Pears and Perils (3 page)

3.

Edward Dillon’s black-polished shoes tread silently down the well-lit tile floors of the hallway leading to his office. He was a tall man in his early forties, wearing a suit that even Dr. Caruthers would have found impressive. His company, Camelot Burgers LLC, owned the entire building, but this floor was dedicated to the use of the President and CEO. There were few residents here besides him, only a handful of upper-management personnel and, of course, their secretaries. Most of the corporate employees worked on the floors below, toiling amidst a myriad of cubicles and subpar coffee. There were no three-sided felt walls on this floor, and all the coffees and teas were imported and expensive. Edward liked a bit of separation between himself and the cogs running the machine; he felt it kept his head clearer when hard choices had to be made. He reached his office and found a rarely seen employee, Lawrence Farran, waiting on him.

Edward Dillon’s office would have left Mr. Henderson seething in envy. It had twice the square footage of a good downtown apartment and the back wall was made entirely of windows so that one could stand at the edge of the plush carpet and feel they were floating over the city below. The art on the walls was original and costly, the desk made from a rare tree that was illegal to harvest, and the marble in the attached bathroom was imported from various locations in Europe. Edward hadn’t come into this office by backstabbing or corporate treachery, either. No, he’d done it the old fashioned way: by being born into money.

Camelot Burgers was turning a hundred years old and it was the most profitable and wide-spread chain of fast food restaurants in the entire world. His grandfather had started the company in the form of a small restaurant in Bedford, Texas, with a grill, a few patties, and a delicious recipe for sauce. Since then it had grown and been passed down through the family, from Edward’s grandfather to Edward’s father, then to Edward, and one day it would go to… well, Edward preferred not to dwell on that thought. The point was that Camelot Burgers had been around for a long time, and Edward intended to see it stay functioning for many years more. That was why he invested in promotions like the Island Adventure Giveaway.

“I take it there’s news?” Edward asked. Lawrence wasn’t one to come around without reason. He’d been with the company since before Edward was born, and even as President, he wasn’t still entirely clear on what Lawrence did, though he did know Lawrence’s official title was “Executive Advisor.” So far as he could tell, Lawrence kept the wheels of the machine that was the company greased, smoothing out problems and making sure small troubles never evolved into big ones.

“The last wrapper was found.” Lawrence didn’t bother elaborating; they’d been waiting nearly a week since the second one was called in from Phoenix, Arizona.

“That’s fantastic; we can finally get the shoot moving along. I assume he’ll be here in short order?”

“All three will be in conference room A at eight in the morning, sharp.”

Edward didn’t know why Lawrence bothered saying the word “sharp”: his general manner conveyed such a sentiment far more efficiently. No one was entirely sure how old Lawrence Farran was, though to look at him you wouldn’t guess a day past sixty. His hair was grey, but it had been that color since Edward was a boy, so who knew what it signified? He wore a few wrinkles around the eyes that added more a sense of distinction than one of frailty. He was still trim and spry, moving with surprising speed when the moment called for it. He kept his clothing neat and pressed, his suits expensive enough to be respectable but not so extravagant as to draw ire. Lawrence was precise, like a surgeon’s scalpel, a feature that could be simultaneously desirable and offputting.

“Sounds great; we’ve had all the logistics set up for weeks now.” Edward didn’t ask the implied question: he didn’t have too. Lawrence didn’t swing by to deliver good news; there were couriers and administrative assistants with less job security for that.

“We do have a slight problem. It seems your son showed up last week, offering to help with the promotion.”

“Oh dear.” Edward loved his child, but it was in the same way the sun loved the earth. There was a distant relationship, and the knowledge that the latter depended on the former; however, the two were so compositionally different that achieving any true sense of mutual understanding was mere fantasy.

“The executives assured him everything was under control. He can be rather relentless, though,” Lawrence continued. Edward appreciated the attempt at diplomacy, regardless of how thinly veiled it might be.

“Maybe we can just send him to a different resort in Kenowai and hope he gets confused.”

“I doubt it. Despite his demeanor the boy can be rather resourceful at times. I do have thoughts on a possible solution.”

Edward felt his shoulders relax a bit. This was why Lawrence had managed to stay with a single company despite economics dips and corporate restructurings. No matter the problem, he was always ready with a fix. “I’m all ears.”

“We already have a professional team to film the event; however, it wouldn’t hurt to have some footage from a layman’s perspective. The ‘point of view’ style that conveys amateurish camera-working abilities has become a valid cinematographic strategy in recent years.”

“I see. So we stick a camera in his hands, tell him to stay out of the shots, and maybe even end up with a few usable seconds of footage,” Edward put together. “He feels like he’s helping, and doesn’t cause too much trouble. Lawrence, you are a lifesaver, my good man.”

“I aim to please, sir.” Lawrence smiled, which looked less like a friendly gesture and more like a baring of teeth.

“Get everything worked out; we’ll deal with our contestants tomorrow. You said eight, right?”

“Sharp.” Smile.

“Right. Sharp. Of course.” Edward did his very best not look uncomfortable in his opulent office as his underling exited the room. It was akin to trying to hide water stains on the crotch of one’s pants; all the shuffling and hand movements only drew more attention to the embarrassment.

* * *

Kenowai was an island in the Atlantic a few hundred miles southeast of the Caribbean. It was renowned for its stifling heat, its breath-taking beaches, its lush vegetation, and for producing a particularly hardy yet delicious breed of pear indigenous to the island. Kenowai also held the distinction of having been conquered by no fewer than twenty countries since it had first been discovered. The longest of these conquests had lasted six days, and that record was held by a particularly stalwart group of Spaniards.

The citizens of Kenowai never resisted their new ruling nation; in fact, it was quite the opposite. When a war party reached land, ready to battle tooth and nail for the right of owning this ultimately strategically-useless island, they were met with open arms and amiable sentiments. The Kenowai people would cheerfully greet these foreigners, insisting upon showing them all the natural wonders of the island. These tours involved a lot of hiking in the sun, a process much more tolerable for the scantily clad natives than for people wearing wool cloth and heavy armor. By the end of the day, everyone was famished, so the people of Kenowai prepared a welcome feast for their new overlords. Because these feasts were a special occasion, the food was heavily flavored using the zago berry, a local delicacy to the natives and an almost supernaturally-potent laxative to those whose stomachs were unaccustomed to it. By the time the foreigners would recover, usually around day three, they would declare that everything was in order and if Kenowai kept saluting the flag there wouldn’t be any trouble. Then they would promptly cast sail to get away from the tropical oven of torment as rapidly as possible. It was the privilege of the oldest citizen in Kenowai to take down the flag and place it with the others at a display in the local tavern.

Industrialization had come to Kenowai in bits and pieces as more foreigners showed up with intentions of relaxation rather than exploration. The natives found these new people didn’t know what a fish or a pear was really worth, and thus their tourism industry was born. Unlike most island nations, they hadn’t allowed corporations to take root in their land; instead, even the most posh resorts were owned by someone who lived on Kenowai. They had plenty of use for the tourists’ money, but not their cultures. Kenowai was a place where traditions were observed out of belief instead of habit, where sacred was a word that still held meaning, and where they nodded politely at the suggestions of alternative religions and philosophies while still insisting that this was the freshest fish on the island and it would be folly to pass up such a bargain. Kenowains walked a delicate balance, happy to sell their wares and views but stalwart in a refusal to trade away their gods.

This was part of the reason Sprinkles loved his kingdom so. While the rest of the world’s countries were hurriedly casting away their roots and legends, Kenowai dipped theirs in bronze and placed them on the mantle. It was why one could still hear magic in the wind and feel the power of the earth when walking barefoot in the grass. Kenowai was a place with History.

Of course, wherever such an oasis exists, be it cultural or literal, there will always be someone who looks at it and only sees the profit to be made from setting up shop and selling refreshments. In this instance it happened to be a man who wore polished black shoes and had an office that overlooked downtown Dallas.

4.

Clint made the call about the winning wrapper on a Tuesday morning. By Thursday he was sitting in a conference room stocked with sodas, fruit, and a congratulatory banner, waiting on the CEO of Camelot Burgers to grace them with his presence. In the room with Clint was a tall girl a few years younger than him with mocha skin and a set of horn-rimmed glasses. He was vaguely aware that the horn-rim was making a comeback among people who cared far too much about style yet wanted to appear that they didn’t. From the way she fidgeted constantly, Clint had a feeling she wasn’t one of those people. Usually that kind of Type-A twitching was reserved for people too involved in other things to be bothered with fashion, even ironic fashion. She was pretty, too: a lean face and large eyes emphasized all the more by the fact that her hair was pulled and bound so it could in no way obscure her view.

The other woman in the room was much older; Clint would wager a guess she was late sixties at the youngest. She wore a denim vest over a tan dress and her grey-black hair wafted free of any ties, barrettes, or chemical sculpting agents. Unlike the younger girl, she wore a contented grin, merely moving her eyes about the room as if she was constantly amazed by the world surrounding her. Clint had seen that behavior before, and in Golden Acres it signaled that someone needed their medication reduced. She seemed pleasant enough, though, which was more than he could say for the rest of the room.

There was a pair of men wearing turtlenecks and scarves along with their jeans, wrapped in a whispered conversation with one another that it was clear no one else was invited to join. Another man, closer to the age of the older woman, sat placidly in his tailored suit and watched the room carefully. It was likely an overseeing meant to instill confidence, to make them feel as though they were being looked after. It felt more like a hawk staring a mouse, just daring it run. Clint briefly contemplated what would happen if he made a sudden movement when the old man’s eyes were on him. He suspected it would not end well.

Before temptation and curiosity could get the better of him, the doors swung open and two men walked into the room.

“So sorry I’m late, everyone. I was held up, um, ironing out some last minute videography details. My name is Edward Dillon, but you all may feel free to call me Mr. Dillon. I trust you have all introduced yourselves in the downtime?”

Edward was greeted by a brief silence after which the old man in the room, Lawrence, gave a reply.

“I thought it would only be polite to wait for you, sir. That way we only have to do these once.”

“Oh, right, right. Well, how about we go around the room and say who we are and where we’re from? Since you already know my name, I’ll tell you that I’m a Dallas native who is still happy to live here. How about you, young lady?”

The girl in the glasses stood up halfway, like she was getting in starting position for the moment she was allowed to race back to her seat. “My name is April Parrish. I’m from Madison, Wisconsin, and I’m currently in my junior year, majoring in biology.”

She dropped herself back down like the chair had done some ancient wrong to her, then sat quietly while her ears turned red as she realized she’d added a category that wasn’t required in the introduction. Fortunately, before anyone could point it out, the old woman lifted from her chair and addressed the room.

“I go by Falcon Rainwater, but you all may call me whatever name you wish. I have come here from Phoenix, Arizona, but I am from the Earth itself, as are we all.”

No one quite knew what to say to that, so Clint seized the silence to get his introduction over with. “My name is Clint Tucker. I’m from Pensacola, Florida. That’s all.” Clint was barely back in his seat when the next speaker came forward, though this one was far less shy about his introduction than any of the others had been.

“Sup, bros and girlos? Since we’re all gonna be tight, I’ll skip the full name and tell y’all to call me Thunder for short.”

This came from the young man who had walked in with Edward Dillon. He looked about the same age as Clint, but that and his gender were the only discernible similarities between the two. Thunder had dark, spiked hair with the tips frosted a bleach blonde, his pink polo shirt had the collar starched into a permanent popped position, his plaid shorts were lined with all manner of cargo pockets, and the truly observant people in the room (Lawrence and April) noticed when he walked that there was a beer opener built into the bottom of both of his flip flops. “To sum it up, I’m from the Dee Eff Dub like my pops, I love to party, I’m going to be rocking out on the video camera all trip long, I-”