Flash Fiction: The Death of Count Riker

This is one of my earliest pieces of flash fiction, and I haven't done much to change the original story; I wanted to share this because, in all honesty, this was written purely for fun, to challenge my personal idea that stories have to have a larger stylistic purpose, narrative structure, or theme. Some stories are for their authors, and I think this is one that served its purpose. I would change so much about this if I wanted to rewrite it again, but I love it for what it is: practice.

Count Riker knew the taste of poison like the back of his hand; so, it was a surprise to him when he died. The damn bread! He thought as he collapsed, I shouldn’t have eaten the bread! In the moments before he collided with the floor, he thought back to who would have wanted him dead. The list was long, but at least it would occupy his thoughts in the last moments. Better to count potential assassins than count sheep.

It was obvious to Count Riker who had done it, but his mind became occupied with why. He thought on the previous day, his head inches from the floor.

Yesterday hosted the most spectacular sunset Riker could remember watching in all his life: glorious curls of orange, purple, and red, deep as blood, stretched across the sky as the sun sunk beneath the horizon, at last content to let its harsh rays die for the night.

Riker had sat on a chair, slouched and relaxed, when the first of the suspects, an evil and conniving woman, waltzed into the room.

“What do you want, woman?” Riker barked.

“To spend time with my husband, husband,” came the slimy, sticky, sweet voice. Reya was powerful, a senator in her own right, but Riker knew her to have the temperament of the north end of a southbound mule. Her long, bone-like fingers razored over the folds of Riker’s ceremonial toga.

“You look like a swaddled child in that,” she remarked off-hand.

“And there goes any chance of you getting anything tonight,” Riker responded, his fingers encircling her stiletto wrist and throwing it off his shoulder, “Besides, you are looking rather like a soiled nappy yourself.” He looked away from her thin waist, her round behind swathed in gorgeous linen. In truth, she was always a drop-dead stunner.

“Well,” she said, a long flute of something effervescent and pale-yellow in her claws, “A drink, then?”

“No!” Riker barked, realizing he’d missed the last moments of the sunset because of her pandering, “No, the doctor told me not to drink at night. I swear woman, you’ll be the death of me.” He walked inside. He heard Reya sigh.

To his displeasure, his quarters were occupied with another ne'er-do-well. His aide, a small and churlish imp of a man, stood frozen by the door.

“Petrus! What are you doing here?”

“The Master called.”

“No you idiot, I didn’t call.”

“Are you sure, sir? I’m pretty sure I heard the Master call.”

“Well, I’m standing right here, and, I, on my life, didn’t call.”

“Oh,” he said, “Well, in that case, I’ll just see myself out.” The aide turned quickly to the door and swung the ornate panel outward.

“Petrus!” Riker shouted gleefully down the hallway, “Your toga’s on backward, you idiot!”

Reya walked up next to Riker and chewed absently on her thumbnail, “You shouldn’t be so hard on the man. He’s got a lot of issues.”

“Oh like you’re so hard on him!” Riker bit back. Reya sucked in her breath, but Riker cut her off, “You look like a puckered lemon.”

“Oh, bite me!” She threw her hands into the air.

“You’re too bitter, it wouldn’t be pleasant!” Riker shouted to her receding rump.

“Lemons are sour, you idiot!”

So, maybe it wasn’t so obvious to Riker. No one else had the gall to poison him, and yet, here he was, the flab in his cheek connecting in slow motion to the hard stones beneath him.

But it must have been one of them. A lightning bolt flashed across his fading field of vision. Or maybe both! He thought Petrus hung around him like the smell of death because he was eager to replace his master, but Riker never had considered the fact that the putrid smell came from--he internally gasped--a smelly affair! In his own bed!

But yes, it must be so, for Petrus was in a position to replace him, and Reya was never content with Riker. They both shared the same vein of oily-blooded scheming awfulness. Only two creatures so detestable as Petrus and Reya could bond to make something so vile, so awful--in fact, now Riker felt rather sick to his stomach.

Actually, maybe it was the poison. His mouth was foaming something awful. By now, he heard very faintly the worried shouts and, yes, to his delight, even a scream. They will worship me! He thought triumphantly. The city will be bathed in darkness and the people will cry a thousand tears… each! And Petrus and Reya will pay for this transgression, a hundred times over!

One nagging thought timidly poked his nose around the corner.

What? Riker snapped.

“Well, it’s only a small matter. This… this theory of yours? It doesn’t hold water.”

Why on earth wouldn’t it?

“Um, it’s just that… well… Petrus is a eunuch.”

The thing about being a Count, such as Riker, it was moments like these that would save the Republic. Tiny, inconsequential, and logical thoughts that would have made all the difference in his state-making. Riker loved these moments. They made so much sense. And they made Riker all the smarter, all the more reliable, and all the richer.

But here, in this moment, Riker’s ideal martyrdom was popped like a burst sack of flour. If he wasn’t murdered by his own lover, what was even the point of remembering his name? All the plaques, the days in honor, the parades, all the children named Riker for generations? Poof. Gone.

And just like that, Count Riker died, cut down by his own intelligence. A short, awkward end to an otherwise important life.