GOLDEN PAX

I arrive at the client’s mansion on time. 

Punctuality is one of the few calling cards that still truly matter. 

A gray, iron-rod butler takes my coat, then ushers me down the hallway, into what he calls “the gallery,” and in a hollow tone states that his “master’s secretary will be here presently.”  

I stand on the thick carpet by the door after he leaves, cringing but also oddly fascinated. 

The room is one long, floor-to-ceiling, distasteful orgasm of all things gilded. 

From chandeliers to rugs, nothing has escaped the golden tidal wave. Furniture, sconces, frames, the paintings themselves and every tiny trinket bear the mark of an ugly Midas’ touch. 

And all this aureate porn seems to be presided over at the far end of the gallery by a larger-than-life, voluptuous statue of Eirene or Pax.

Golden Pax would be a more accurate name, I suppose, with her yellow cornucopia spurting some bubbly liquid that might turn out to be champagne… or some lethal toxin. 

We can never presume to know with these aliens. They’ve shown us just how unpredictable they can be - too many times. Only fools or the extremely wealthy allow themselves to be taken for a ride more than once. I’m neither.

So I shake the cringe off with a shrug and refocus on what matters. My goal is to take as much money from this alien as I possibly can, not to become his interior decorator. 

In a way, I guess I’m here for the gold, too.

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© 2026 CE 

Pic: Canva

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