Fame, they said, wasn't everything—but what was the point of living if no one knew you'd existed? Merlot couldn't afford a vanity press; years spent writing instead of earning had drained his bank account.
His story surged like floodwater through a drowned city. Borealia scorned Uncle Sam's claim to her healthcare, insisting he hadn't paid his dues. She forgot how she'd leaned on his military might, taking freely while offering nothing in return.
The president wanted to cut healthcare for low-income families so his children could inherit estates tax-free. Merlot saw through it. Why bother working for the next generation when you can steal from everyone else? He used to worry about war wounds. Now he worried about paperwork—whether his coverage would survive the next vote.
Merlot wasn't wealthy. The inheritance he received from his father was gone—drunk away over a decade of alcoholism. Countless therapy sessions failed to erase the memories: drunken screaming matches, the nights his father staggered home swinging, and the night that left him too broken to ever imagine a family of his own—when his father slapped him across the face for wearing his mother's dress in the privacy of his bedroom.
The new bill offered no estate for Merlot—just a bitter truth: some inherit fortunes, others only silence.