13
Scott
Punta del Este, Uruguay
Montevideo, Midasʼ Court
Territory: Pinochet
July 14th, 2004
Time: 2:30 PM
_____________________________
The vineyards of Montevideo rivaled that of Napa. Beaming and illustrious, Midasʼ touch bewitched the grapevines, with gold stretching across the orange and pink streaks of sky. Walking through the tasting tents that sat at the tongue of the Punta del Este racetracks, Scott watched Midasʼ court burst like a treasure trove. Pinochetʼs vintners dotted the edge of the land with the grace of a painter's brush, bringing refinement and repose only to those of the Orderʼs commonwealth that earned its exquisite wine.
The magicked creatures of the Other, the land was not the Orderʼs, worked as indentured servants, taking the repurposed wood of colonial tables and making floating chairs for the easily entertained mice. The city whispered of the infamous Midas and Pinochet duo, seasoning the event with mustard-seed bar tops and café tables offering samples of different coffee flavors. Flowers, bejeweled, surrendering to the gouts of sunlight.
The entire affair was intriguing to Scott. That was the word. Intriguing. Holding some type of hypnotic appeal that seemed to capture half of the Orderʼs interest, while for Scott, it just confused him even more. Walking hand-in-hand with Psyche, towards Emilia and her mindless sheep, he handed her a glass of Pinot Gris while he settled for some local Uruguyan red.
"You ok?" he asked, brows furrowed together in genuine, genuine concern. This poor girl had seen enough sh*t to last a lifetime. She clutched his hand, her heavenly figure drawing wandering eyes towards her.
"Yes, sir," she whispered, defeated. Scott ushered her through the crowds, listening to a sweet harp cut through the air.
"Feel free to call me Scott, Psyche," Scott said softly. "And really, donʼt sweat it. Itʼs been a...strange twenty-four hours."
A beat. Psyche trembled in his grasp, shivering in the heat.
"Actually–"
Emilia paraded among the Order courtiers with her flock of mindless sheep, approaching Scott and Psyche with snowy regard. In the distance, the mouth of the racetrack opened wide to more tourists, and Midas and Pinochet sat side-by-side, atop thrones made of golden bones, and in the distance, a group of woman lingered. Emilia beckoned Scott and Psyche to come forward, grinning ear-to-ear, and as they promenaded towards her, Scott found two things that piqued his interest: a glass of wine and the person holding it. The wine was oaky; like wood smoke, airy and rich – salacious and sultry in smell as well, but the womanʼs eyes, he noticed a shift in them. An ebony tint that seemed to swallow it whole, as she chatted up Emilia. Commanding the ears of both kings, a spectacular woman in her mid 40s, dressed in a that sophisticated swan black gown.
Scott swallowed, hard. Psyche stared at him, panicked.
Ruth. And she wasnʼt thirsty for red wine.
"The bottle is a vintage," the woman explained. "A ʼ96 Château Premier Cru Classé. Modeled after the 1996 one, and crafted brilliantly," Ruth told the crowd of onlookers as if theyʼd all known each other for a long time.
Emiliaʼs mouth gaped, entranced.
"Pinochetʼs mistress is explaining the art of winemaking, Scott," Emilia murmured to him as he and Psyche approached, biting her lip.
"Itʼs so...romantic," she hummed under her breath, her voice squeaking into a girlish giggle.
"Romantic," Psyche replied back, nervous.
Oh God, end me.
"My mother traveled a lot in her...glory days. She was an heiress, stealing a vineyard that belonged to my fatherʼs sister, Guerilla, alongside her lover, a vintner off-the-coast of Italy. Now, many years later, Uruguay is in its...renaissance. Money, the arts, food and drink – itʼs all...flourishing. Beautiful women seem to...fall from the skies, and sweet wine, seals it all in with a kiss."
The women sampled Ruthʼs wine, intrigued, chatting with contentment.
"Letʼs get out of here," Scott muttered, pleading.
"P-please," Psyche encouraged.
Stealing a flute of white wine, Scott maneuvered his way passed the hoard of woman, into a lounge within the kingsʼ tent. As the fumes of more Monte Carlo cigars filled the air with rills of smoke, and the artistry of porcelain angel caricatures dotted the floors in vibrant gold, Scott watched the water they spit look heavenly and pure, the Orderly courtiers look even more-so, and rattled internally.
His fingers shook in Psycheʼs. His heart jackhammered within his chest. The fabled Midas and Pinochet power duo was in reach, he could picture their Hellbender skins adorning their robes, the carnage that dripped from them, and a million thoughts raced in his mind.
The coup.
The pending slaughter.
The fall of Latin America.
The–
"¡M*erda!"
With a feigned means of shock, a woman that sounded like Emilia gasped at the liquor she spilled. An alcoholicʼs delight, laced with perfect Argentine banter, Ruthʼs intoxicating Château dripped all over him.
And the person who held the glass was none other than...
Robin. F*cking. DeMarcus.
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