The sun rose over the million-dollar hilltops, glistening with the homes and exaggerated vehicles of concentrated cattle and the blessed. It glides seamlessly from the landscapes of mundane professions and lets it light reflect off the floating pool toys into the depths of the water; which so proudly keeps them lifted, like token trophies on a mantle. The light approaches the back windows and doors and plants its warm, glowing embrace onto neo-tanned skin cells sprawled throughout the hardwood floor floor. These guests showcase their mundane nudity by allowing the shadows to play off of what little clothing their bodies choose to perspire upon. The morning sun cascades into the room and illuminates the various jewelry and bracelets on limbs and appendages, the little flickers coming from heaving lungs tightening the skin causes them to animate. Eyes greeted by the day turn away back into the crevices that it hasn't occupied yet, reveling in the fleeting anonymity and secrecy the dark brings. At last, in full force, the luminescence bleaches every object in the room a brilliant shade and reveals every individual and foible, like a cracked open pinata.
A sudden rush of shock, confusion, and thrill overcome the exposed party guests strewn about the cavernous innards of the house. They scratch their wincing eyes and adapt to their brightened surroundings; they yawn and stretch their gorgeous, silk-laden carcasses into even more sumptuous shapes. The men are all able-bodied, defined, and strong. The women are all voluptuous Coke bottles, emitting sexuality and lust at every curve. Their lips pucker and pout, but they do not know sadness or worry. They gaze, seemingly ambivalent at each other: satisfied with each body's definition, but treat it all as routine. A women coiled upon the vinyl sofa retracts her arm too fast and knocks some items off of the nearby coffee table: a glass half-full with brandy, a small plastic bag full of some powdered substance, and a statuette of a chameleon, done art-deco style. The glass falls to the linoleum floor of the room they are occupying, smashing into a clamor of cacophonic sound. The lukewarm alcohol propels in every which direction, landing onto the floor, the table, the sofa, the guests. A few drops land upon the cheek of the woman who caused the disturbance, and the smell of it burns her nostrils, forcing her to cough and convulse. All weary eyes of the party guests find their way to the woman.
"Peachy, baby girl, just peachy as always." A chiseled figure finds his way out of a bathroom in a neighboring hallway, silhouetted by the vanity mirror lights and muffled by the hum of the privacy fan. His body only half-covered by a towel, he walks toward the woman on the sofa. She lets her fingertips find their way to a nearby call phone, turns it on and looks at the time. She rolls over, face inside the cushion, and groans.
"Aw, Blue, it's barely seven, Can I please hear your sarcasm after fucking breakfast?"
Blue gives a smirk and sits on the woman's curled up legs. "Don't you have somewhere to be by nine, Ms. Peach? It says in your daily planner that you're meeting with a certain journalist for Vogue?"
At that moment, Ms. Peach jerked herself upright, allowing her blanket that was barely covering her body to fall to the floor, consequently soaking up some of the spilled brandy.
"Oh fuck!" she covers her mouth with her right hand and gasps melodramatically. "I thought today was Thursday! Mr. Blue, you are a Godsend, you really are, darling!" Ms. Peach's southern drawl only added yet another impervious layer of seduction to herself; and with that, she picked her slender, milky figure up from the couch and hurried from the living room up the stairs, disappearing with a subtle yet noticeable slam of the door.
The other guests interest in Mr. Blue and Ms. Peach's interactions dwindled into self-reflection for their own plans, and one by one each slowly began to raise their selves up and go to their respective destinations within each divided wing of the house. Only Mr. Blue was left along in the gutted, vacuous living room, looking side to see if anyone else remained. Once he could acknowledge his privacy, he let out a sigh of exasperation, and a great feeling of solemnity resided within his heaving chest. He then proceeded to lay back into the speckled loveseat and close his tired eyes, choosing to slowly drift away from the glamour and expensive beauty that enveloped him and into the sweet nothingness his own mind was capable of producing. The soft panging noises heard from the bathroom and bedrooms of the guests direction above him upstairs began to blur into one expansive monotonous hum in his head, and he became lost in the nuances between each sound, causing him to fall into an infinite daze. He began to see no colors, heard no sounds; all that was present was his feeling of being. Down and down he fell, past critical thinking and cognitive responses, sucked into the limitless, senseless void of himself. He recognized this point of pseudo-meditation, and faintly smiled at nothing particular.
Mr. Blue was immediately brought back into reality by the loud thud of someone taking the seat next to his.
"Don't you thin k your room is a more suitable place for you to fantasize about Peach?" said the voice, coming from a tall, broad shouldered man. "Or maybe even the bathroom? I mean we all have those desires, baby boy Blue, but goddamn! Some of us other Colors want to walk around not in fear of seeing you enjoying yourself TOO much." He slapped Mr. Blue on his bare back with vigor, and et out a single hearty laugh to accompany it.
The man was of a darker complexion, much more so than that of Mr. Blue's. Of overall size, he was considerably larger than him as well, however he appeared to be no more than a few years older. He wore red boxers with designs of cartoon mice all over them, and complete his ensemble with a stretched-out tanktop. Mr. Blue groaned sarcastically, but smirked as he gave the man a playful punch on the shoulder.
"This coming from you, big Red?" Mr. Blue remarks. The one who has to bang every new member 'til her brains damn near fall out of her head, and calls it 'initiation'? You're a bigger pervert than I'll ever dream of being. Don't you have somewhere to be, too?"
"Already did it." Mr. Red put his hands behind his head and reclined. "Got the weekly allowance-slash-rundown from the Mr. and the Mrs. Got a bit of a raise too, seeing as how I held down the fort from Ms. Lime's little blunder. Still can't believe she let a simple faux pas almost ruin everything. When's your meeting?"
"Right now," a large, booming voice came from the top of the marble stairs, reverberating the paintings on the wall. Both Mr. Blue and Mr. Red stood straight up instantaneously and kept their arms at their sides, staring straight ahead. A much distinguished older gentleman, well into his 50s or 60s, stood at the top holding onto a water bottle with a hand so large and intimidating it seemed to almost engulf its contents. "You could begin by picking your mess up from off the floor." He said this as he nodded at the contents from the coffee table from earlier, now spread feet apart from each other. Mr. Blue began to respond, but merely stammered around his own words.
"Mr. Black, sir, I...you see Ms. Peach was running late, and...sir, you see I had to..."
"Before you begin to lay the blame on Ms. Peach, I would like to remind you of your position in this household, and the fact that she has only been here three weeks. Yet, she still wakes early to take care of her business. You've been here for four years and..."
"Five."
"...excuse me, Mr. Blue?"
"Five years, sir. Going into five years, to be specific, exactly a week and two days from now."
Mr. Black took a large drink of water, swallowed it all in one gulp, and cricked his neck as he stared back looking a bit confused at Mr. Blue, who returned the gesture by continue to stare past him at the wall.
"My apologies, Mr. Blue," he began to walk down the stairs directly towards Mr. Blue, taking pronounced steps in beautiful Italian-designed slippers. His appearance was synonymous with power, with his pronounced jaw adding to the rugged handsomeness that his face naturally projected, even at his age. His hair was slick back, naturally jet black and straight; which only added more to the menacing aura that surrounded him as he slowly came down the stairs.
"I'm sorry that I could not appeal to your bloated sense of ego, but for the sake of not wasting either of our time, would you mind remaining silent until the task that I have just given to you is good and done without the accommodation of mindless banter?" He was not about arm's length away from Mr. Blue, and his voice had escalated to a roar at this point.
"How exactly long you have been with us is of no immediate important. The point that was being made is that you are in command, Mr. Blue, just like Mr. Red here; but unlike the reliable Mr. Red, you are doing absolutely nothing of use to me at this very instant. So please, make yourself useful, and pick up after Ms. Peach." Mr. Black's hands had were now trembling so much that he began spilling his bottle's contents on Mr. Blue and Mr. Red's bare feet.
Still continuing his pose, no expression on his face, Mr. Blue responded "yes, Mr. Black" and snapped into action, dropping to his hands and knees to pick up the glass and statuette. He grabbed a nearby towel and dabbed at the brandy stain, while looking around for the final item to pick up. At least he found the bag, wedged underneath some covers thrown carelessly on the floor, and reached across for it. It remained tightly wrapped, none of its contents spilled out into either the cover or the carpeting, except for a bit of powder that got onto Mr. Blue's fingers as he brought it closer to himself. He examined both his fingers and the bag thoroughly, trying to decipher what exact it contained, until his attention was once again interrupted by Mr. Black's dark, commanding voice.
"Bring that bag to me, immediately!" Mr. Black's exclamation echoed slightly into the kitchen. Mr. Blue offered the bag with a quivering passiveness indicated by his extended branch of an arm, which Mr. Black grabbed abruptly. He then untied it, stuck a finger inside, and touch the tip to his tongue. His face clenched tightly at first, resembling a worn out bouquet, but soon after he produced a relaxed, broad smile.
"See me in my den in five minutes, Mr. Blue. Please freshen up beforehand, and wear something more appropriate. Mr. Red, I leave you to the aforementioned task we spoke about earlier." His voice became light and carefree; almost soothing, had it not been for his outburst not mere moments before. Mr. Black then retreated back up the stairs where he then disappeared under the guise of the handrails.
Both Mr. Red and Mr. Blue let out a heavy sigh at that moment, receding to a more relaxed position. "God, am I glad that I went before you!" Mr. Red said as he brushed his face with sweaty palms. "Good luck with all of that, I'm taking the Maserati out for a drive." He then got up and left down a nearby hallway towards the garage, his footsteps thundering inside the hollowed out home. Mr. Blue stared at him as he left, then glanced at the scene around him.
The morning had now entirely enveloped the mansion. Not a single soul could be heard within his immediate surround area, now being left alone to bask in his scolding. After staring at the riches and luxuries that were strewn about the house, each as entitled to him as the next, he shrugged off his burdens and proceeded to head up the stairs. The day was now upon the dreary million dollar homes and hills, and it was going to be a intensely hot one at that.
