Triple Witching Hour

The studio apartment was shrouded in darkness except for the light cast by a lone burner, whose blue flames engulfed the bottom of a large pot. The glow illumined the faces of three women standing naked before the stove, staring down at the rank stew coming to a boil. The one in the middle, a head taller than her companions, was pale and slim, her long straight hair the color of a raven. The one to her right was several shades darker, hair of a similar length and color but frizzy, the last upper incisor on each side of her mouth sparkling golden. The third was as dark as a human being could be and had long, shiny, straightened black hair and enormous breasts.

They repeated a soft chant several times:

"Fair is foul, and foul is fair.
Hover through the smog, the filthy air."*

Thick black drapes hung before the lone window, keeping out the rays of a nearby streetlight. A dark towel was stuffed into the bottom of the door, beyond which voices were murmuring. Soon there came an angry knock.

"What's goin' on in there?" a male gruffly demanded. "It's the middle of the night. People wanna sleep."

"Another menage a trois, no doubt," a woman returned smugly.

"They've moved beyond that to orgy," said another male. "And they don't even have the decency to invite their neighbors."

"I could care less," said the first male. "I just can't take that stink. What is that - some Spanish fly? I come across dead bodies that don't smell that bad."

Again he knocked and called out - in vain.

"Has anyone seen my cat?" said a concerned female voice.

The trio at the stove looked at each other. The tallest whispered:

"And thereto a cat's entrail
To the ingredients of our pail."**

"That's it, I'm callin' the cops," said the gruff male.

"You don't think...?" said the cat's owner, pausing, then breaking into a sob that faded along the corridor.

The tallest woman spoke:

"Fair is foul, and foul is fair.
Hover through the smog, the filthy air."

She pulled a long pin from her hair, plunged it into her thumb, and pressed to stimulate the flow of blood, which seemed black in the sparse light.

"By the pricking of our thumbs,
Something wicked this way comes."*

She allowed her blood to drip into the cauldron. It hissed as it mixed.

"Now, my sisters, Dolores and Santa."

Soon the blood of all three flavored the stew.

"The day of our triumph is at hand, Great One, adopted father. Five long years we've waited and hatched. Now the ides of March have passed once again without care. The fools are ripe for the plucking. No one suspects the havoc of the coming triple witching hour. We, the heirs of your Weird sisters, gladly do thy will. You have show us the true way through the foulness of existence - darkness. Soon civilization's brightest light will be extinguished and the world will fall into the eternal, blissful void from which it emerged so long ago - and you will have won, become lord over your master."

The three chanted in unison:

"Triple, triple, milk of third nipple,

Wall Street burn, America cripple."*

By the time the police arrived the apartment was ablaze. By the time the fire was extinguished the six story building was a relic.

The tall woman, modestly dressed in black, was seated at a handsome desk in a regal, conservative reception area characterized by library-like silence. The nameplate before her read: Ms. Bubb.

A smiling middle-aged man entered hurriedly, disrupting the calm. "Bea...." He paused, reflective. "Or is it Elsie? I've heard our young wizard calling you that lately."

"Either's fine, Mr. Barings. Elsie's my adopted father's pet name for me. Bea's my given name."

His brow wrinkled. "You mean step-father."

She did not reply, calmly defying his inquisitive gaze.

"What ancestry is Bubb, if you don't mind my asking?"

She shrugged. "I was so grateful about being adopted I never thought to ask. He's the world to me."

"Interesting. Amazing how little we know of each other even after working so closely for so long."

"Yes. Makes you wonder."

He paused as if to decipher hidden meaning in the remark. "Oh, well, back to work. The meeting's still on, I take it?"

"Triple witching hour - no one leaves the premises other than in an ambulance. You'll eat in the conference room."

He frowned. "Always anticipating the worst when nothing ever really happens, at least nothing totally disastrous. Must be the word 'expiration' that spooks everyone. Every quarter it's the same nonsense. You'd think we'd be used to it by now."

"Especially when people, let alone stocks and options, expire every day."

He chuckled uncomfortably, gazing into her deep dark eyes, shaking his head. "That diabolical sense of humor - no one'd ever suspect it." His face was suddenly swept with concern. "Come to think of it, our options, over the counter, and S&P positions are all pretty tenuous right now."

Perfect, she thought. He was looking in the wrong places, as she'd expected. She could almost hear him thinking, fretting, and was delighted. "I ordered from Little Charlie's."

He winced and touched his gut. "Just what my stomach needs. You didn't forget the medium sauce?"

"Of course not."

"Of course even that'd melt paint. I can imagine what the hot must be like. How do they stand it?"

"Indeed. You'd never expect it from such mild-mannered elders."

"Will our young wizard be joining us?"

"No. It'll be the three of you, as always."

He seemed to be gauging her reaction. She gave him none. No doubt he suspected the affair, wanted a piece himself. He wasn't man enough for her or, for that matter, any middle aged woman not his wife. Hirees as young as his daughters were his speed. She sensed he would like to do something unpleasant, humiliating to her. She could see it in his eyes, read his mind: Why does this plain woman bring out the animal in me? She regretted that there wouldn't be time to take that form of revenge, to show him the depths of which she was capable sexually. Her loins quivered as she imagined him cuffed and violated by a group of males, a sight that would have given her even greater pleasure than watching Ross, who had the proclivity, get his. He would have had to kill himself - another sight she would have loved seeing.

He left as hurriedly as he'd come. Did he suspect the plot? she wondered. She had only a few more hours to hold him off. How she would relish the moment of his demise. He was the most wretched of the species: devious, petty and uninspired, lacking the nerve to be truly wicked, riding the coattails of the gifted and bold. He was satisfied where he was, kissing up to his betters, impeding anyone he feared might threaten his position. He envied and hated Ross. She sensed he was plotting against him, searching for opportunity, the slightest evidence of impropriety. Thus far she'd managed to hide her trump card from him. Had he discovered it, he would surely have squealed, as it would have made him a hero. Actually, she enjoyed playing cat and mouse with him. It kept her sharp.

The intercom buzzed.

"Yes, sir."

"Send me young Ross, please, Bea."

"Right away, Mr. Duncan."

Normally Ross looked as if he'd stepped from a layout in a fashion magazine: tall, athletic, impeccably attired, unusually handsome. This day, however, it appeared he hadn't slept. The dark rings beneath his beautiful blue eyes were the first obvious flaw in his physical charms. The inner corruption complete, it was finally seeping outward. It gave Bea immense pleasure.

"You think he knows?" he said, almost inaudibly, peering behind him, no doubt wary of Barings.

"He doesn't suspect a thing. Neither does our friend."

"I'm worried, Elsie. The Nikkei keeps dropping."

"O ye of little faith," she scolded indignantly. "It's supposed to. It's being manipulated to take out the suckers." She jerked her head toward the door at her back. "He's waiting. Take a deep breath and get in there. If he asks about your condition, tell him your allergies are acting up and that you're not taking any medication because you want to stay alert."

She'd plotted a course of action in the event of discovery. She'd waited five years. She wasn't going to see her work go down the drain at the eleventh hour.

She pulled two knitting needles from her bag, one for each man, and slid them into the left sleeve of her dress.

Moments later Ross exited, flushed, respiring heavily, yet apparently relieved. She rose and went to the coffee room. He followed. She locked the door behind him and backed him against the counter, pressing ever so slightly against his loins, caressing the lapels of his jacket, looking into his vivid eyes, around which tributaries of blood had formed.

"How could I've ever let you talk me into derivatives," he moaned, eyes glazing - "without authorization! I don't have the experience for it."

"I have enough for the both of us. Have I ever let you down? I've made you one of the most respected traders on the Street. You're not even thirty and you're a millionaire."

"And we're risking it all on one roll!"

"When the smoke clears you'll be greater than ever. The Nikkei will start rebounding on Monday. It's a rigged game. Don't let the triple witching hour spook you like it does all the losers. You're destined for greatness."

"I wish I had your balls."

"You do!" she said, squeezing his firmly, briefly; "or we would've never come this far. I was like you once, always afraid. If I'd had someone to guide me I'd be sitting in a chair like Duncan's right now."

"When I'm sitting in it you'll be my queen."

"And we'll have a harem the envy of all mankind."

He shuddered, pained, and poised his forehead to hers for support. ""The things you make me do."

"Make you? You relish them. Don't be intimidated by the morality of the weak. In taking the throne you must use men and women shamelessly, the same in pleasure. We seek power to separate ourselves from the common. See how you rise just thinking about it. I know your soul."

She went to her knees.

"Please don't."

"But why," she said, looking at him, enjoying his distress; "when it's obvious you need attention?"

"He might walk in on us."

"I'd do him too to further your career."

Soon he was crying out, back arching. She rose and joined her lips to his. He took them hungrily.

"How you corrupt me," he said, breaking the seal, clutching at her shoulders to keep from sinking.

"And you love every minute of it."

His head slumped. "There is a part of me that definitely does."

"The best part, the part that all powerful men cultivate."

"Not Duncan. He's a saint."

"He is now. He's already made his fortune - a hundred times over. He was just like you once. All those charitable contributions are just penance."

His ears pricked up. "He's buzzing you," he said urgently.

She reached the intercom as Duncan was coming out of the office.

"Is everything okay, Bea?"

"Yes. Young Ross had an accident at the coffee machine. I sent him to the nurse. It's nothing serious, just a little burn. He won't be going home."

Did he see through the lie? she wondered, remaining calm under his gaze, prepared to reach for the knitting needle. Finally he relented and turned back into the office. She ground her teeth, fighting rage, and plopped into her chair, thinking, hatching. Had she bought enough time in appeasing Ross? He was close to breaking. She would have killed him would not his absence have been noted. If he came blubbering once more, however, she wouldn't hesitate.

Lunch arrived. She set out the china in the conference room, filled three plates with pasta, poured the sauces into separate bowls, and placed the fried seafood on a serving tray. Mr. Duncan, Mr. Banco, and Mr. Barings entered as she was sorting the cutlery.

"Honestly, Bea," said Duncan, smile lighting up the room; "it's not necessary to pamper us. It wasn't so long ago that Carl and I were eating peanut butter and jelly every day."

"Not so long ago?" said Mr. Banco wistfully. "Forty-five years - how I wish I had them back. The chase is everything."

"I thought you said 'the kill' was," she teased, "or was that Mr. Barings?"

The two seniors laughed. Barings fidgetted, gazing at Bea, who went about her chores without giving him a glance.

"Anyway," said Duncan, "we wouldn't wilt eating out of the aluminum trays."

"You've earned the right to be pampered."

"Thank you, dear. We really appreciate it."

"The usual to drink?"

"Diet for me," said Barings, who, unlike his associates, was reed thin.

Duncan and Banco laughed, shaking their heads.

Bea left the room smiling. Any suspicion Duncan may have harbored seemed to have vanished. She returned presently, carrying their drinks on a tray. Each man had logged into a computer positioned before him on the table and was looking through eyeglasses at the screen.

"No calls unless the world's coming to an end," said Duncan. "You know the drill."

Bea sat at her desk, buoyant with anticipation, watching the clock, taking calls, which were few, as the financially astute knew better than to call in the face of triple witching hour. Finally she rose, legs wobbling as if after intense sex. She stepped into the conference room, hung a "Do Not disturb" sign on the outer knob, and locked the door.

Duncan's gray head was thrown back in his hair, tongue wedged in the corner of his foaming mouth, eyeglasses askew, gut billowing to its maximum, threatening to pop the buttons of his shirt. Banco was face down in his pasta, bald head gleaming, reflecting the light. Barings had managed to crawl halfway to the door. He lay on his back, alive but fading, chest rising and falling rapidly. He gazed vacantly at Bea, who stood over him. He speech was mere aspiration. No other mortal would have been able to decipher his intent:

"BeaElsieBubb."

"Yes." she nodded. "My adopted father. I bet those sneaky little eyes never expected this much. You won't be around long enough to witness it, but I'm taking you and all of the Street down with you. I may even have sex with you when you're dead. I haven't had a fresh cadaver in months."

To her chagrin, the comment failed to conjure horror in his eyes. He was too far gone. She stepped over him and toward a fax machine, where she tapped out a message: "The king is dead, long live the Prince." Within minutes she received the exact reply from sources around the nation and the globe.

She pulled up a chair beside Duncan and began searching the computer for tenuous market positions, of which there were even more than she'd expected. She made a list, then sat back biding her time. Her silent reverie was interrupted by Baring's death rale. She looked into his eyes and waved goodbye.

The minutes crawled. With time on her hands, with such excitement in her veins, she was sorely tempted to do mischief to the corpses. However, she would not risk getting carried away and ruining what she'd waited so long to achieve. Discipline, she told herself, quaking as she recalled the discipline she'd taught Ross. She spread her legs to allow herself air. Fortunately the phone rang just often enough to divert her.

She watched the screen intently, dipping her fingers into the hot sauce, reveling in the burn. Soon the bowl was empty. She searched for another time-killer, found it in Duncan's breast pocket - a long Cuban cigar. Each day he had one after lunch. She bit off the end, spit it at him, and lit up, inhaling deeply, blowing the smoke high above her head.

Slowly the minute hand crept toward the triple witching hour. A thrill swept through her as she recalled that Jesus had died at three PM. This was a modern Good Friday - Armageddon by computer.

At five-to she went to work, executing the derivative transaction first, sending several hundred billion dollars up in smoke. The entire task was completed with time to spare. Soon a polite knock came at the door.

Right on time, she said to herself.

"Mr. Duncan? Excuse me, sir. It's Ross. I have to talk to you."

"Too late, my slave. Go home. Judgment day has arrived."

He sobbed pitifully and pounded on the door briefly.

She went about her final chore, squirting lighter fluid everywhere. When finally she exited the room she found Ross hanging from his tie, which he'd fastened to the golden blade of the ceiling fan. He was still alive, eyes suppliant, as if he wished to be saved. She tittered, sidestepped the chair he'd kicked out from under himself, and went to the closet. Coat donned and buttoned, she took a final look.

"Bye, my slave."

She hit the switch and the fan began rotating slowly. Nice touch, she thought, congratulating herself. He might slip off and live, she knew - but so what? His life was ruined. He would soon be sleeping in a cardboard box. He was weak, unlike the Duncan's of the world, who would always fight, always find a way to keep the light burning, who ultimately had to be extinguished.

She paused at the elevator, the tumult in the trading area music to her ears. Smoke was beginning to creep from the conference room.

As she was making her way along Broad Street, there was an unmistakable thud behind her. She sighed as a hot stream whipped at her ankles. Screams pierced the air. Running was prevalent. She did not turn around, reveling instead in the intense flash in her loins. Ahead, Delores was waiting. As the two fell in step and turned onto Wall Street, a crack emanated from a limousine parked at the curb. A rorshach red blotch smeared the inside of the passenger window. The driver exited, frantic. The women grasped hands briefly, sharing the electricity of their feelings.

As Santa joined her sisters, two men in suits broke through the glass front of a tall building. Shards slid along the sidewalk like ice. Blood spilled as the pair tumbled to the ground. Sirens were echoing amongst the caverns of the world's financial hub, wailing like the walls of the vagina of a victim of rape.

Three long black raincoats strolled in tandem toward Broadway. Ahead, two blocks away, stood the black face of the Trinity Street Church, the final resting place of Alexander Hamilton and others present during the formation of civilization's brightest beacon.

"Feel them turning in their graves?" said Bea triumphantly.

*Verses either quoted directly or adapted from "The Tragedy of Macbeth" by William Shakespeare

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