Page 119 of Hell Hath No Fury

Laughter titters through the arena, but it lacks what laughter needs to truly catch on and spread.

Joy.

“I can’t decide if humans are winning or losing,” I say softly. “I mean, surely there are millions of humans who feel they are winning off the backs of hundreds of millions of humans who are definitely fucking losing.”

The faces in front of me are nodding, some smiling sadly, even more looking tearful. Somberness sets in, a lightly detectable moroseness that has everyone settling in, waiting, listening.

“Anyone here feeling afraid?” There is shouts of confirmation, nodding heads. “Anyone here feeling sadness?” The shouts increase, vigorous nods, tears flow freely. “Anyone here feeling utterly infuriated?” Now, a solid vibrato of screaming fury that takes several minutes to dissipate.

I wait patiently, allowing them to blow off some much-needed steam before continuing, “Anyone here feel helpless?”

Silence.

Aching fucking silence.

I frown, knowing the difficulty behind admitting to something as vulnerable as helplessness. “It’s okay to feel all those things. We can be afraid, sad, and infuriated, and still attempt to do good in this world.”

“That’s easy for you to say,” an angry voice breaks through the stillness. I stare out into the crowd, searching out the voice, but coming up with mostly shadows and glaring lights.

So, I nod, “I won’t disagree with you there. It’s easy for me to be afraid, sad, and infuriated from the security of my Beverly Hills mansion. My sense of helplessness doesn’t even touch upon the helplessness felt by the millions of Americans who fear for their very lives every second of the fucking day.”

Everyone is quiet again, and I take a moment to collect my thoughts, preferring not to ramble aimlessly, even though that tends to be my forte. “But does my blatant privilege mean I should just sit back and stay quiet when so many of my fellow Americans are struggling and suffering?” Heads shake. “Should I ignore the utter lunacy going on around me just because it doesn’t affect me directly?” Fists raise.

“Because that’s exactly what they want,” I retort. “They want the wealthy to rest easy on their own laurels and not interfere. They want those with the means to actually do something to hide in their mansions and allow the power-hungry greed machine to do their work unfettered, untethered, and unquestioned because they will never have enough power.”

It’s quiet again, all those faces watching me, listening. But there’s a buzz beneath the silence, a yearning to do something, anything. So, I shout, “Now, what does a power-hungry greed machine do to attain more and more power?”

I stand back, allowing the audience to shout and scream, stomp and clap, then I step back up, nodding. “That’s fucking right. They fucking lie. They fucking steal. They pit all of us against each other in the hopes of dividing us because there is power in numbers, and the first thing they want to do is strip the everyday American of their power.

“They’re going to dismantle important programs; programs that provide for the less fortunate, programs that teach and heal. Programs that advocate for change, that protect those who cannot protect themselves because. without those protections, those at risk become hyper-dependent on the machine and, in turn, are more likely to follow said machine into chaos disguised as freedom.

A boo sounds from the front row. “As if your rich ass needs any more money.” I look down, meet the angry gaze of a young man who doesn’t look older than twenty. He’s glaring up at me, but there’s more than anger reflected in his eyes. Sadness, panic.

“You’re right,” I agree quietly, then state clearly. “I’m a rich-ass motherfucker who doesn’t actually need any more money. I could not work another day in my entire life and continue to live high off the interest payments alone, and that in itself sets me apart from hundreds of millions of Americans struggling to make a moderately comfortable life. It is also this that makes my silence completely unacceptable, and that’s why I’ve decided to use my profits from this concert series and any future concerts I put on in the future to establish a foundation that will fund much-needed programs to support those in need. Programs that will fight food insecurity, illiteracy, and gaps in adequate healthcare coverage. Programs that will enrich and educate American children because unless they are provided the appropriate tools to become successful adults, America is doomed and, along with it, any semblance of the American dream.”

The cheering reaches a crescendo, and I raise both hands, urging them to settle down. It takes a few moments, but soon, we’re back to the occasional whistle, and I continue, “I know this isn’t nearly enough to fix things; this is more of a temporary Band-Aid on an ever-festering wound, but there are over seven hundred billionaires in the United States. Over nine hundred mega rich citizens who could easily take a hint from me and dip their toes into true philanthropy if they decided they wanted to truly give back to their country.”

Again, they scream, stomp, and cheer, and I find myself suddenly blinking rapidly, a well of emotion catching me off-guard. “I hope you all know what a great privilege it has been for me to have had the opportunity to entertain you all for so many years. Yes, I’ve worked hard and put in the time, effort, sweat, and tears, but without your support, I would not be in the position I am today. It’s because of you all that I have the means to live well, and giving back is the best way I have to pay it forward.”

I use their exuberance to get some control over myself, swigging some water and then returning to the mic. “Now, I know you all want to hear a preview of my new song, a song that will also see its profits donated to those in need. Per usual, it’s not finished, and it’s rough, but who better to give it a first listen than an arena full of fans.”

“What do you say?” I drawl, already glancing toward the side of the stage where I know Issa is waiting, glaring daggers at me. “Shall we get my lovely wife out here?”

Just as expected, the crowd loses their fucking minds, and I chuckle, allowing the deep rumble to send vibrations through the arena. I turn to the side, peering at the curtain that has rustled but not parted, and after a moment, I sing-song, “Issa, come out, come out, wherever you are.”

The curtain moves now, likely because she doesn’t want a repeat of the last time she attempted to thwart our impromptu rock opera rap battle duet. She appears with a stumble, which means Jessica likely gave her a little push, an assumption confirmed when Issa glares over her shoulder.

With a quick shake of her head, she rights herself fully and walks out onto the stage with her head held high. Waving at the cheering crowd, she smiles brightly, and I can see from the glow of her eyes that her response is genuine.

Then she stands beside me, glowering, her foot tapping impatiently.

“Do you want a chair, doll face?” I ask cheerily, knowing full well she’s gonna tell me to shove it right up my ass.

Issa glares at me, pressing her lips together briefly before finally bringing the mic to her lips. “Only if I can WWE you with it.”

Raising my brows at her, I shake my head, then turn to the crowd and respond, “Can you believe that? My lovely bride threatening me with a chair?”

Right on cue, the audience makes a show of siding with Issa, who smirks at me pleasantly. My heart swells in my chest, our standard concert battle a highlight of every show. And also one of the many delights of my life, if I’m totally honest.

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