It was not entirely his fault, but the man was an arrogant bastard, everyone said so. John was the eldest child of a wealthy family. He was raised in a pink marble palace on land which had been in the family for centuries. The house was surrounded on three sides with sloping lawns. A family of pigmy albino peacocks ambled freely, crowing.

By the age of ten all John knew of life was being dragged away from various pleasures to be presented to his parents. In velvet suits, John and his siblings were made to stand, in order of height, at the foot of the grand staircase for their parents to inspect them. This was often terrifying as Papa was explosive, especially late in the day, before he had his wine.

John was his mother’s favorite. He got away with the highest of crimes with her. Instead of punishments she fawned over him, stroked his blonde curls, and softly said, “I won’t let your father find out.” To this day John will tell you he blames his mother for teaching him how to lie. “That bitch!” he liked to say, “She showed me woman is weak when faced with man.” In time he would be beastly to his wives, and his mistresses.

John was born handsome which made his mother adore him more and his father care for him less. In hopes of gaining his father’s approval John pursued a career as an athlete. He represented his hometown in the national

sporting competition. Several years in a row, while in his twenties, he placed second in the high jump and the javelin, winning silver plates with his name engraved. John would bloat with pride and rush to show his father the trophies, and each time his glee was demolished when his father would scowl, and growl, “If you were a girl I could understand!” Before grabbing the prizes, and sneeringly examining them as if they were soiled undergarments, “Men take gold!” and with a flick of the wrist he would slice them over the balcony, where he took his afternoon constitution, and watch them plant, like setting suns, into the grass. Once, by accident one supposes, a trophy struck a peacock, took its head right off. Father and son stared as the headless body, with full plumage spread, slumped, twitching. The head bumped along the lawn, rolling like a snowball, with the trophy spinning alongside. Amazingly, the head stopped on the upturned silver plate, as if ready to be served.

His parents died in the fire; along with half his siblings and some of the staff. The structure survived unmolested by the terrible flames that had otherwise liquefied the contents. Rumors persisted that John had commissioned the tragedy. Some teeth were found in the ashes, little more. In the afternoons John took his tea and cakes and wine on the marble balcony, as his father had.