Fall from Grace

Fewthistle

Originally written for the Brush with Greatness Challenge at Thursday100Plus

Arthur sat in the green linenQueen Anne armchair in his office, and stared blankly at the large window over the couch. The curtains were open, the blinds up, and beyond the pane of glass he could see the myriad buildings of the city. The clear glass reflected back his image to him, an interesting juxtaposition of busy, impersonal metropolis, and slightly blurry, miserable figure lost in thought.

On his desk, spread out like playing cards, were a series of photographs, their shiny gloss and bright colors glaring and garish against the leather desk blotter. It was these pictures on which Arthur now brooded, uncertain of what to do, if there was anything to do.

He felt like he had as a young man, having had a few too many beers, and opened his mouth one time too many times. The sucker punch to the stomach from some burly redneck felt very similar to what he was feeling right now.

The photos has arrived in the morning mail. They were addressed to him, with a note on the envelope which read, "Personal and Private". Considering that whoever had sent them, knew his private box number, it hadn't occurred to him to be concerned. Until he had gotten to his office and opened them. Pulling them out, he had felt a little light-headedness come over him, and he had sat down abruptly in his desk chair.

Judge Patel's last party had been like a lot of other parties he had attended at the private men's club to which they belonged. Lots of booze, lots of impersonal female companionship. Nothing out of the ordinary, at least at first.

Then she had arrived. Arthur had recognized her the moment she entered the room. Blonde hair gleaming, honey skin against a black dress, cleavage just low enough to tempt a man to reach out and touch. Traci Lords, porn star extraordinaire, the stuff of many an adolescent, and not so adolescent, boy's wet dreams.

She had caught his eye, making her way across the room to where he stood. He had had enough bourbon at this point that his smile was overly bright, matched by the glassiness of his eyes. She had sidled up to him, slipping her hand into the crook of his arm, and asked him if he'd be a sweet man and get her a drink.

Little after that was clear. Arthur had awoken slumped over in one of the heavy armchairs in the lounge, his mouth tasting like dirty socks, his head pounding, and his fly unzipped. Despite his disheveled state, he hadn't thought much about the evening, until this morning.

Now on his desk were pictures, very graphic pictures of him and Traci Lords, taken in a variety of poses, some of which Arthur hadn't even known he was still capable of achieving. The note which had accompanied the photos had been brief and to the point.

"Another set of prints on the way to the Post, and one to the Daily News. Sad that sanctimony always comes back to bite you in the ass. Payback really is a bitch, isn't it, Arthur? Looking forward to seeing your resignation."

It was signed simply, Your Favorite Lesbian.

"Damn," Arthur muttered, shaking his head in disgust, not merely for being taken down, but for being destroyed by someone he had thought so little of. Serena Southerlyn. Never underestimate your enemies, he thought morosely.

Pushing himself up from his chair, Arthur walked over to his desk, glaring down at the photos one last time, his brow furrowed, lips pushed forward sullenly. Scooping them up, he shoved them back into the envelope and dropped them into the trash can beside his desk.

Straightening his tie, Arthur threw open the door to his office and began his last trek down the hall as District Attorney. Downstairs, throngs of reporters loitered, eagerly awaiting the chance to view the fall from grace of the great Arthur Branch.

"All for a piece of ass," he muttered to himself, walking slowly down the stairs toward the gathered crowd, "All for a famous piece of ass."