On a panoply of screens, Crawford Thorne is watching. Watching. Watching.

  And what he’s been watching—over and over again—is the knighthood of Gary Graves. There’s not much footage of the actual event, just a five-second segment clipped from a local news broadcast.

  But that’s all Thorne needs to fuel his rage.

  As of now, it’s well beyond righteous.

  “LLOYD!” he screams, and in less than a second, his assistant is there.

  Jerry Lloyd knows better than to take two seconds. Twenty-four-seven on-demand appearances are a requirement of Lloyd’s contract. Other clauses specify the appropriate amount of fawning and subservience necessary to ensure constant downward mobility.

  “You called, sir.”

  “200,000 orders, Lloyd. And this clown, this cameraman, got a knighthood in his first month? How could you allow this to happen?”

  “I, uh…”

  “The narwhal tusk, Lloyd. Bring it to me.”

  Lloyd blinks. “The… narwhal tusk, sir?”

  Crawford’s stare is venomous. “Did I misspeak, Lloyd? Did I stutter?”

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  “I just don’t understand why the narwhal tusk would be—”

  “Are you refusing a direct order, Lloyd?”

  Lloyd swallows. “I’m pleading my case. Look, I’ll admit we didn’t see Graves coming. But they’ve only sold a fraction of what we have.”

  Crawford’s voice drops to a whisper. “The narwhal tusk.”

  Jerry Lloyd traipses slowly toward the narwhal tusk. He knows he should resist, but he doesn’t. It’s hard work ignoring all your survival instincts, but Jerry Lloyd is an extremely hard worker. And what is work, if not doing things you don’t want to do for reasons you can’t comprehend?

  Lloyd gazes at the tusk—the weapon of choice for his clearly mad master. His eyes linger on its frighteningly sharp point.

  “Let’s get this over with,” he mutters, taking the tusk from the wall.

  Crawford waits on the balcony of the seventy-third story.

  “Close the door behind you!” he shouts.

  Jerry obliges, offering the tusk to his master.

  “You remember Clause 17a of your contract?”

  “Please don’t,” says Jerry.

  “I expect a satisfying level of resistance, Lloyd!” roars Crawford Thorne, wielding the narwhal tusk like a gladiator. He stabs! Retracts. Stabs again!

  To the bitter end, Jerry Lloyd performs his contractually obligated duty—wrestling, fighting, spitting, crawling, writhing, and flopping about on the floor.

  “Help!” he screams.

  “Help!” It’s not a performance anymore—he actually means it.

  “Somebody help!” he cries, knowing, in his heart of hearts, no one is coming.

  “Oh God,” he wheezes, as the narwhal tusk is torn from his chest once more.

  He convulses on the ground as Crawford Thorne reaches for the final indignity.

  Lloyd whimpers. “Not the air fryer! Anything but the air fryer! For the love of God, help me!”

  It’s the air fryer that ultimately helps him—the blunt force trauma a fitting end to a storied career.

  Thorne places the bloody air fryer on a small table.

  He glances over to the door.

  A new assistant is waiting.

  “The name’s Lloyd, sir. Jerry Lloyd.”

  Crawford Thorne nods in approval.

  “First order of business, Lloyd: Clean up the old you. The dead you. And when you’re finished, we’ll plot the demise of Gary and the Fishmen.”