Short Fiction: Eat the Rich
The games we’ll play when the billionaires retreat to their bunkers
The chime from the app was perhaps the most beautiful sound in the universe.
To Malcolm, the melody was like the music of the angels. It meant he won this week’s prize — an extended stay in a motel, and freedom from the choking smoke that made his lungs ache. That sound meant his day would end with a shower and hot meal. Meatloaf, he decided — his favorite.
He hurriedly carved his sigil in the still wet cement thickly smeared across the steel door, using a stick to make a stylized “A” in a circle. Within the hour, he expected it would be surrounded by countless spray painted tags of those who stood guard while his masterpiece dried.
The livestream should enjoy this one, he thought as he tagged the location for all 10,000 of his followers. Mostly disaffected youth, Malcolm affectionately called them the “Anarchist Brigade.” These were not valued members of modern society — those with fancy degrees, high-paying jobs, and warm comfortable futures. They were the unfortunates who slipped down the ladder to become nothing more than prey in a…
