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Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended.

Gypsy Ire (Michael’s Story)

The Hearst Building adjacent to Hearst Plaza was of progressive architectural design, a thirty six story faceted jewel of mirrored glass and polished steel. The magnificent building was home to the Hearst Group (HG), a privately owned conglomeration of businesses with diverse interests in many different industries including natural resources, manufacturing, and retail. The plaza of the same name itself was a well-conceived sprawling expanse, a multi-leveled hybrid fusion of modern masonry and natural greenery with a spectacular fountain located at its center.

At the center of HG’s holdings was CEO Mortimer Hearst, a man of singular purpose, dedicated and driven to continually expand the Hearst sphere of influence. In stark contrast to the man guiding HG, was crown prince and heir apparent to the vast Hearst Empire, eighteen year old Michael, the eldest of Mortimer’s and ex-wife Helena’s two children.

Many outsiders would say the very public, very messy scandalous divorce of Mortimer and Helena when Michael was eleven was a key component of his current laisse-faire attitude. Tall and handsome, he drifted through life seemingly carefree, possessing a devil may care disposition and sense of entitlement born of family name and privilege.

Lawyers and the Hearst checkbook kept the details of a couple of Michael’s higher profile escapades from ever reaching the tabloid machine and the ravenous public.

The ugly split had a different effect on Mortimer’s second child, Madison. Ten years old at the time of the divorce, she appeared to suffer from some type of psychological breakdown, withdrawing from the world and requiring professional help to process the event.

Wholly unsympathetic to her condition, Michael openly and publicly referred to his sister as ‘Mad Maddie’.

Now seventeen, Madison was no longer in therapy. She had grown into an incredible flaxen haired beauty with impossibly blue eyes, poised and reserved with a polished and sophisticated public image despite her tender years.

Michael was feeling bored, ennui settling over him as he pulled his black convertible BMW M4 Cabriolet up to the temporary parking alongside the painted curb adjacent to Hearst Plaza. He wanted some excitement, something to kick the weekend off with a bang. He decided to come down to the main office, using the pretense of needing to see his father about a household matter, but what he really wanted to do was flirt with his father’s incredibly hot office assistant Mirielle. A half dozen years older than him, she was of medium height, long strawberry blonde hair, perfect body, and a face he thought could stop a hundred clocks, he lusted after her something fierce. Seeing the gorgeous glorified receptionist always seemed to invigorate him, get his blood pumping. Removing his Oakley sunglasses and setting them on the dash, he climbed out of the car, mischief on his mind.

Ascending the wide steps leading up to the plaza, he espied the old woman peddling flowers. He had seen her on numerous occasion before, always selling her roses to passersby. He had no idea where she got them, or maintained such a fresh supply, but often as he was passing by her little cart, he would snatch a flower when she wasn’t looking usually giving it to Mirielle as a token of his undying affection.

The flower lady appeared positively ancient, stooped and gnarled with age. Long bony fingers, knuckles knotted with arthritis, she fumbled to push her cart. Nearing the cart, timing it just right, he flicked a hand out and snared a rose with his left hand.

Whirling quickly, she saw his misdeed out of the corner of her one good eye, “Please, you pay,” she instructed, voice cracked and old, thick with a heavy Slavic accent.

Surprised she had witnessed the lift, “Oh this?” he asked, holding up the rose by the long stem, “No, I brought this one from home,” he said, cocking his head to the side and giving the old lady a patronizing smile.

She shook her head, a few strands of thin white escaping from the babushka scarf she wore around her head. “Why would you do this to me, I am old woman,” she said, voice raspy, thin lips pursed.

He couldn’t help but stare at the dark bewhiskered mole on her chin, laughing softly, “It is just a flower grandma,” he said, rolling the stem of the rose back and forth between his thumb and forefinger, taunting the old woman.

Shambling forward, she reached out a slender, arthritically deformed, age-spotted hand to take the flower just to have him pull it out of the way before she could grab it. “Please, you do not just take it,” she said. “You pay.”

He chuckled some more, but was quickly growing weary of the game and losing interest, an image of Mirielle’s beautiful smile dancing through his thoughts.

“Hey!” called a stern female voice from across the plaza, causing him to turn his head in the direction of the speaker.

The grin spread on his face, moving across the plaza was a young woman maybe a year or two older than him, dressed in a loose fitting light colored blouse and voluminous ankle length blood red skirt, long slightly wavy dark hair blowing back over her shoulders as she moved with determined purpose in her stride toward him.

“Well now, what do we have here?” Michael asked, eyeing the girl from head to toe as she approached. She was tall, maybe two inches shy of six feet. Slender, though judging by the way her chest nicely moved under the blouse, well-endowed where it counted.

“What are you doing to my dedanya?” she challenged, dark eyes narrowed and full of anger, hands on hips.

“Your what?” he asked, not understanding the Romanian word.

“My dedanya, my great grandmother,” she said, glancing at the old lady.

“He steals,” protested the old woman, pointing a crooked index finger at the flower in his hand.

“She must have dropped it, I was just getting it for her,” he answered, giving her a wide smile and extending the flower toward the ancient woman. “I’m Michael by the way, Michael Hearst of the Hearst Plaza Hearsts,” he boasted, looking around the plaza bearing his family name.

The girl seemed unimpressed, pursing thick plump lips and favoring him with a glower.

Shaking her elderly head, the crone reached out and nimbly plucked the flower from Michael’s grasp.

“Ouch!” he jumped, looking down at a spot of blood on his left thumb where a thorn from the rose’s stem caught him when the old woman took it.

The withered peddler took the blood from the thorn on the side of the retrieved rose, spreading the crimson spot on the side of her right index finger slightly before touching it to her lips before beginning to speak in a language unknown to Michael. Tucking his bleeding thumb into his mouth, he thought he heard his name, but he couldn’t be sure.

Dedanya no!” protested the girl, putting her hands on the old woman’s narrow stooped shoulders.

The old lady shrugged off the girl’s hands and shook her head, puckering her wizened lips and spitting on the ground, “Yes Lucie! Is small man who would treat an old woman this way, shameful,” she stated vehemently. “Small man!”

The young woman named Lucie, reached a supplicating hand in Michael’s direction, “Please you should apologize to her,” she encouraged, giving him a small smile and then looking back to her great grandmother.

Michael scoffed a little, “I’m the injured party here,” he protested mildly, “Maybe she should apologize to me for my thumb, no wait, I’ll be the bigger person here and just let it go,” he said magnanimously.

The girl shook her head, “Michael you don’t understand,” she stated, raising an eyebrow, an element of worry in her tone.

Michael chuckled, “I would be willing to overlook the gob on the ground if you were to agree to at least come out and have coffee with me?” he offered, pointing at spot of saliva on the ground, eyes on Lucie.

The girl said something in the same foreign language and the old woman responded in kind, the exchange between sounded somewhat heated to him.

Lucie looked at him and shook her head, “Please?” she said. “Apologize?”

Removing his thumb from his mouth, he smiled, “Alright, I accept your apology on behalf of your grandmother,” he said, cocky smile on his face.

“You are a young fool,” croaked the old woman, “You will learn,” she cackled, turning away and pushing the small cart ahead of her.

Reaching out, “Hey, what was she saying earlier, I couldn’t understand the language,” he asked.

Watching the retreating hunched back of her great grandmother, Lucie turned to him, head shaking, “She cursed you,” she said, full lips pulling down into a frown.

He raised his eyebrows and sarcastically said, “Oh no,” raising his hands in mock concern.

Shaking her head again, “Remember these,” she instructed, listing off ten numbers from 0-9 in a seemingly random order.

“What?” he asked. “Is that your phone number?”

Turning, she didn’t answer, she just walked after the old woman.

 

Chapter End Notes:

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