Fame, they said, wasn't everything—but what was the point of living if no one knew you'd existed? Merlot couldn't afford a vanity press; years spent writing instead of earning had drained his bank account.
His story surged like floodwater through a drowned city. Borealia scorned Uncle Sam's claim to her healthcare, insisting he hadn't paid his dues. Forgot how she'd leaned on his military might, taking freely while offering nothing in return.
The president wanted to cut healthcare for low-income families so his children could inherit estates tax-free. Merlot saw through it. Why bother working for the next generation when you can steal from everyone else? He used to worry about war wounds. Now he worried about paperwork—whether his coverage would survive the next vote.
Merlot had zero interest in running for president. Four hundred thousand dollars a year sounded decent—until you remembered the price of admission. A serious campaign could shallow $1 billion or more. The perks were narrower than advertised. A private chef came with the White House, but groceries didn't. When Ricky was in office, he'd guarded his candy stash like state secrets—every peanut was self-funded.
Hopefully, that gourmet chef was a wizard with instant noodles, because he'd be bankrupt after the race. Even paid for his own toilet paper — opting for the cheapest single-ply, which scraped his skin raw and finished off the last scraps of his dignity. The mansion was rent-free with the amenities of a retirement home. No indoor sauna, no pool slide, no squash court; he'd stayed in hotels with better amenities. The job lasted four years at most, and then came the eviction notice. Lose the election, and you weren't a statesman—you were a squatter. The pension was a fraction of what 'real' professionals earned.
He would have to pass. Unless the job came with eight figures and toilet paper that didn't double as sandpaper, it wasn't worth drowning in forms.
When Merlot received his inheritance from his father, it was meagre to begin with—made smaller when his aunt, Kathy, sued him, insisting she deserved a larger share. The legal challenge dragged on for months, bleeding the estate dry through lawyers' fees. Merlot hasn't spoken to her since. She had taken her brother's side, declaring his desire to become a woman proof of madness.
What remained of the inheritance was too little for college tuition but enough for a bottle of cheap Sangria. Descended into alcoholism, a spiral that lasted more than a decade before his mother finally persuaded him to enter rehab.
Countless therapy sessions failed to erase the memories: drunken screaming matches, the nights his father staggered home swinging, and the night that left him too broken ever to imagine a family of his own—when his father slapped him across the face for wearing his mother's dress in the privacy of his bedroom.
The conversion camp came next—money spent on discipline masquerading as love. For weeks, he endured cold bunks and rigid schedules that echoed military training, minus the religious sermons. Merlot didn't change. Growing only colder toward his father, knowing the money spent on "correction" could have gone towards college, a deferment and a future.
The new bill offered no estate for Merlot—just a bitter truth: some inherit fortunes, others only silence.