Lord of the Fyre Flies
The beach thrived on saltwater, both from the tide and the tears of panicked Richstagrammers. The illusion of luxury had crumbled like rock into sand which Chase from California was kicking while on the phone with his Father Who Is A Lawyer And Would Hear About This.
From a safe distance, Ja Rule watches. His sunglasses hide his eyes, but a smirk curls his lip in satisfaction. “Exactly what I asked for.”
In the distance, dogs howled, calling to one another and warning their prey, prompting Mandy, Candy, and Brandi-with-an-I to huddle closer as the night closed in. Ja Rule takes a celebratory sip of Henny with one of the island sirens he hired who occasionally morphs into whatever Victoria’s Secret model is necessary for promotional purposes. (They have adapted in the age of the disillusioned modern man and GPS boat navigation; luring Chase-named-after-my-parent’s-bank-provider and others like him to their island hell had made them level up on the power scale like never before.)
“Did you hear a gun shot? I swear to god I heard a gun shot.”
“The wolves are coming. I hear them in the night.”
“The medical staff has sent my girlfriend to a quarantine unit and I haven’t seen her for like six hours???”
“I just ate my first human.”
“Ashanti would have never let this happen.”
“At least my corpse will have a fresh manicure.”
Ja Rule opens social media and scrolls past the Periscope of cannibalism trending under #fyrefestival. President Trump has tweeted that he’s sending thoughts and prayers and potentially Tomahawk missiles at some point.
A bar burns in the distance, and the collapse of the rickety concierge booths rips through the air. Someone screams, but they all scream. It started as a social experiment exploring just how far people would be willing to go for the gram. But it became living art, his greatest masterpiece since “Mesmerize.”
“Welcome to Ja Rassic Park,” he says softly watching them like an ant farm. Chase wades into the ocean with no intent to return. The fyre from the bar rises.