Knight

It was a dark and stormy knight standing before them. Peter struggled to move in the full medieval body armor. It was so heavy it was very uncomfortable, and he was angry. He would've stormed off if the armor wasn't so awkward.

"Clair, why the hell did you buy this damn thing?" Peter huffed.

"I thought it would be fun to have my very own knight in shining armor," Clair responded. "You'll be the hit of the costume party. I think it will say a lot about who you really are. You've always been my knight, sweetie. "

"No one will know who the hell I am in this thing. I'm miserable in it, I can't imagine going through an evening wearing it. This is not a toy." Peter said, staring at Clair through his visor.

As far as Peter was concerned, Clair's response was selfish and unthinking. She wasn't the one who'd wear the damned thing. It was tight in weird places, and it was heavy. He was sure it weighed at least 50 pounds. He was already sweating profusely, and he had just put it on. Whoever it had been made for was not an exact physical match for Peter. Close enough for horseshoes, not close enough for comfort.

Clair hadn't asked him what he wanted to wear to the costume ball. She simply did what she wanted. She spent their money. This armor he wore was no replica; it was the real thing, medieval and handcrafted hundreds of years ago. He knew it cost hundreds of thousands of dollars, perhaps even a million or more; she had not told him the actual cost.

Clair had let their wealth go to her head; she spent money recklessly. Peter was angry with her. Yeah, they had far, far more money than they could ever burn through, but there was a garishness to her unthinking spending that galled him. Neither of them came from money. Their money came from his better than average smarts, and from his luck, his tremendous luck.

Their marriage of 15 years began in college, before his business took off. Clair rode the wave of fortune with him, as Potamus Digital Industries (PDI), his baby, went from a start up to a world-renowned giant in the software and computer hardware world. PDI was the owner of numerous online businesses, sold the finest computers, and had become the behemoth of the internet. Peter made his first billion five years previously, and now he was so rich most people could not even fantasize about it. It was beyond their imagining. PDI was eclipsing Anaconda, Jeff Bozo's money machine. Not that either Peter or Clair thought there was any such thing as too much money; its accumulation had become more than an obsession, it defined them.

They were in their clothes closet. Of course, it was nothing like the closet most people would think of when the word "closet" is used. It was a mega-closet, 40' by 40', designed by the best architects, with a central seating area surrounded by a display of clothing and shoes arranged in circular rows of clever bespoke cabinetry. It even had a high-rise penthouse view of the New York skyline. His wife's share of the closet's real estate was a good 70%, by intent. Peter wasn't exactly a clotheshorse, and he had known he wouldn't accumulate a trousseau like she would.

He glanced in one of the many mirrors at himself in his metal prison, and would've shaken his head with even greater annoyance, could he have shaken it. He didn't look like a knight in shining armor, he looked like a military tin man: a dark ages robot.

Clair and Peter were soon hosting their costume ball. It was a yearly extravaganza. For him it was drudgery, for her it was a chance for outrageous fun and expensive revelry with the other heavy hitters on the Fortune 500. In three years it had become legendary, and an invitation was a coup. There were never more than 300 guests, an intimate soiree in their world.

Peter turned to his personal assistant. "Jimmy, get me out of this thing." Jimmy quickly and efficiently extracted his boss from the metal suit. Jimmy Padron was more than just a PA. He was Peter's second in all of Peter's personal endeavors.

Clair watched the extraction process. "Honey, you looked so good in that armor," Clair said enthusiastically. Peter turned to her.

"I'd prefer not to wear this. I won't enjoy the party," he said.

"Sweetie, you will be the only one in a million-dollar costume, it will reflect who we are, and who you are to me. I'm sorry it doesn't feel comfortable, I'll get George to have it fitted so you'll be more comfortable." Clair's remark confirmed that it was at least a million-dollar purchase.

George was Peter's body double. He looked almost exactly like Peter. He was the same size and shape as Peter, sounded like Peter, and George was paid extravagantly by Peter to double for him whenever Peter, or his security hirelings, thought it was necessary.

George Patalidis had not been easy to find. Peter and he should, by all visible criteria, have had identical DNA. It required a two-year search to find Peter's true doppelgänger. Those who were not intimates of Peter could not tell Peter and George apart.

George would be the one to suffer with the tinsmith, not Peter. Peter knew there would be only so much that could be done to improve the fit and comfort of the suit. No matter how he sliced it, he would be at the party in an ill-fitting, uncomfortable, metal suit, an ill-fitting physical expression of their absurdly outlandish wealth.

Of course, Peter could veto the metal suit, but he didn't. Despite the inconvenience it posed, Peter wanted to please his wife. With so much abundance in their lives, purchases no longer had much meaning. How do you show your love when spending money is no sacrifice? It was in personal sacrifices of themselves to one another that they demonstrated their love. Clair could have let Peter off the hook, but apparently, as Peter discerned, this was one of the sacrifices he could make that meant something to her.

Peter wasn't, however, someone who sacrificed himself when other options were available. He told the closet hangers he needed to get moving, left the closet and headed toward the private elevator of their penthouse, followed closely by his PA. Once the elevator doors closed on them, he pulled out his phone and called George.

"George, got a double whammy for you. Clair will probably call, but here's a heads up. She bought a clunker of a costume for me for the costume shindig. It's a damned suit of medieval armor. It'll need to be fitted, so you're on deck. She wants it comfortable for me. Sorry buddy, it'll never be comfortable for anyone."

"Anyway," Peter continued, "You'll need to get fitted a second time for my actual costume, a Batman outfit. This one is in the style of the ones where Batman could turn his friggin' head, not like in the early movies by Tim Burton. Not a word to Clair about the second costume; you'll be pulling duty at the party as the Knight, I'll be slumming it as the Dark Knight, with none the wiser. When I say 'none the wiser,' I want to be clear, I am including Clair." As he said this, he nodded to his PA to make sure he caught the drift. He did.

The day before the party, Peter, in his 3,000 square foot penthouse office, was in that office's own mini-mega-closet with his PA and George. George had the Dark Knight suit, pre‑fitted and ready for Peter to try on. The fitting was a success; it was comfortable and looked like the real thing, down to each and every detail. Peter was pleased with it.

"Here's the play for the party, George," Peter said. "You'll be me in the armor. With that visor, Clair won't know I'm not the one in there being pit roasted. Hell, when she isn't around you can lift the visor, no one will think you aren't me. If she gets into any talks with you where you have a need to know what's up, Jimmy'll be in your ear to help out, and if you think he didn't hear it on the mic we put in the suit, just get clever and restate what she said as a question, like, 'Did you just ask if Hillary and Bob got the gift?' Make out like it's hard to hear in that outfit. No doubt it will be. My guess is you'll be sitting a lot, as opposed to circulating, but I'll leave that to you."

"Jimmy," Peter asked his PA "you have all the details set up for security and my arrival on this Batman play, right?"

"Yessir," answered Jimmy. "I'll be in your ear, too, boss, just in case there are any security issues."

"Okay. Thank you, gentlemen," said Peter, dismissing his two minions.

The following day found Peter at the entrance to the wing of their Hamptons mega mansion that housed the ballrooms. Their palatial residence, known as May Field, at 120,000 square feet, had eclipsed the former largest mansion on Long Island, Fair Field, by 10,000 square feet. Peter always liked to refer to Fair Field as "that hovel." Ira, Fair Field's owner, called May Field "Potamus Bottomus." It was a friendly rivalry. Peter expected to see the construction crew arrive at Fair Field any day now, so that Ira could begin the work to reclaim his 'Hampton's Largest Mansion' crown. Peter smiled to himself. His fortune eclipsed Ira's years ago.

All guests identified themselves with the Rolex that was sent with their invitation. Just one of the trinkets that set this soiree apart. The Rolexes each had a built-in scan code to identify the guest as an actual invitee. If one wasn't being worn, or otherwise secured to a costume, security was instructed to remove the interloper. They also tracked the guests while at the party.

Security allowed Peter to pass, and he strode into the crowd to take in the Halloween themed ballroom, replete throughout with real skeleton decorations, real looking faux monsters, both classic as well as unknown, lifelike demons, all carefully staged in horrific scenarios about the huge hall, which was moodily lit to create a series of weird and wild tableaux to catch and engage the imaginations of the guests.

A full orchestra was on the large balcony, a balcony specially constructed to send the orchestral music throughout the cavernous hall. The music playing was an odd mix, some sounding like a delirious big band, sometimes suddenly becoming eerie, then a classic Brahms or Bach. The conductor's choices were eclectic, but he seemed to have a penchant for Brahms Symphony No. 3 in F Major, Opus 90, III, poco allegretto, which had the right tone: a sense of both dread and expectation. It was exactly what such a gathering needed. Brahms' work had a grandness in certain stanzas, fitting the space the music flowed through.

Prior to the party, Peter had requested one piece of music be played during the latter part of the night: "Clair de Lune." Per his instructions, the words to the poem that inspired the music would be projected, as though written in parchment, throughout the hall, and the hall would have darkened slowly as the night wore on, to continue to set the mood, and to make the projection of the poem's words possible as "Clair de Lune" played.

The first time Peter heard "Clair de Lune," its beauty reflected Clair's; it was inextricably mixed with Peter's mental image of his wife. "Clair de Lune" meant moonlight. Just as the moon reflected the light of the sun, so Clair reflected back to Peter his connection to the best part of himself, through his love of her.

Peter spotted Clair, seated with poor George, who was looking far less than resplendent in his metal garb. Clair appeared to have no question but that she was talking to her husband. Her hands were waving as she regaled him with some tale or other. Clair was, in fact, a delightful story teller, it was one of her many gifts.

Peter ruminated on his wife and their time together. She was beautiful in so many ways, despite her ostentatiously tawdry spending. He tended to forgive that foible, it was one that arose from the garden they created, the wealth their marriage had grown in, as that wealth grew logarithmically. Peter differed from his wife; he was loath to discard their middle class origins, they had forged his character. Their wealth had not despoiled it.

Clair remained not just his wife; she was his ideal woman. That did not mean she couldn't annoy him, she often did, but she was the woman who knew him in his deepest recesses, she was the one who could tame the man whose personal power was now almost fathomless.

When they were with one another and she turned her light to him, he felt a connection to the best part of himself. Then, too, he was flooded with his total connection to her. He loved her deeply, there was no doubt.

He smiled as he saw her in her costume. She was dressed as Marie Antoinette, post guillotine, but with her head stitched crudely back on. All the fancy French aristocratic touches; the robe dite à la française, the feathered hat, all in varying shades of pale blue, the curved heel shoes. Ahh, clever, he noted, she had a hidden device that pushed a bit of blood out of the neck wound now and then. Amazing how lovely she looked, despite her, yet bleeding, ostensibly severed head. She had a lady servant, dressed of the period, in attendance, offering guests cake. Peter laughed aloud.

Peter's thoughts were interrupted by a nubile young blonde woman dressed as vampishly as possible, all in black, who stopped before him. She wore a scant leather bikini bottom verging on a g-string, a half leather corset with a sweeping and revealing deep cut decolletage, embroidered black fishnet stockings, and black high heels. Her costume was topped by bat wings secured to her with straps like a backpack, and she could furl and unfurl her wings by a remote that operated them. Her mask was the type that covers the areas around the eyes, a black domino mask. Her outfit, while bat related, was more a sexy bat type outfit, bearing no resemblance to a batgirl costume. Her blue eyes were sparkling.

"Oh, Batman, I can't resist you! Maybe we should find a bat cave and hang out."

"Well thank you, Ms. Bat," said Peter, in a gruff bat growl voice. "Commissioner Gordon has demanded my attention, some joker is causing trouble. The bat signal glows." She smiled, gave a small wave by her face, and he watched as her shapely derriere disappeared into the crowd.

He saw that she didn't have a Rolex, just an identification bracelet with an identification chip, which meant she was one of the many, apparently otherwise random, beautiful-girls, and the counterpart especially attractive young men, in attendance, a host of them had been hired by PDI to keep the party going, to assure that the single male guests and female guests were occupied, and that the partiers' feelings were ebullient.

The real guests had outdone themselves, as usual. Costumes were selected by the well-heeled for their originality, outrageousness, beauty, humor, intricacy, and just plain cost. The medieval armor might well have cost the most, but it was far from the flashiest and best costumes at the party. There was a whale, comprised of several partiers, who could remove the silken and carbon structure comprising their large costume to mingle as singles, now lone fish, when they chose to discard their whale burden for a bit. There were hordes of themed walking dead, a sultan and his harem, more than one Lady Godiva, and one of the clearly paid by PDI young men was nude, muscular and excessively endowed, yet crowned as an emperor, with just a placard, front and back, proclaiming, "Like my new clothes?"

The music swirled, the lights pulsed, and the crowd circulated from the main ballroom into the adjoining, somewhat less grandiose, ballroom, where the hosts had refreshments by way of Halloween inspired dishes and desserts, multiple bars with flamboyant bartenders in costumes of every stripe and an abundance of servants to assist with guest seating, there, too, to provide service at tables. All servants in ballroom 2 were there to enable the guests to relax, drink, and to enjoy a full meal if desired. The kitchens on the estate were in full swing, as any culinary desire was to be fulfilled.

Peter, as the incognito host, made several rounds, speaking to folks only as Batman, observing the crowd and monitoring their cheer and enjoyment of PDI's bacchanalia. Of course, people in his employ were making similar observations, and they were taking carefully calculated measures to keep the rising intensity of the group within controllable bounds, as alcoholic spirits and other inebriating substances were being imbibed, ingested, smoked or injected.

Peter was well satisfied with what he saw. Everyone appeared engaged, happy, and many were heard expressing their appreciation for the spectacle the party provided, both by way of the setting, and by way of the spectacle presented by the guests, to themselves.

Peter had lost sight of Clair. He found George still seated where he had last been seated with Clair. Peter sidled up to George and took a seat next to him. "How're you doing, George?" He asked.

"You weren't kidding about this armor. This is miserable," George said.

George's statement affirmed for Peter his belief that his decision to cheat on the armor wearing sacrifice to his wife's whim was the better path taken. "Can you mingle?" Peter asked.

"I tried to," George responded. "But it is misery and hell in this metal torture chamber. Clair spread the word you are wearing this thing, so thankfully, I haven't had to circulate at all. People are coming up to compliment the party, to thank you, kiss your ass and to impart the latest gossip."

Peter pressed the microphone activation on his neck. "Hey, Jimmy, have you gotten the gossip that George has heard tonight?"

"Yessir," Jimmy responded in Peter's earpiece. "George has helped, too, repeating the best bits, and he does it really naturally, so almost all of it is coming through."

Peter smiled. Sometimes, the gossip alone would give him information that would pay for the party. Jimmy would compile the useful bits into a transcript for Peter to peruse the following day.

Peter did not intend to tell Clair about his costume deception. He couldn't receive credit for his sacrifice if she learned he hadn't made one. Still, he wanted to know where she was; he enjoyed secretly watching her, not to spy upon her, but as one who loved her, and who enjoyed watching his bride, doting on her just being herself, even after 15 years of marriage.

"Jimmy," Peter spoke to his mic, "give me Clair's location."

"She's gone out to the garden," Jimmy said to Peter's earpiece. Looks like the southwest quadrant, over near the pool house.

"Who's she with?" Peter asked.

"One of the hires," responded Jimmy. "He's listed here as 'The Emperor.'"

Peter frowned to himself. Why waste valuable party time with such a non-player? Clair was a master at obtaining useful information from wealthy cohorts. He decided to take a stroll through the garden, to do a personal sweep around the pool house.

Peter knew, of course, the shortest route to his destination. As the door to ballroom two closed behind him, the sounds of the party muted, but still presented a powerful sound wall. Few people were outdoors; it was, after all, nearly November, and winter was beginning to cloak the night with her chilly fingers. Those outside were talking loudly, others he heard laughed raucously.

Peter, his Bat cowl swirling from his shoulders, strode toward the area where he would find his wife. It was more than two hundred yards away. He passed no one else as he neared the pool house.

The lighting in the area was subdued, mostly focused on the garden pathways. Brighter lights illuminated and emphasized the garden's intended features.

No one was around. The Peter Batman listened carefully. He could yet hear the distant bombast of the party, but there was no nearby sound to direct him. Peter was no longer simply looking for an opportunity to watch his wife. He was actively searching for her, concerned about her whereabouts and doings. "The Emperor" had gone from a joke to a threat.