Last Trophy

Bernard Wilmington III Esq. stood naked in front of his bedroom mirror, a monstrosity wrapped in an intricate gold frame that dwarfed the tiny aged man. With one hand, heavy with expensive rings, he tugged at his skin and receding hair, poked at the parts he had paid to have rejuvenated, revamped, youth-anized. The other hand held his incredibly thick glasses at different lengths in front of his face, desperately trying to find a distance that adequately separated him from his ever worsening eyesight. Unfortunately, the better he could see, the more unpleasant the view. 

     He pulled a silk robe over his body, slipped his feet into tailor made slippers and picked up a scrimshaw pipe stuffed with imported tobacco. A nearby butler leaned in to light it and Bernard puffed pensively. He wandered beyond his bed chambers, through a vaulted hallway lined on either side with huge portraits of his family members going back generations. As he neared the stairs he paused at the portrait of his younger brother, Bartlett Wilmington.

The two men were absolute opposites. Bernard used his family’s vast fortune and connections to build a ruthless empire. If there was a way to make money, Bernard was exploiting it. He had the kind of wealth that you never see on any list. It was an obscene and indecent amount, the kind of wealth that honesty does not gain. As such, any attempt to investigate his worth was quickly dealt with through the means of a vast network of people that did unpleasant things.

Bernard puffed a cloud of smoke across the younger man’s portrait. Where the rest of the family was dressed in earth-toned formal wear, Bartlett insisted on a loud tropical shirt, with the top two buttons undone, and bright orange pants. Where the rest of his family was stoic and in repose, Bartlett wore an open mouth gaping grin through his unkempt beard that reached down into the chest hair that overgrew his shirt.

Bernard was 10 years Bartlett’s senior. Bartlett never showed any interest in the family affairs, preferring instead to live modestly. He owned a nudist colony out by the mountains that he ran year round. Bernard hadn’t spoken to him in years. Even when they had been speaking, they rarely got along. Bartlett was a mountain of a man, a good foot taller than his brother and at least twice as wide. Bernard considered him an embarrassment, and as he squinted at his brother’s portrait he whistled for the nearest butler. “Take this one down, Benson. Put it in the taxidermist’s study. I needn’t subject myself to the eyesore any longer.”

“Yes sir.”

Bernard walked down the grand staircase into the main hall, where his physician waited to greet him.

“Dr. Meldon, thank you for making the house call.”

The doctor laughed nervously, “Well for what you’re paying me sir, I’d be crazy not to.”

Bernard glared at the doctor, and puffed his pipe once. He hated when people mentioned a want for money to him, it felt grotesque. “Indeed. Doctor, I wish to continue on with my hunts…”

The doctor looked around at the dozens of trophies scattered around the room in various fearsome poses. There was a lion, elephant, rhinoceros, water buffalo, tiger, polar bear, giraffe, wolverine, and even a mink whale strapped with wires from the rafters. Their mouths all hung open. Dusty, dry, and forever snarling.

“Yes, er.” The doctor cleared his throat, “You’ve got quite the collection here.”

“Nowadays I live for it, doctor.” Bernard walked over to his tiger, frozen in a prowl with fangs wide. He ran a finger thoughtfully along one of the canine teeth. “A man can find many kinds of power. I’ve sought them all. The thing I covet most is undeniable respect. Undeniable power demands respect, wouldn’t you say?”

“Well, I suppose I wouldn’t know.”

“No, you wouldn’t. Wealth holds power, doctor. I have wealth in abundance. I have power. I own everything I want. I own men, governments, corporations, real estate, you name it. But that’s a rather common form of power. Do you know what undeniable power is?”

The doctor shrugged.

“Death is the ultimate undeniable power. To take from a being the last thing it has, its dying breath, that is power. That is why I must hunt. Everything else is meaningless, it’s aspirin to a heroin addict.”

“I wouldn’t really know, I’m a vegetarian.”

Bernard grunted disdainfully. “You’ve written that I am unfit to hunt, making my eyesight out as something to be mocked.”

“You’re legally blind, sir. And you’re 65.”

     “DON’T PRESUME TO TELL ME MY OWN AGE!”

The doctor gulped but stood firm. “Sir, I’m trying to explain to you that in my medical opinion you aren’t fit to hunt the most dangerous game in the world.”

“Bah!”

“I mean, you couldn’t possibly see any of the game. What was the last thing you shot?”

“Well that would be this beastly water buffalo, just four months back.” Said Bernard with pride.

“You shot that four months ago?”

“That’s right.”

“Were you alone?”

“Of course not! I had my porters and guides with me.”

     “Were you the only one shooting?”

“No, both guides were also shooting, but it was my shot that took the beast down.”

The doctor waited and the silence acted as a retort.

“You don’t mean to say… you think my guide shot the animal and only told me it was my shot?”

The doctor looked at a nearby butler, who seemed uncomfortable. “I mean, yes. I believe you haven’t been in any condition to shoot game for years.”

Bernard’s face began turning purple. “YOU CALL ME A LIAR IN MY OWN HOME?”

The doctor took a step back, “Sir, you wouldn’t come back in to my office to hear me out. You’re too old-“

“Then make me younger! Surely there are options!”

“Sir, you can’t simply buy youth.”

     Bernard’s face burned as the doctor was ushered out of the mansion. He stormed back up to his bedchambers, looking at himself again in his mirror. Glasses on, glasses off. He threw the glasses aside. “Benson, Archie, prepare my hunting outfit. I wish to go on a hunt this very afternoon.”

     The butlers looked sideways at each other for a moment.

     “Well? What is it? The two of you can’t possibly be siding with that hack of a physician!”

     They both knew he was as blind as they come. They’d seen him fumble and bumble his way about the manor, but this was not a man to be spurned.

     “Yes sir,” said Benson.

     “I shall phone the guide.” Said Archie.

     Bernard held a wrinkled hand aloft, “No, no guide. The three of us shall go into the mountain, and I alone will take the shot. Surely three men such as we shall be able to manage a hunt in our own backyard.”

     The butlers both looked at the ground. “Yes sir,” they said in unison.

     Bernard cursed as he stumbled through the underbrush of the forested mountain hillside near his manor that his family had kept as a tax deductible wilderness refuge since wilderness refuges became tax deductible. The butlers followed closely, with movements cut short by the matching pairs of safari gear they had borrowed from Bernard. Neither man was any taller than Bernard had been in his youth, but the clothes were tailored to a shrunken man’s frame and fit them rather tightly around their groins, chests and shoulders. Their lower forearms and calves were completely exposed to the rough terrain.

     “What exactly are we hunting for, sir?” Benson asked politely.

     Bernard’s face was set deep with fierce determination. “Whatever the hell is unlucky enough to find itself in our way! Fate will decide which life we take today.”

     All three men carried rifles. Bernard marched forward, head down, like a child playing as infantry storming enemy territory. Each butler had served a time in the military and followed a distance behind, holding the weapons awkwardly and with reluctance. Archie would shoot Benson a look with eyebrows high on his forehead. Benson would return with a shrug and a wiggle of his massive mustache. The two men slowly let Bernard gain ground in front of them, his bloodlust further blinding him to his surroundings.

     As the old man lost them over a hillside by a good 20 meters, the men slowed and began to whisper.

“How long do we let the old bat wander around out here?”

Mustache wiggle. “Until he tires himself out. You know how he gets.”

Left eyebrow down, right eyebrow up. “Yes, but how much worse is it going to get? You saw how he took the doctor’s news.”

“Well you know Bernard. He’d sooner bury you than admit his own mortality.”

A shot thundered from the hillside in front of them and they both froze for a moment, before charging up. They came upon Bernard, crouched behind a decomposing log covered in moss, lichens and ferns. At the bottom of the ravine in front of him was a stream running down the mountain, and patches of wild berries. A large beast lay dead.

“How do you like that!” Bernard was practically dancing. “Can’t shoot my own trophies can I? I’ll be a joke no longer, lot of good the two of you did. Call the groundskeeper and my taxidermist. I want this bear stuffed by tomorrow. Benson, invite over all the chaps from the hunting club. I want them to see that this old man can still give as good as he gets!”

Benson and Archie stood staring at the kill, mouths open. Archie furrowed his brow and spoke first, “Uh sir, are you sure? That bear, looks quite unhealthy.”

“Nonsense! It’s as fine a specimen as any!”

Benson stammered, “Er, it’s a bit bald isn’t it?”

“THAT DOESN’T MAKE IT ANY LESS OF A TROPHY! It must have alopecia, a rare trophy indeed amongst an otherwise hirsute species.”

“Indeed,” agreed the butlers.

     As Bernard sat with his pipe in his smoking jacket cupping a glass of brandy and looking quite pleased with himself, Benson entered the study with the taxidermist in tow.

     “Ah my good man! Have you seen to the fearsome trophy?”

     The taxidermist wore a look of grave confusion on his face. “Eh, sir Wilmington, of course I would never question a man such as yourself, but are you sure? Have you taken a look at the… trophy?”

     Darkness fell over the old man’s brow. “Do you wish to accuse me of being blind as well? I know what I shot, prepare the bear for my party tomorrow or I will have you taken off the payroll.”

     The taxidermist was sweating uncomfortably and gripping a tweed paddy hat in his hands. “Well if you insist sir, I have to ask for a higher price.”

     “Of course you will, an overnight job is more than I usually ask.”

     “No, quite a bit more I’m afraid. Because of the… well the species is quite unusual if you understand.”

     Bernard looked annoyed, “Price is of no consequence, but if you insist on pathetic gouging I insist that it be done up with all of the bells and whistles at your disposal.”

     The taxidermist’s face was set in deep displeasure as he turned and began walking away, shaking his head, but stopping and turning thoughtfully before he’d walked out the door. “Sir, I have an animatronic package if you wish.”

     Bernard waved his cigar around in the air, “That’ll be fine my good man, just get to it so that it’s ready for the party tomorrow.”

     The taxidermist nodded with a wry smile, shooting Benson a sharp look as he made his exit, “Of course sir, I’ll have it ready. But this will be my final commission.”

     The gaggle of peacocking men of influence stood in Bernard’s main hall, eagerly striving to get a brag in edgewise. They were dressed in the ridiculous way rich men do, outfits expensive and tailored but hideously worn on their ungainly and broken statures. Cowboy hats on soft heads and gaudy firearms around extended wastelines.

It seemed a perversion of life itself for a collection of the most beautiful and powerful creatures in the world to be here. Forced to bear witness to the men the world with a new kind of power. What does a water buffalo know of generational wealth? What chance did an elephant have against compound interest?

     In the middle of the hall a white canvas sheet covered Bernard’s newest trophy. He made his entrance in a satin robin blue suit and matching top hat. “Gentleman!”

     The group applauded him as he made an awkward bow.

     “I’m sure by now you’re more than familiar with my collection.”

     “Ah, but it never fails to astound, my good man!” Simpered a stout man with bad hair plugs and a face sagging with layered Botox.

     “Well I regret to inform you that my doctor has decided I am no longer fit to hunt.”

     The gaggle hissed and booed at the abstract concept of being denied.

     “However, we are not the type of man to be told no.”

     The men chortled agreements.

     “So I went into the nearby woods on my own, and stumbled upon a fearsome bear.”

     Bernard grabbed a hold of the canvas and walked in front of the trophy dramatically, “Behold the impossible! A fearsome bear, albeit suffering from alopecia, which I’m sure only made him the more fearsome! Shot by a man deemed blind by medical science that very morning!”

     With a showman’s flourish, Bernard whipped the canvas away and the trophy was revealed. The audience gasped. Two men dropped the wine glasses they were holding, which shattered on the floor. Another fainted, falling heavily to the antique rug beneath.

     A silence filled the manor. Bernard looked from his audience to his trophy in confusion.

     Archie and Benson stood watching from the side. A mustache twitched and eyebrows raised.

     “What is it?” Demanded Bernard. “Damn you, what is it?”

     A gaunt man with a toupee pointed a long finger out at the trophy, his eyes wide, “Bernard, that is no bear.”

     Bernard fumbled to pull his glasses out of his pocket. He held them away from his face far and squinted through them. His gaze rose up the trophy’s fleshy bare body, past its chest and into the gaping mouth open grin visible through a poorly kempt beard.

     The gaunt man still pointed, his hand shaking, “MY GOD, IT’S BARTLETT WILMINGTON!”

     Bernard’s face was unbelieving, his mouth was working but no words were coming out. His eyes made their way back down his brother’s body until he made it to the waxy, preserved genitals that hung between the man’s legs, and up to the stomach. Within the belly button there was a small black electronic device. The motion sensor.

     At that moment, the animatronic feature was triggered. The trophy began to jerk and dance, hips moving from side to side, testicles slapping against thighs, as a tinny voice sang, “Here’s a little song I wrote, might want to sing it note for note…”

     Bernard fell to his knees.

     “Don’t worry, bear happy… Don’t worry bear happy now-“