The Plot Calls #40 : "Luxurious Success"

Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination and/or Ai-assisted-content-generation. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

____

Julian Cross didn’t envy wealth. He envied luxury.

His brother’s wealth didn’t matter, but the cars, the spiral staircase in his home, and the image of a luxurious life did. Life wasn’t worth living without a German engine, a trophy wife, and kids in private school. They had it all—or so it seemed. Julian despised them for it.

His life was spreadsheets, calendars, upgrades. Their lives? Coffee in expensive porcelain. They didn’t have mornings—they simply woke up when they decided. Walks in the park? Their backyard was a park.

Julian worked harder and harder, but he could never obtain the shining luxuries his brother took for granted, at least from his perspective.

“I want it. I need it. My sheets should be bespoke. The leather in my car should be handmade. My tub should be trimmed with gold,” he muttered, hungry for luxury. Then, Julian heard something—no, it was more like a feeling.

The sensation of a sound came while Julian sat alone in his penthouse kitchen. He scrolled through shopping apps, making luxurious wishlists. His body quivered when he thought about wearing bespoke socks and rubbing his feet together. The sensation was stronger—a whisper without a voice. It was low. Soft. Piercing.

Curious, Julian wandered into his living room, as if called by something ancient.

And then, he saw it.

The plot—a patch of black dirt shimmering with a purple hue. It glowed like a flickering ripple in reality composed of moist soil. It pulsed. Breathing. Humming. Calling. Waiting.

In the center, a graceful porcelain hand reached upward. Open.

Julian felt something warm in his heart. A craving like his: corrupted and ceaseless.

As if by instinct, Julian marched to his closet and rummaged through his safe for the first phone he ever used to build his empire—an old flip phone. Julian placed the phone into the porcelain palm. It was imprinted with the greed his soul yearned for. Needed. Craved. Lusted.

The porcelain palm closed. It sank into the glistening soil. Julian’s offering was accepted.

Without a word, Julian felt in his soul—a pact. A pact with something that would deliver the excessive luxuries he envied. His heart hummed.

Julian smiled and floated to bed. He dreamt of gold bricks, jackets of shark skin, cups made of elephant tusks, and countertops made of gems and jewels.

The next day, his company gained more visibility. By 5 p.m., the stock had risen from $22 to $65. Julian’s knees quivered. His mouth salivated. His soul ached with the desire to cash out, but he felt better imagining what he could buy than actually getting it.

Amused and excited, Julian fed the plot.

Over several weeks, like routine, the plot called. Julian fed it. Each offering a bump to the brain, dissolving his identity and ability to reason—like the crescent moon that occasionally lined Julian’s flared nostril. Coffee for fiends and frauds.

The shares of his company went from $65 to $70, then $90, then $110, and then $122.

Like clockwork, Julian fed the soil. A recurring, unconscious waltz.

Time passed. Days blurred. Meetings became predictable routines. It was the inevitable success he bought through feeding the soil to feed his envious, hungry heart.

Slowly, but willfully avoidant, something in Julian’s soul began to understand what he’d done.

He gazed into the soil. It was a window into another realm. A black pit with a purple glow.

Then, Julian saw a face. A porcelain mannequin. Smooth. Graceful. No features. Pale, brilliant porcelain.

He would have felt afraid. Julian would have felt concerned. He would have thought twice. But the porcelain exchange melted his mind. He dissolved into a mechanical creature that stood by—idle—to feed, to serve, to satiate The One Beneath.

Products sold like crazy. Success. Success. And more success.

Julian should have been excited. He should have been ecstatic. But he was fading.

The essence that made Julian who he was had become a voice he couldn’t hear.

Now, he was just spectating his success—staring at success manifesting itself.

The envy that fueled him lost its luster. He could buy all the luxuries he craved, and yet, craved nothing.

Then, Julian’s idle mind had a slow, fleeting thought:

“Even if I could have anything I wanted, envy was all I ever had. It was the what that made the who that my face represented. There is no one to envy. There is only offering… Feeding… Serving.”

Envy was the sound of all of Julian’s heartbeats. It composed the thoughts of his mind. It was the identity of his soul. Without envy, Julian was just a person—a person who fed the plot.

A plot person.

Oblivious to the loss of his hair, the paling of his skin, and the hollowing of his soul, Julian wasn’t even hungry for the illusion of hollow success anymore. He wasn’t hungry at all. He was what once was.

But what was he? Who knows. Who cares? The soil shimmers. The plot calls.

And yet, every time he fed the plot, small bumps of self arose—he bought the toys, trinkets, and junk he craved, only to offer it back to the soil.

Money kept coming. A million dollars here. Fifty million there. A hundred fifty million here and there.

Already financially well-off, but now with time and no real responsibilities, Julian bought himself a fortress.

He filled it with symbols of luxury: the elephant tusk mugs he wanted, a flute made from a rhino’s horn, and pens with ink made from liquid gold.

Julian bought himself a desk made of silver with gold handles on the drawers. He spent his time simply staring at it. Sighing.

Then, Julian spent his time gazing into the plot. Sometimes, Julian would see into it—through it—his hollow eyes didn’t blink. He stared at The One Beneath. Idle. The One Beneath stared back. Its smooth porcelain face had no eyes. Its mannequin mouth fixed shut.

Thoughts passed here and there: Did The One Beneath have a name? Was it someone once too? Did the plot call it? Did it call the plot? Why was it so hungry?

The thoughts would eventually terminate with Julian’s mind going blank after thinking:

“The soil shimmers, the window opens, the plot calls—Feed the One Beneath.”

Julian stopped responding to emails. His calls went to voicemail. Even the security company that monitored his cameras grew concerned that Julian hadn’t left his home in months. He hadn’t ordered delivery.

There was a fear Julian might have died in his home. Alone—working himself to death.

Concerned, Julian’s brother, CFO, friends, and parents called the police.

They reached the newly promoted yet seasoned officer, Detective Gunn. A detective gaining notoriety for solving seemingly impossible crimes and disappearances. Detective Gunn and his new partner, Detective Brighton, found Julian’s luxurious home stripped bare. All that remained was luxurious furniture that had never been used. Dusty. Firm. Ignored.

Gunn sighed.

“…Evelyn… Connor… Officer Alvarez…” he muttered, low, crestfallen, and concerned.

“What are you talking about, Gunn?” His new partner Detective Brighton asked, concerned. She saw something in Gunn’s face—an expression she didn’t know he was capable of. Fear.

Gunn pointed at specks of dirt in the middle of the empty living room.

He held back tears of terror and whispered:

“The Plot Thickens.”

____

Want to follow my horror, fantasy, scifi, and romance content as I publish it?

Subscribe to my "Mark A Figueroa Presents" Official YouTube Channel for videos.

Join my Official Discord Server for notifications by genre.

Join my WhatsApp Group for easy and simple updates for all my content.