Masters of the Universe by J.D. Strunk

Masters of the Universe by J.D. Strunk

Johnny Galt Jr. watched as Dean Miller ripped the claw off a lobster, dipped it in a cup of liquified butter, and devoured it with the carnal lust of the undernourished. But Dean Miller was not undernourished. Quite the opposite—the man was nearing 400 pounds. As if to accentuate this fact, a thin line of amber liquid presently slid down Miller’s chin, crossed the many creases of his bulging neck, and seeped into the crisp white edge of his shirt collar. Despite being a long-time admirer of Dean Miller’s business acumen, Johnny was forced to turn his eyes away from the gluttonous display.

“We’ve closed three more hospitals in the Midwest this year,” continued Dean Miller as he ate, belatedly bringing a cloth napkin to his glistening lips. “I figure Miller Medical Services will save five hundred million per hospital—conservative estimate. And we also switched to the Wilson brand of toiletries in all our hospitals that remain open—that’s another twenty million saved per year.”

Dean Miller turned toward Terrance Wilson, owner of Wilson Toiletries, who was also present at the meeting. “You make fine products, Terry,” Miller said. “Never thought I’d see a quarter-ply toilet paper in my lifetime, but you guys figured it out, sure as sin! I’m told it’s so thin that you can’t even tell if it’s in your hands!” Miller let out a loud belly laugh, then looked back to his plate, his ravenous eyes already locked on the lobster’s second claw.

Following a brief smile at Dean’s compliment, Terrance Wilson eyed his lunch with trepidation. “Where exactly did you find these lobsters, Dean?” asked Terry, probing his (as yet untouched) lobster with his fork. “Because I know for a fact that the eastern seaboard is entirely depleted.”

“Genetically engineered,” said Dean Miller, breaking free the second claw of his own lobster. “Grown in my own private lab.”

“Is that safe?” asked Wilson.

“Life is a roulette wheel, Terry. If lobster isn’t worth a spin, nothing is.”

Pushing his plate of lobster an inch further away, Terrance Wilson took up speaking where Dean Miller had left off.

“As Dean alluded to, it has been a banner year for Wilson Toiletries, as well. Beyond securing the contract with Dean’s hospitals, we finally perfected the formula for soap-less soap. As every person here could likely guess, soap is the most expensive part of soap, so by removing the soap from our soap products, profits have soared.”

Across the table, Bryce Daniels (Daniels Oil and Gas) frowned. “If you remove the soap from the soap, what is it, exactly, you’re selling, Terry?”

Terrance Wilson opened his mouth, closed it, and opened it again. “A good question, Bryce. I’ll have our research division look into it.”

Though Johnny Galt Jr. had long heard of such a meeting taking place, he still could not believe he was actually here, seated at a mahogany table with the twenty richest men in America. Once a year, these titans of commerce would put aside their competitive instincts and get lunch together. They called themselves “The Masters of the Universe.” At 31, Johnny Galt Jr. fit the mold. The youngest billionaire at the table, Johnny had taken over his father’s company the previous year, after his father had hit a tree while skiing just down the road in Aspen. Had there been a closer hospital, Johnny Galt Sr. may well have survived his injury. (And at one point there had been such a hospital. But that hospital had been closed a decade before by none other than Dean Miller—an irony not lost on the son.) But risk was a part of skiing, just as with life, and money must continue to flow despite personal tragedy—such was the way of the world. As such, Johnny Jr. had eagerly accepted the invitation to this, the most esteemed of meals. Indeed, his father would have wanted him there.

Following the recaps by Dean and Terry, the microphone continued around the table, with each CEO giving a brief update on their business. It did not seem a coincidence that each billionaire benefited from the exploits of the other billionaires. Bill Fritz, for instance—owner of the nation’s largest construction materials company—reported that his lobbyists had successfully pushed through a bill requiring the removal of fire extinguishers from all public buildings in America. This same bill was lauded by Bill Heinlein of Heinlein Automotive, which happened to be the country’s foremost maker of fire engines. Later, Sheldon Drake, CEO of a canned fish empire, announced his company had found a way to skirt the laws regarding the ban on ocean dredging (“All the good animals are already extinct, anyway”)—a loophole that subsequently helped fill the coffers of Yamash Sand and Gravel, and its CEO, Stan Yamash. CEO by CEO, the list of windfalls continued: Pollution laws weakened, unions dismantled, medical oversight eliminated, scientific research budgets decimated. All this in a mere four quarters! In the history of the world, had there ever been such an industrious group? Johnny Galt Jr. couldn’t imagine so.

At long last, nineteen billionaires had said their piece, and nineteen pairs of eyes fell on Johnny Galt Jr. This was Johnny’s first year at the lunch, and he could feel his heart pumping in his chest as he opened his mouth.

“I can hardly hold a candle to this amazing assembly of business talent,” said Johnny, “but I will do my best to live up to my father’s legacy. As for this past year, profits at Galt Freight have grown at a steady if unremarkable rate of three percent. But we have many exciting proposals in the pipeline, all of which we expect will prove quite profitable.”

Rather than the criticism he had feared, it was a wave of encouragement that washed over young Johnny.

“You’ll get there, son, just hold true to the goal!”

“You’re making your father proud, my boy!”

“Here here! Three cheers for the father, three cheers for the son!”

Johnny Galt Jr. beamed with pleasure as he stared across the table. So too, he found his appetite returning. He looked down at his plate. It certainly looked like a lobster.

& & &

Driving home from the meeting, Johnny Galt Jr. felt blissful—as happy as he’d felt since losing his father, in fact. By happenstance, the meeting had taken place outside Aspen, not far from the estate Johnny had inherited from his late father. (Johnny’s mother now lived in California—too many bad memories in Aspen.) On his drive home, through the curving mountain roads of what had once been the Pike National Forest but was now scrubby grasslands (courtesy of Cooper Logging Incorporated), Johnny had ample opportunity to marvel at his grand life: A 31-year-old billionaire CEO with a beautiful wife, a beautiful house, a beautiful car…

His bliss was interrupted by a rattle emanating from deep inside his beautiful car. The car was a model year 2034 Bentley, only six months old. Johnny turned down the talk radio and listened intently to his dashboard. Sure enough, the rattle occurred again.

“Outrageous!” said Johnny out loud. What was the point of spending a million dollars on a car if it begins falling apart within a year?

Johnny’s good mood continued to evaporate over the rest of the drive home, and was largely forgotten by the time he pulled into his mansion on Lake Bluewater, his own private lake an hour outside Aspen. Growing up, Lake Bluewater had indeed been clear and blue. Nowadays, it was as brown as a mud puddle, and you could not even swim in it without your eyes stinging. (And the smell—best not to even mention the smell.) But such was the cost of progress! The mountain community benefited greatly from the fees collected from the toxic sludge being dumped into the lake by the Yamash Concrete Company. Indeed, without that sludge money, the clubhouse wouldn’t even have a full-time sommelier!

Johnny drove his Bentley up to the boundary of his property. The gates were open, to Johnny’s dismay, though he understood why upon approaching the house: a Fritz Drywall truck was being unloaded by a cadre of overalled workers.

“Goddamnit, Evelyn,” muttered Johnny into the empty car.

Evelyn was Mrs. Galt, who was currently overseeing the remodeling of the upstairs bathrooms.

Before heading into his mansion—a 16-bedroom half-timbered Tudor with gabled roofs and ample hedging—Johnny took out his phone and looked at his bank accounts—this was a common activity, and a surefire way to cheer himself up. Seconds later, dozens of “zeros” lined the screen of his phone, staring back at him from across dozens of bank accounts. Sure enough, the zeros succeeded at treating Johnny’s melancholy, and he felt his good mood returning as he ambled up the drive to his front door.

The inside of the Galt mansion was a mishmash of architectural styles that spoke to Mrs. Galt’s eclectic tastes: Doric columns, oak architraves, gilt highlights, French cornices. Johnny would be lying if he said he found the décor appealing, but it seemed to make his wife happy, and so he let it be.

No sooner had Johnny crossed the foyer than their maid, Maria, approached Johnny and took his jacket.

“Glad to see you back, sir!” Maria said, before descending into a coughing fit that lasted the better part of a minute. Maria had been sick for years, despite Johnny sending her to a doctor once a quarter for check-ups. Beyond the cough, she had a lesion on the back of her hand that never fully healed, as well as a golf-ball sized tumor on her neck that, while benign, only continued to grow. Mrs. Galt wanted Johnny to let Maria go, but Maria had been there at the house for over twenty years—originally with his father—and Johnny was sure that, without the healthcare he provided, she wouldn’t last another year.

Just around the time Maria stopped coughing, Evelyn Galt appeared at the top of the sweeping grand staircase. Mrs. Galt was the same age as Johnny, yet seemed to him somehow older. Her skin was flawless, but strangely waxy. Her lips were plump, yet taught, and she had not kissed Johnny on the mouth in several years, complaining that such contact was painful.

“How was the meeting, darling?” asked Evelyn with a bored drawl as she descended the staircase.

“Dammit, dear, I told you not to buy Fritz brand anything,” said Johnny crossly. “Everyone knows it’s garbage.”

Evelyn reached Johnny and mimed a kiss on the cheek, though she never actually made contact. “Wasn’t he a friend of your father’s?” she said.

“He was, yes. But he sells junk. I just saw him this morning—he’s doing fine without our help, believe me. Now return this crap and get something that’ll last.”

“They’ve already installed half a truck’s worth, dear. We are not tearing it out.”

Johnny mumbled an obscenity. “You know what, do whatever you want,” he said. “Is Edgar around? There’s a rattle in my Bentley.”

“Edgar is in the hospital. He’s getting a lung removed, remember?”

“Lung removed?! Why do I pay for his healthcare plan if he doesn’t even use it!”

“He did use it, Johnny. That’s how he learned he has lung cancer.”

Johnny sighed. “Well this day has just turned into a proper mess. My new car has a rattle and my mechanic is the one getting worked on.” A flash of excitement shot through Johnny, causing him to smile. “Unless…”

“Unless what?” asked his wife.

“Unless I drive the car into town.”

Evelyn looked at him skeptically. “Whyever would you drive into town?”

“To go to a mechanic, of course.”

Another skeptical look from Evelyn.

“What?” said Johnny.

“Could you even talk to a mechanic? I mean, could you even act like a regular fellow?”

“Of course I could. I am a regular fellow, Evelyn.”

A cacophony of yelling interrupted the conversation, followed by five sheets of drywall slipping out of the hands of two of the construction workers and landing in a pile at the foot of the stairs, where the sheets promptly burst into hundreds of pieces.

“Right,” said Johnny. “I’m off, then.”

& & &

Half an hour later, Johnny pulled into Bluewater’s town center. While not a proper town, the area had most of the services necessary for mountain living, including a small mechanic’s shop.

Exiting his Bentley, Johnny approached the glass door of Rusty’s Autobody. How long had this place even been here? Johnny had no idea. Decades, by the look of it. Strange he had never noticed it.

A bell dinged as he pushed past the glass door and into a small room smelling of grease and gasoline. A middle-aged man with saggy jowls stood behind the counter.

“Yessir, Mr. Galt, I can fix your car,” said Rusty (he wore a nametag), following Johnny’s description of the Bentley’s rattle. “And I’ll do it for the bargain price of one million dollars.”

Johnny laughed out loud at the good-natured ribbing the man was giving him. In fact, he enjoyed it—to joke with a person implied a certain amount of respect. “Good one, Rusty. May I call you Rusty? But seriously, what are we looking at?”

Rusty gave a strange smile—not quite nasty, but far from kind. “I’m dead serious, Mr. Galt. I know what you’re worth. A million wouldn’t affect your quality of life in the slightest.”

“Maybe not, but it’s the principle of the thing,” said Johnny. “That’s an absurd price.”

“Principle? I’m surprised you even know the word. Certainly didn’t learn it from your father.”

Fury flashed from behind Johnny’s eyes at the mention of his father. “Okay then, Rusty, if that’s the way you want to play it, fine. Where’s the nearest garage?”

“That would be Benny’s Garage, over in Woody Creek. But it won’t do you no good.”

“And why’s that?”

“Benny’s price won’t be any cheaper than mine.”

Johnny’s eyes flashed venom. “I can report this, you know. Unions are illegal.”

“No unions, here, Mr. Galt. Just individuals making individual decisions. You know, freedom, and such.”

Livid, Johnny shook his head. “You know what? I’ll fix it myself. How hard could it be? Just a dumb little rattle. If someone as stupid as you could do it, how hard could it be?”

“Suit yourself, sir,” said Rusty, unperturbed.

Still steaming, Johnny turned to head back to his car, then hesitated. A rumbling in his stomach caused him to shudder. He turned back toward Rusty. “When I called you stupid, you know I was just shooting the bull, right?”

“What do you want?” asked Rusty.

“Can I use your bathroom? Please?”

Rusty nodded, and Johnny raced into the small bathroom and pulled the door shut behind him. He was surprised by how well-kept the room was, given the state of the rest of the shop. Johnny’s stomach rumbled again, and he raced to undo his belt.

[Scene removed due to graphic nature.]

Ten minutes later, a dour Johnny emerged from the bathroom. Rusty eyed him as he walked slowly across the shop and toward the door.

“I see you buy Wilson toilet paper,” said Johnny morosely as he passed by the front desk.

“It’s all they sell anymore.”

“I see,” said Johnny. He then removed ten $100 dollar bills from his wallet and placed them on the counter, one by one. “I appreciate you letting me use the bathroom.”

Rusty moved the money into the till, but said nothing.

“Ever had a genetically modified lobster?” asked Johnny.

Rusty shook his head.

& & &

Later that afternoon, Johnny slammed his laptop shut. He had been optimistic when he found an online tutorial for fixing a rattle in a Bentley, but his confidence had plummeted when he learned the cause of his problem. Not only was it not something he could fix on his own, his car would likely need a whole new engine! It wasn’t even the money that bothered him. Indeed, the car was still under warranty. What bothered Johnny was that this Bentley was considered the height of luxury! If a Bentley couldn’t be trusted, what good was having money at all?

The thought had come into Johnny’s mind suddenly, and immediately felt blasphemous.

“No, this car was just a fluke,” thought Johnny. “All industries make lemons. It’s just a part of life.”

Speaking of lemons, Johnny now took to staring out the window at the helicopter parked on the pad atop his garage. What he needed was a vacation—from CEO, from bathroom remodeling, from life. But the helicopter—his father’s—had been worthless for years, ever since the unions were dissolved, and its maintenance plan had been abandoned. The last time he’d attempted to start the thing, some months back, it had just sputtered and died. No mechanic he’d hired since had been able to diagnose what was wrong with the stupid thing.

But then, why should he need a helicopter for a vacation? He lived in Colorado! People came here for vacation. Yes, Johnny had everything he needed to decompress a few feet away. This is why he lived where he did, after all!

After pulling a beach chair free from the garage, Johnny began the short walk down to the lake. At the water, he strolled onto the wooden dock, where he set up his chair, and stared down into the muddy, toxic water. The day was quiet. A bit too quiet, really. Perhaps the talk radio, the remodeling, the rattle of the car—perhaps those sounds had served a purpose Johnny had not before recognized? Because now, sitting alone, with nothing but the sound of the lapping water—wait; where were the birds? Shouldn’t there be birds?—Johnny’s mind began to go places it had never gone before. Namely, Johnny had all the money he could ever spend, yet his helicopter was a dud, his house would soon have substandard bathrooms, and he couldn’t get his car fixed. Hell, he couldn’t even swim in his own lake. A terrifying thought then flitted through Johnny’s mind. Was it possible that—despite all his money, despite all his possessions—was it possible that Johnny Galt Jr., billionaire industrialist, was poor?!

Just then, a series of methane bubbles rose to the surface of the lake. The bubbles popped, releasing the strong stench of raw eggs. It was as if the lake itself was taunting Johnny.

“No,” said Johnny aloud. “Not me. Never! I’m not poor, and I can prove it.”

Johnny removed his phone from his pocket, logged into his bank account. “There!” he said, holding the phone up to the bubbling lake. “You see? Just look at all those zeros!”

* * * * THE END * * * *
Copyright J.D. Strunk 2025

Image Courtesy: Pedrosa_picture from Pixabay