A Flimsy Facade

 It was very well known that Daniel Pierre was a compassionate man. Even as wealthy and famous as he was, he remained humble and kind. He donated to charity, volunteered to rescue puppies, and kissed babies. Well, maybe not the last one, but with the way his fans spoke of him you would think it was true.

He was practically beyond reproach. He had never had a scandal beyond ordering pizza with pineapple on it, an impossible phenomena when one is as famous as he is. This made many people suspicious, of course. But if these suspicions were ever voiced aloud, they would be buried under a horde of outraged, rabid fans.

So as Daniel Pierre entered his second charity ball of the week, the many rich men and women surrounding him shied away from him. It was almost like he glowed with some holy aura, which made the corrupt businessmen shrink away in horror. He was dressed impeccably in a well-tailored suit, yet it was not so expensive as to seem grandiose.

The only people willing to approach his honest, bright white smile were the various reporters crowding the entrance to the ballroom. They were afraid of him, of course, having seen what fans who found out would do to colleagues who had asked a question that made the man seem less than perfect. But they had long sacrificed any sort of self-preservation in their avid pursuit for juicy gossip.

“Please, please!” Daniel exclaimed, his smile unfaltering in the face of hundreds of flashing cameras and loud voices clamouring for his attention. It seemed like his mirth never faded. “One at a time, please! I only have so many ears and mouths.” He joked, and everyone politely laughed, knowing the consequences of not adhering to social customs in this echelon.

“Sir! Is it true that you donated over a million dollars to the St. Mary’s Orphan Fund?” Came the voice of a particularly enthusiastic reporter from the back of the horde. The rest of the crowd was quickly silenced when Daniel began to speak, eager for his answer.

“It was really only around nine hundred thousand, I can’t take so much credit!” He exclaimed, humble as ever. “Anything for the orphans. They deserve to be happy as well.” He finished solemnly, his beaming grin seeming to support his words.

The moment he finished speaking, the thunderstorm of questions began once more. The cycle repeated, a question asked and a humble answer given. It was a routine well-known by experienced journalists who had attended many such events, and had long since learnt the process of giving questions to Daniel Pierre.

But not everyone had that experience. New reporters didn’t know the etiquette that was ingrained into their senior colleagues. They were inexperienced, and eager to make a name for themselves. This made them take decisions and risks that others would never dream of. And for good reason.

One such reporter stood in the crowd, hastily tied tie and skewed glasses punctuated by slightly ruffled hair. Jeremiah Young wanted to make it big, and he knew just what to ask to get the juiciest answers.

So just as the floor opened for more questions, Jeremiah yelled out his question, ensuring that his voice was heard over all the others.

“Sir! Is it true that you’re a part of the Valensky crime family?” Came the unexpected words, instantaneously silencing all other questions. Even the rest of the guests in the ballroom, who had been ignoring the regular entrance proceedings as usual, were staring blank-facedly at the reporter.

Not a single sound could be heard in the ballroom. A pin could drop and it would be heard clearly from the other end of the room. Every head was turned to look at the culprit, who had begun to sweat nervously at the intense attention his question had garnered. Nobody moved for a few seconds.

The unnatural stillness was finally broken when Daniel Pierre raised his right hand into the air, bright grin fading slowly into cold calculation. A shiver went down the onlookers’ backs at the malice in those empty eyes, previously filled with joy and gentle kindness.

At his gesture, two of the bodyguards in his retinue walked forward, and the crowd of journalists parted like the sea to allow them to reach Jeremiah Young with no interference. They did not want to be involved at all.

Nobody said a word as the bodyguards threw a sack over the reporter’s head, and tied his limbs up with coarse rope. They didn’t react to his cries of protest, and his screams as he was dragged away. Eventually, he could be heard no more.

Pierre’s face twisted back into a mockery of his previous smile, a gruesome and ironic mask for all those who knew his true nature. He spread his arms benevolently, looking as angelic as he did before Young’s interference.

“I’m sorry everyone, but I’m feeling a bit hungry now.” He said kindly, smiling at the crowd. “I won’t be taking any further questions.”

Like clockwork, everything returned back to how it was moments before. Everyone knew the routine that had to be followed, the guests and the reporters. The incident was quickly discarded from their memories, and they pretended as though nothing happened.

The night continued on as scheduled, with much drinking and merriment, and plenty of large donations from Daniel Pierre. But even as he continued in his charade of generosity, all the people in the room were well aware of his true form.

That of a monster.