One evening, at the manor of one Conrad Easton, a group of 7 pecuilar individuals (including Mr. Easton himself, of course) gathered in the East Wing Dining Hall, awaiting orders from their mysterious host.

"Do we sit on request, or at leisure?" Inquired a Mr. Cornelius Hudson of Hudson Publishing. This particular guest was worth approximately the pound-for-pound value, in gold, of India's entire Army, give or take a few hundred pounds. A rather odd way to judge someones wealth, perhaps, but I've always been one for calculating value, materialistic or otherwise.

And who am I? I, having been the second guest at Mr. Easton's dinner extraordinaire, am a now established author going by the pen-name of Carson Cole. I say "now established" because at the time of the dinner I am recalling, I was a nobody. The significance of this will soon become clear as I relate the immense importance of every other guest of Mr. Easton. Now, back to the dinner patrons; more of my own story a bit later.

"Well surely we must wait for our master to allow for our leisure!" Replied one Annabelle Griffin, the wife of Maxwell Griffin, the famous Wall Street broker making all the papers of making millions overnight. What the papers didn't know, but clearly Mr. Easton did, was that Maxwell Griffin was a ghost. He existed only on paper, and was conjured up by Annabelle so that she could have all the luxuries of having been born a man, while still maintaining all the realities of actually being born a woman, one of which included an incredible knack for analyzing the market.

"Our master? Please! He's lucky I don't stuff my shirt full of all these priceless plates and paintings. It'd be his own fault for having flaunted them in my face all the way down the hall."

Scoffed Miss Janet Kane, mistress to all who could afford her. I never found much out on Miss Kane, she keeps all information of her very delicate business very closed off to those who don't partake. I had narrowed down the reasons for her being here to two: the first being that  Mr. Easton was a frequent customer of hers. However, Mr. Easton didn't strike me as the kind of man who would purchase a mistress. I've never met the man, but judging by the astonishing tapestry he had hanging on the wall opposite me, no man with such exquisite taste would buy a woman, for moral reasons as well as really never needing to. And so, the second reason for Miss Kane's presence was that she was the frequent purchase of another guest here tonight, and had blackmailed her way into a forced "plus one".

"Has anyone actually met the man?" That was Jonathan Kade, infamous hunter of the albino lion in South Africa. He bore a scar running from the base of his neck up to his ear, and not once did I see the man smile that night. He seemed to have a grand time, I'm sure, in a sense that you know a dog is having a good time playing fetch. His general mood was very light and carefree, but Mr. Kade never betrayed so much as the flick of the edges of his lips.

"I haven't, but I heard he saved three children from a burning building once. Triplets, no less!" Our sixth guest is Miss Jane Fisher, a young woman who has shown an incredible talent for silent acting in recent months. Her more notable films have been "Better Kill Me Twice" and "Love Is Out There", among others. If you still don't know who I'm talking about, I'm sure you're familiar with the popular advertisement for Jax Deoderant that came out two weeks ago? With the woman at the beach? Well, that woman smiling, half-naked, back at you from your morning edition newspaper is Jane Fisher, and she was the second to last guest that evening as we quieted down. For our host, and the last guest of the evening, had just entered the room.

Conrad Easton strode into the room with a confident yet somehow modest walk that boasted his immense wealth and stern handshake all at the same time. He appeared to own the manor and be a humble guest in it simultaneously, and looking at his face I forgot for an instant which he actually was. And so, to this day, I label as both. There was a silent ringing in the air as our knees buckled under the immense weight of all the unspoken words he might or might not say.

"Please, be seated." He hadn't even finished the sentence before there was an eruption of laughter and talk and the scraping of chairs across the carpeted floor as we sat and heaved a collective sigh of relief that the man had not ordered us to commit mass suicide or strip down and run around screaming naked. For we knew we would carry out any absurd or idiotic act to the letter if Conrad Easton told us to. He was just that kind of man.

As we talked, drank, and laughed the night away, I become increasingly aware of how out of place I was. Where others were wealthy, famous, or talented I was a broke nobody who could barely piece a narrative together. I felt the rectangular outline of the elegant, expensive paper in my pocket, on which my invitation had been printed on.

"Dear Mr. Cole, I am intrigued, and would like you to accompany me for dinner this Saturday, August 21st."

I had obviously poured over what about myself Mr. Easton was so intrigued by, but had found nothing. I had written a few columns for the Daily Oracle under my pen-name, and since he had addressed me as "Mr. Cole", I assumed that's where he stumbled across me. But my writing was no good, I didn't see how-

"Mr. Cole?" I jolted my head up from my empty plate, directly into the eyes of Jonathan Kade. Mr. Kade looked into me, and I mean into me, and then looked over at the man who had called my name. I nervously followed his gaze across Miss Fisher, Miss Kane, and Mr. Judson before landing on my host. He was flashing a brilliant smile and his question still lingered in his eyes. The only problem was I had not heard the question. Panicked, I did not want to appear rude to Mr. Easton, or stupid to any of the other esteemed guests. Instead of doing what any normal, non-awkard, sane person would do and say "I'm sorry?", I thought, in my deranged state, it would be best to just act as if I had heard his question.

"Well that depends." I replied.

"On?"

I hadn't considered we would all live this long, I thought surely the sun would burn out and all the stars would explode long before it was time for me to speak again. Alas, perhaps I could work the question back out of him if I chose my words more carefully.

"On your view of the matter. How do you view it, Mr. Easton?" The table laughed, and my face reddened.

"I view the carriage ride up here as bumpy and uncomfortable, I'm considering having it paved. Now, I ask again, Mr. Cole, how was your ride up?" The sun is taking far too long to expire.

"Oh, lovely. The view coming up the hilltop is unparalleled." There was a murmur of agreement among the table, somehow I had come out on top of this whole mess.

The night soared on. Soared on, I don't believe that's quite a common expression. What first came to my mind in a strictly lingual sense was "the night dragged on". However, the night did not drag. The conversation lifted above the rooftop of Easton's Estate with Miss Kane's risqué sense of humor, high over the hills of the countryside with Jane Fisher's outrageous faces and hilariously overacted motions. The dialogue lowered, sweeping across the globe as Mr. Kade related a chilly tale of a night in Swaziland when he was awoken by the rumbling of an elephant herd. He had just gotten up to marvel at the sight when a streak of tigers leaped out of nowhere and killed the elephant at the head.

"And that was the true beauty of that night," Mr. Kade said in a hushed tone, "nature taking the reins of what must always be true."

"And what truth is that, Mr. Kade?" Mr. Easton asked.

"Why, Survival of the Strongest of course." Jonathan puffed out his chest as he said it, considering himself the prime suspect of the strongest, no doubt.

Up until this moment, I had not said a single word since my escapade with Mr. Easton about my ride up the hill. However, after realizing that I was obviously mistaken for being someone of worthiness, the least I could do for Mr. Easton was attempt at civil conversation. He may have made a mistake in my personality, but I wouldn't let him have me as a total failure in his mind. As Jonathan Kade puffed out his chest and claimed that only the strong survive, I saw an ever-so-slight look of distaste on Conrad Easton's face. My moment had arrived.

"Surely when it comes to mere strength the elephant had the tiger outmatched." I exited my body and joined the other 5 guests in looking at me as if I were going to either finish my thought or ask a question. I had simply stated an opinion, and not followed it up with so much as an upwards inflection of my voice at the end to make it a question. The 6th guest was the only one who looked at my different from the others. Mr. Easton looked as if his underdog boxer that he had bet millions on had just jabbed his winning opponent square in the mouth. Was this the point of tonight? Did Mr. Easton want to find someone who agreed with his views, disagreed with Kade's? Was one person at this table supposed to walk away a "winner" in the eyes of Conrad Easton? If this was the case, I was sure I was winning.

"Well..." Mr. Kade realized I was going to follow up my stupid remark with an idiotic question, I wasn't redundant like that. "It's more about mere strength. I kill beasts for a living that could tear my head off as easily as Mrs. Griffin just teared off a piece of that bread there. Their strength outweighs mine 600 to 1, but intelligence comes into play, you see."

"So you just contradicted yourself, Survival of the Smartest you meant to say!" Annabelle Griffin shouted, her words muffled through a mouthful of bread.

"'Survival of the Smartest', that's quite clever!" Mr. Hudson chimed in.

Mr. Kade became slightly agitated. "No, the fittest survive, because even the mind needs to be trained. Human brains have been trained over millions of years, and only ours has grown so large. Our sound body and mind allow us to conquer nature and Her monsters." He sat back, arms crossed, looking accomplished. But still never smiling.

There was the brief semi-silence of the lack of talking and the smacking of food. I may not have much money in my bank account compared to these open-mouthed chewers, but I was rich in manners. I looked over at Mr. Easton.

"You're not eating, Mr. Easton?"

"No. Tell me more about your theories of survival, Mr. Cole." Easton had shrugged off my question as if I had asked him about a passed relative, then followed it up with intense passion for knowing more of my thoughts on a light dinner topic. What else could I do?

"Surely the strong can obliterate the weak. And the intelligent can no doubt outwit the dim." There was once again a murmur of agreement over something I had said, but I had nothing else to say. My mind raced as I searched for something inspirational, motivational, sensational. In the search through the filing cabinets of my mind, I found something interesting under the keywords "survival, intelligent, outwit, dim". A half-remembered lecture from a long-forgotten memory. The type of memory you can't discern from a dream. My mother, lecturing me after a boy had once beaten me. Yes, that would do. "There will always be someone better than you. Whether it be stronger, faster, smarter, more talented, more attractive, funnier, a better leader, a better lover. The most beautiful woman in the world is envious of her intelligent sister. The strongest man in the world just wishes he could make people laugh like his friend. The most beloved dictator yearns to be able to sing like his cousin. It is in this fact that we survive. Not because we wish to outshine, or because we covet. Because we yearn, we strive. We are inspired, wonderstruck, filled with awe. All lions are strong, all elephants are massive, all tigers are hunters, all birds are singers. Humans have that one uncontrollable, inexplicable, undefinable, priceless trait: variety. I guess, Survival of the Sundry."

That silence that followed (that's complete silence, no food-smacking was heard) was the most bizarre lack of noise I've ever experienced. Everyone was looking into the distance, at the ceiling, at their plates, or at their hands, all with a slight smile. Except for Mr. Kade of course, but his air was remiss of pride. Mr. Easton was the only one looking right at me.

"That was beautiful, Mr. Cole." He said, and for the third and final time that night, there was a murmur of agreement. I liked that murmur the best, if we're being quite frank.

As we finished eating, the conversation amongst the other 5 guests returned to light matters of jovial things. The only two people who didn't speak until dinner was over was myself and Mr. Easton, who frequently looked over at me with the same pondering gaze an astronomer gives a newfound constellation.

After dinner, we retired to the smoking room, where Miss Kane held smoke in her lungs for an entire three minutes. Then the billiards room, in which we all played pool and Mr. Hudson graced us with some piano music. After that, we turned over to the movie theater, where we watched one of Jane Fisher's movies and she acted out some of the more memorable scenes for us live. After the film, we all talked in groups of two or three until Mr. Kade was the first to leave (closely followed by Miss Kane, I should add). This started a chain reaction until Miss Fisher was the last to exit, leaving only myself and Conrad Easton in his main hall.

"How was your evening, Mr. Cole?"

"Incredible, Mr. Easton, thank-"

"Please, call me Conrad."

"Well, Conrad, it was fabulous, thank you so much for having me. Although..."

"Yes?"

"I know it may seem rude, but I can't leave without asking, why did you invite me here tonight?"

Conrad looked perplexed. "I don't understand."

"Well, among so much talent and wealth, why did you invite me here tonight?"

Mr. Easton smiled. "Carson, I read one of your articles in the Oracle and knew you were something...something else. You here tonight proved that. You're no one now, but neither were any of the guests here tonight before I stepped in." Conrad could see the look coming over my face. "Come, sit down." We returned to the dining hall, and he sat in his original chair and I in the seat opposite him. "Carson, I-"

"Carson Cole isn't my real name, it's just a pen name. My real-"

"No you see that's just it, I don't want to know your real name. Whatever your mother called you, that's gone after tonight. Who ever heard of Arthur Davis until I saw him hunt down a herd of wild boars with only a knife the size of your pointer finger when I was in South Africa once. I turned Arthur Davis into Jonathan Kade. I introduced him to a woman named Martha Thomas I had seen selling herself at a street corner. A woman who was doing whatever men asked for. I showed her how to not have to ask, turned her body into a business, and released her. All those people tonight, they are my children. I look at them as if they are my own. And now, I want to do the same for you, Carson. I want to help you write the Great American Novel, to have your works studied in classrooms fifty years from now! Mr. Kade, Miss Kane, Mr. Hudson, Mrs. Griffin, Miss Fisher I financed their careers from afar and built awareness of them without ever having personally met them until tonight."

"Why?" The question squeaked from my dry throat.

"The same reason I gathered all my projects under my roof tonight. Because they are amazing. They deserve to be remembered, and I will ensure they are! "

"But why did you invite me here, I'm still nothing."

"Because I needed to show you what can happen when you say yes. I'm offering you more than just your writing career, Mr. Cole. You see, I'm dying."

I stared at Mr. Easton for a few moments. I felt anger for having been someone's pet project for who knows how long. But I also felt flattered that I was the next Jane Fisher or Cornelius Hudson. I wet my dried lips.

"Dying?"

"That's right. I don't just want you to be an esteemed writer, I want you to inherit my fortune."

The harsh silence struck me in a different way than all the other silences of the night had. It was sharp, and deafening. It depressurized my ears and made my head spin. I didn't believe my ears. I didn't believe Conrad Easton. The only thing I believed, the only thing I held onto in that moment to keep myself from gripping my head and screaming was my name. My name. Carson Cole.

"No."

Conrad Easton looked at me as if I had laughed at his death-sentence.

"No?"

"Mr. Easton, I highly respect you. I admire you, I even envy you. But I won't take your money or your empire."

"But, why?"

"Because you told me to forget the name my mother gave me. I appreciate what you're trying to do for me, but please realize that you've already done so much. I wandered into this estate a clueless nobody, and I'm leaving as a nobody who turned down a fortune. I don't expect you to understand. All I can say is that when it comes to changing your entire life in the name of wealth and prosperity, even if it's for good intentions, destroys a person. If we all are written about in the history books, none of us are. As much as I hate being one, we need the poetic nobodies. The strong idiots, talentless beauties, they make us human. They are the variety, the sundry. I'll write the words of a nobody, and everybody will remember them, because they will have been words despite wealth, language despite legacy. At least that's what I was taught. Taught by the woman who named me Matthew Hall. Goodnight, Mr. Easton."

And so, I walked out on Conrad Easton. He died sometime later, and I am now an established author of my own doing. I thank Mr. Easton every day for being so kind as to invite me into his dining hall, show me a great night, and offer to make me a god among men. I appreciate the gesture, but there are too many gods among us men nowadays.