely college aged woman above the age of 19, he wasn't some perv) he would have to speak to.
Unless she was hot.
That'd be a reason to talk to her. He appreciates hot things. Hot women. And Hot Wheels toys.
That’s okay. There’s always next Thursday, Atticus. Breathe in and out, as Yoga Man showed you.
Atticus remembers the breathing exercises he does his private yoga room with his private teacher Yoga Sam. Whatever his name is. Sam or Sloppy Joe or Scorpio Sunday or whatever.
Atticus Merriweather licks his McDonald’s flavored lips.
In what could be envy if he ever felt it, but it’s not envy because he doesn’t feel envy so he just licks his oily, crusty lips and makes them damp again with his tongue.
Xavier Vanderstork is the name of one of the fashion designers for Gucci. Atticus’s fashion designer had tried several times to get him a custom suit, but his designer had been denied every year for seven years straight. He had practically begged on the phone. For him, begging is screaming and threatening a wage cut or termination.
Atticus Merriweather’s McDonalds Flavored Lips curl up into a slimy grimace at this weird and rude girl standing before him with the special Xavier Vanderstork stitching he doesn’t have. Her father must earn more than 100 billion a year.
Atticus’s throat tightens in jealousy.
Not jealousy. Atticus is never ever jealous.
Ever ever ever.
This is an entirely different feeling. How it felt when Random Doctor walked into his mother’s deathbed room and looked at him. Looked at him with pity. He hates the feeling of someone pitying him. He hates feeling small and stupid and pitied.
Great grandfather Rodrickle Fitzpatrick used to call him Little Weenie.
His henchmen — Pootiferous and Rattington — (Rattington’s real name is Fredrick Hampershirt) look at eachother with slightly concerned looks, annoying him further.
(They looked at eachother before they looked at him, making him know they’re hiding something from him. A secret conversation about how incompetent he is. Maybe he is. His father called him incompetent last week when he lost 2 million in investments in his stock in BigBigOil. ”incompetent, Atticus. I knew you’d eventually fail!” Father Atticus Merriweather Senior had said over the phone.)
Atticus cleared his throat and the two henchmen Pootiferous and Rattington look up. They spring into action slow. Similar speed to slimy slugs or snails or other small and slimy things going slow and are slowed down by their own slime. He assumes slugs and snails do such actions. Henchmen take two steps towards the girl, but a familiar soft whirring sound makes Atticus snap his head up. Pootiferois and Rattington also look up.
G96000 Super Special. Limited gold-encrusted helicopter with special manly accessories.
Atticus Merriweather knows this from pictures when he pathetically begged Financial Advisor if he could buy it. Gold Standard.
Fredrickson Porchlight Dandyton The Third, the Financial Advisor had said no.
(NOTE TO READER: Fredrick Hampershirt, the real name of one of his henchman, Pootiferous and Rattington, Rattington, is different than Fredrickson Porchlight Dandyton The Third. Not to be confused with his financial advisor, Fredrickson Porchlight Dandyton The Third who is paid for by his father, Atticus Merriweather Sr. The Third, by the way.)
Now the special helicopter he can’t afford is touching down right in front of them. Cecelia casually reaches up. Atticus didn’t notice until now that Cecelia’s sleek leather backpack has now turned into a jetpack. Gold Standard helicopter drops a rope down and Cecelia grasps the rope easily.
The sleek black rope (from the helicopter he can’t afford and Financial Advisor said he’d tell Lawyer Inc about the paid women if he tried buying it) descends from the helicopter’s cockpit and Cecelia reaches up.
Cecelia is whisked away before either of his two Henchmen, Pootiferous and Rattington, can grab her with their hands.
(Their hands are washed. Atticus made sure they both did.)
She clings to the rope strongly no problem. As the helicopter ascends into the sky, the rope doesn’t rise. She continues to dangle. Atticus needs to know why she has a better helicopter than him.
Atticus snaps his greasy salty fingers right quick, a snap snap to get everyone’s attention. he thinks about licking them after but he doesn’t.
(His fingers, not the henchmen. Licking them would be stupid. And he’s not stupid.)
Atticus Merriweather loves attention.
His two Henchmen, Pootiferous and Rattington, spring into action slowly, maybe a thick liquid. Toothpaste maybe, to open the back door for him. He gets in quickly. His two Henchmen, Pootiferous and Rattington follow without any irritating questions. He hates questions. He’s always answering questions.
He buckles himself up in the backseat of his expensive limousine and they speed off very fast.
(Since he has a special car going faster than everyone’s. Everyone except for Daddy Merriweather Senior.)
He watches the girl dangle from the rope from her Golden helicopter and he realizes...
The jetpack is only for safety
As the limousine speeds off he snaps his fingers and tells the driver he doesn’t remember the name of to drive in the direction of where the girl is going. Suddenly, the helicopter lowers, over Merriweather & Co Enterprise Towers. He owns 0.1% of it, by the way, and he would own more if his stupid father trusted him more. Mr. Merriweather almost gasps in surprise when the helicopter lowers her onto the roof, if he did ever do anything gasping related. However, he doesn’t, ever. Instead he sniffs in slightly. He yells out gruff at Driver to speed and go to his tower faster. He owns 0.19% of the Tower, almost 0.2%, equating to 2 million dollars, by the way in case you didn't know. His driver speeds up, which is good, and then takes him to the tower. He goes up darn lickety split. In Yosemite, he saw a bear with binoculars.
(He’s been to there many more times than everyone else because he has a special pass, letting him in every National Park, for free, all his life. He’s Atticus Merriweather, of course.)
Poot read him an article about bears in a NatGeo Kid’s Magazine and how mama bears are very good at protecting their young. He loves Poot’s Bedtime Adventure Storitime. He presses the penthouse button and his passcode, which is 1960, which is his birth year, in case you were curious. He’d asked at least 107 times to speed up the elevator.
They have not responded to his email yet or done anything to make it go faster, which is very much annoying, but he doesn’t have any symptoms of anxiety about it, ever.
At the top, a thing takes him completely by shock!
Would he express any emotion in the area of stress, his jaw might slack slightly but it doesn't.
An empty apartment.
No.Not empty. A few cardboard boxes strewn about. No desk, no assistants. No polar bear fur rug. No special rare brown striped zebra skin rug.
Nothing.
His heart pounds but not in shock. Never in shock.
Then he sees it. A bouquet of flowers and a card on the table.
Pink Armanian orchids.
His Mothers favorite. He had them spent special to her when she was in hospice, the one thing she loved and made her smile besides one family run store who made a blueberry cheesecake from a small town in Vermont she loved so dearly. Now they’re sitting here on his shiny moonstone counter. He hears a small sound. The shower turning on.
But.
No familiar squawk. First thing he notices. Not how the shower turned on, how there’s another person here, but the fact it doesn’t squeak. He’s asked the management of the apartment several times, sent hundred angry emails telling them how it’s unlivable conditions.
Nothing.
Now? It’s different. He can tell right away because he’s smart.
He hears water hit the shower floor. The knob of the shower is silent. No squeaky-squawkity. He can’t do anything but stare at the orchids on the counter. He dares to step forward. He doesn’t know how long it’s been. Breath almost catches in his tightened throat when he sees a note by the flowers.
“Welcome to your new apartment, Cecelia! We hope this is up to par. We also hope your stay in our city is wonderful! We’ve set out some snacks and filled the fridge for you. The previous tenants belongings will be cleared out by noon and we apologize for the inconvenience!”
Atticus can only stare, thinking about the non-squeaky shower. His lips turn slightly downward. He doesn’t feel sad or confused but he feels something else along those lines.
Inconvenience?
His heart moves. If anxiety was an emotion he felt.
He doesn’t, by the way.
The shower continues. He stares at Mother’s deathbed flowers. Being used as welcome home flowers. For the same woman he yelled at for bumping into him and flying off in a helicopter. He stands there dumbly. If dumb was a thing he felt, he might feel maybe close.
Again, he does not! Ever!
Atticus can’t stop his flower-staring, imagining his dead mother.
Nancy’s Special Blueberry Cheesecake didn’t arrive to the hospital before she died.
Storm. Helicopter couldn’t make it and Atticus tried to sue for 100 million but a weather clause or something didn’t allow him. The shower turns off. No squeak. Many long minutes pass. He doesn't count.
Cecelia leaves the bathroom in custom robe and Gucci slippers.
She stops when she sees him.
Stops. Doesn’t scream or anything.
Atticus Merriweather doesn’t know what to do for the first time in his sixties. Probably his entire life, too. For the first time in his life his jaw slacks slightly. Or maybe it tightens.
He can’t tell, staring silently, knowing he looks dumb. He hates feeling dumb. Hates feeling stupid. She snaps and he flinches. Scared as a lamb or small kitten, anothe vulnerable freshly birthed animal still slimy with birthing liquid.
“Hello?” She grimaces at him.
He feels he’s a squashed grub under her foot. Can’t say anything from how parched his mouth is. Dry as the Sahara Desert, which he loves going to, by the way. Plus, he has lots, lots, lots of things. Many things to do there.
More than her prolly.
Dune surfing. Private oasis hopping. Many things she can’t but he can, because he’s got lots more than her. Lots more than everyone, by the way.
“Hello?” Girl grimaces. Then starts walking to the wall, lifting a hidden panel.
She’s going to call help.
“Wait!” He exclaims, rushing forward.
BOOM!
They turn to the window.
A giant headless octopus alien, slimy, black, with orangish blue tentacles with scary suction cups slams onto the ground, striking twenty floors at once.
Cecelia has no reaction. Still a blank face. He feels a giant headache. When he eventually awakens fully people are meanly shining lights in his eyes.
“Sir? Are you okay? Can you tell me your name?”
He cracks his eyes a little in a new room. Simple beige walls. Beige matching the hallway of Servants quarters. He’s never been in those wings of his various mansions. He chose beige, he thought it fit. He doesn’t speak at first. Can’t. Sandpaper tongue feeling parched with spindly rocks. Barnacles clinging to them making it hard for him to swallow. They do it at low tide, and he knows this information because he’s seen it from his cruises.bHis mouth is very dry. He assumes, how it is in Sahara Desert, and not the parts having an oasis.
Again, he’s been to there many, many, many times, by the way.
If it wasn’t clear from context, by the way by the way by the way by the way, and he goes to the OASIS and not the dry part, by the way, because going to the dry part would be ridiculous.
By the way.
He saw a camel or some animal, a lion on the nurses animal print v neck shirt. At least he thinks it was a camel. A swan. Rat. Some sort of mouse with a large white hat holding pasta, potentially.
The shirt didn’t compliment her large beautiful full breasts at all and he didn’t enjoy that.
He made sure to tell her again in case she didn’t hear him the first three times.
She meanly didn’t respond to his comment when he said it. He told her about his multiple big stocks in the Sahara desert and special oasis’s full of sexy women and illegal drugs. She’s probably never got to try those.
Too bad for her. More for him.
The Uncomplimentary Shirt Lady smiled while nodding. She said ‘how nice’. Then turned and scribbled in her chart.
A note to remind her to Google Special Sexy Oasis, prolly.
That of course, obviously, she won’t find. He pays Google to keep it off public listings.
Later Mr. Merriweather demanded to be transported to his private hospital. He couldn’t shake Cecelia off his mind. Was she real? Atticus swore to be a good-isher man. Decided she was the Devil. Or another evil thing sent to make him better. He couldn’t shake the feeling she was giving him a personal message. To be gooder. So he could get more good things for himself.
Cecelia this, Cecelia that? Everything was about Cecelia.
Chef asked him “Tengo hambre por Cece?” Least, he heard him say that.
Not “Are you hungry for your meal, Sir.”
Bullshit!
Atticus could never hear wrong.
Do wrong, Think wrong. Say wrong. His head always was right. No matter what.
Left side was all right too. Most probably, by the way.
Once he has employed everyone in the world, he will employ you too.
Probably.
Atticus Merriweather can’t hear White Coat Man. Doesn’t understand what he's saying. The mean pounding in his head gets harder and meaner.
Something about…
A dangerously large order of massive enchiladas and tempura-fried chicken lobster.
Or.
No, that couldn’t be it.
Maybe it was about something else.
Dangerously enlarged mass encroaching in on his eye sockets in his frontal lobe moving into his temporal lobe?
Hmmmmmm.
Whatever.
White Coat man talked too fast.
Atticus has all sorts of new uncomfortable feeling. Terrified and scared as they wheel him past a red line. Never did he feel scary feelings.
“Breathe deeply.” Strange Man scarily said, looking over him menacingly wearing a horrid shade of green extremely uncomplimentary long-sleeve gown, a big purple mask, and large non-designer gloves. Some Man puts a strange smelly mask on his face. They prolly look similar to Black Plague ones, he assumes.
His Papa isn’t even there to comfort him, which is the worst part. And the nurse looks a little like his Mama.
The mask is clear. Smells just how to when he sniffed Mother’s rainboots.
Then one of the men in a cape starts counting down from ten.
Prolly to practice counting, he guesses. He remembers hiding in the closet during After-Homeschool Hide and Seek. Mother agreed to play when Atticus’s had no friends to come over.
He followed Doctor’s instructions. Breathing the stinky air deeply just as the Magician Cape Man said.
He hopes for the best.
He doesn’t know what that is. Laying in the Bright Room as the man counted down Atticus knew.
He would never “right”.
Right is right where he is right now. Him, as just him. He didn’t need to be anyone else. He is just him and nothing else.
The boy who dreamed.
Atticus Merriweather.
The end.
Epilogue:
Atticus survived his stage 4 temporal and frontal lobe brain tumor removal surgery and went on to move back home to live with his father, Atticus Merriweather SR and his caregiver. Atticus continued his path to self-improvement by joining a “Manifest Your Dream Life” course he found on the internet made by what may or may not actually be an artificial intelligence professor. He has made many true friends since then, or so he thinks they are, on social media. Facebook, Instagram, TikTok, CharacterAI, FriendAI, and such so apps. He found genuine happiness in volunteering as a Teacher’s Assistant for Ms. Kenderson’s eighth grade English class.
…
Atticus’s Backstory:
In his younger days, Merriweather's teachers described him as a ‘quite a very sneaky boy indeed’. He was always getting into trouble, such as stealing extra bananas from the lunch room to put the peels outside the principle’s door.
Atticus’s Playlist (10 Most Played)
I Just Had Sex (feat Akon) - The Lonley Island S&M - Rhianna Cruel Summer - Taylor Swift Promiscuous (feat Timberland) - Nelly Furtado In My Head - Jason Derulo Ready Or Not - Bridget Medler You Spin Me Round (Like a Record) - Alvin and The Chipmunks CPR- CupcakKe Perfect - One Direction Single Ladies - Beyonce