Dark Comedy Short Story: Give the People What They Want

About this story:

Daniel “Anansi” Stevens is the best in the business — a con artist who specializes in immersive, theatrical pranks designed to scare the arrogance out of the rich. When Mrs. Owens hires him to give her husband a “special” tour of their new luxury resort, Anansi unleashes his most elaborate dark comedy yet: fake snakes, staged disasters, and a kitchen staff locked in a battle‑royale audition. But as the chaos unfolds, it becomes clear Mrs. Owens has a bigger plan — and Anansi is just the opening act. “Give the People What They Want” is a dark comedy short story about revenge, performance, and the art of giving a man exactly the nightmare he deserves.

 

I stood in the lobby, my back to the untenanted front desk, watching the doors as the woman entered. 

“Mr. Stevens.” She held out her hand and we shook. “It’s so nice to finally meet you in person.”

“And you,” I replied.

I appraised Mrs. Owens carefully. She wasn’t what I expected. She held herself straight, had a firm handshake, an impeccable suit with not a blond hair out of place. I hadn't expected a regal lady like her to be so diabolical.

“Is everything ready?” she asked. “I’m trusting in your expertise.”

“My nickname isn’t Anansi for nothing. If I haven’t scared him off by the end of the tour, I pay you!" She raised an eyebrow at me. "It's all in the contract you signed."

"Oh, of course. I'm just surprised that's all. Most contractors don't guarantee their work anymore."

I bowed. "I'm not just a 'contractor' and there's no one like me anyway."

Mrs. Owens smiled. “On to business. You need to remember that he’s expecting the resort to be ready for the grand opening tomorrow. He wants everything to be perfect. There isn’t time to make changes.”

I gestured for her to follow me, and I led her out of the lobby to the atrium.

“I'm sure I've asked this before, but if this is so important to him, why hasn’t he kept an eye on the construction from the beginning? Why is he just coming to see it now?”

“That’s just the way my husband is,” she replied. “He doesn’t delegate; he abdicates.”

I frowned in confusion.

“He thinks, because he is rich, he can just tell people what he wants, and they will ‘get’ it. He says something like ‘give the people what they want’ and assumes the people around him will just automatically know what that means.” She shook her head. "That's actually what he told them. The people he hired to create this place. 'Give the people what they want'. Can you imagine?" 

“Actually, that's perfect,” I said. “I can use that in my spiel.” I made a note on the clipboard that I held. 

She grinned and now I saw her mischievous streak. “Exactly. Oh, I knew you were the right man for the job.” She looked around at the atrium, with the soaring ceiling of glass, letting in the clear, Caribbean sunshine. The plants and the sound of birds. "This is beautiful. I can't wait until it is all mine." 

I led her up the stairs and down a hallway, all the while she looked around, brushed her fingers over the high-end furnishings. Then she rubbed her hands together and looked me over. “He should be here soon. Is that what you’re wearing?”

We were using the spa as our ‘backstage.’ I led her inside where the other members of the crew were rushing about. Some were getting blood packs installed by the stunt crew, others camouflage applied by the makeup artists, grabbing plastic weapons from the armoury. No one was paying any attention to us. I glanced at a mirror on the wall.

I thought my costume designer had done a wonderful job creating my vision. My mousy brown hair looked as if I had just rolled out of bed and my wrinkled was just a little too big. My designed chose a color the exact shade of my hair, washing me out.

“I’m playing to your husbands biases,” I explained. “He won’t say anything, but he will immediately be distrustful of me because I clearly don’t have taste or class.”

“Oh, you are good.” Mrs. Owens looked at the controlled chaos around us. “Are you sure everyone will be ready on time?”

I nodded. “Actors thrive on stress and craziness. I would be worried if everything were quiet now.” I looked at my watch, obviously a fake Rolex. Mr. Owens wasn’t likely to notice such a minor detail, but I wasn’t leaving anything to chance. “Well, I’m off to await the mark.”

“Oh, don’t call him that,” Mrs. Owens said.

I was surprised. She was the one who had set this whole thing up. Didn't she want it to work? "I thought—"

She continued. “He’s so much more than a mark. By calling him just a mark, you’re taking away his significance in this caper. He needs to learn a lesson.”

I felt an immediate affection for this woman and patted her on the shoulder. “And he will be.” I took one last look at myself in the mirror. “You can wait back here. There are snacks and coffee. And in that room,” I gestured to a door off to the side. "You can watch the whole thing on the security monitors." 

Mrs. Owens rubbed her hands together again and set off for the security room immediately. I proceeded back through the hotel to the driveway to await the man of the hour.

I shuffled from foot to foot as the limo arrived. I waited as the driver held the door for the middle-aged man. He wore a custom-tailored cream suit which somehow showed off his physique. Muscular, tall, hair stiff and stuck in place. His bearing suggested that he was right at home in the 5-star resort. However, it was also immediately evident that he didn’t want to be there. He looked around in distaste, as if everything was covered in a thin layer of slime. I smiled to myself. Wait until he got the full tour!

“Mr. Owens, I’m Daniel Stevens.” I held out my hand. "I hope you had a nice trip."

The man ignored my outstretched hand. Instead, he buttoned his coat and looked around, avoiding eye contact. “The airline didn't stock my requested edibles, the people on this island drive like maniacs and the heat is unbearable.” He said all of this without a single change in inflection, as if it was a script that he’d memorized. His look rested on the resort sign. “I see you finally got the sign erected.”

A sandstone half wall stood before us, proclaiming ‘Resort Claudette’ in shining tile.

“Oh yes, we had the tile worker – “

He didn’t let me finish. “My wife will be pleased.”

I stopped myself from rolling my eyes. "Oh? Will Mrs. Owens be joining us?" I asked. I looked around as if I expected her to jump out of the bushes.

"No, no." He waived the question away. He didn't elaborate. “I hope you followed my instructions. We must give the people what they want.”

I smiled in my most obsequious. “Of course.” I tapped my clipboard. “All right here.”

“Excellent. Show me the rest, Stephen.”

I didn’t correct him. In fact, I was surprised that he'd listened enough to get one of my names right. Mrs. Owens hadn't been joking about her husband. I straightened my jacked and followed Mr. Owens down the fern lined walkway to the main doors. Inside the lobby, I pointed out the main desk, the coffee bar, the door to the spa. Mr. Owens wasn’t listening.

“What are these?” he asked, striding toward the greenery growing in a sunlit plant ledge in front of the windows.

I grinned and then composed my look before he could see. “The flowers you requested, Mr. Owens.”

“They most certainly are not!” He touched the large, white, horn shaped flowers, hanging horn side down. “They look like what I requested. What are they called?”

“Man o’ War, sir.”

Mr. Owens stared at me in disbelief, and I choked back a laugh.

“Not war. Peace. They’re supposed to be Peace Lillies!”

“Oh. Ha ha.” I tugged at my collar as if embarrassed.

“And these?” Mr. Owens pointed to another grouping.

“Jasmine and Hollyhock,” I replied, preening. “I’m particularly proud of that display. You wouldn’t believe how hard it was to find a gardener with an expertise in those flowers. For some reason, all the other gardeners wanted to plant boring greenery with no flowers at all.” I huffed. “No accounting for taste, I suppose.”

Mr. Owens turned and made eye contact with me for the first time. “Who’s taste? My people would never plant Jasmine and Hollyhock?”

“It’s right here,” I said. I pretended to consult the paperwork on the clipboard in my hand. “Ah, yes. Snake plants and spider plants.”

“Exactly.” Mr. Owens leaned in and looked at the paperwork as well, his dislike of being so close to me obvious in his sneer. “Snake plants and Spider plants.” He traced the words with his finger and then gestured at the Jasmine and Hollyhock. “These aren’t Snake plants and Spider plants.”

I shook my head as if I didn’t understand what he was saying. “Snake plants.” I pointed at the Jasmine and then the Hollyhock. “Spider plants.”

Mr. Owens rubbed his temples. I hoped he was feeling like he was in some weird version of ‘Who’s on First?’ He pointed at the plants himself and said, “Jasmine and Hollyhock.”

I opened my mouth to reply when Mr. Owens shrieked like a little girl and jumped a foot in the air. “There’s a snake in there.”

When I heard Mr. Owens shriek, I had to cover my smile behind a fake cough. I had been worried about putting an elderly man in a position where he might have an actual heart attack. I drew the line at using real snakes, but we shelled out for the best in the fakes. I got my face under control. “Of course,” I said aloud. “Jasmine is the perfect snake plant.”

I saw the lightbulb go off as he finally understood what I was saying. He spun away from the 'snake', his feet slapping ineffectually at the slick floor until he slipped, coming face to face with the 'spider' plants. "Spider plants!" Mr. Owens gasped pushing up, his eyes bulging. Finally, he was able to get away from the bank of plants and walked quickly to the door. 

I made a note on my clipboard. My assistant, Janice, deserved a bonus for that idea.

“You have to give the people what they want,” I said.

He ignored me. “Show me the rooms,” he barked without looking back.

I led him into the Atrium, where the wide stone steps led to the restaurant on the second floor. I kept my eyes away from the second floor. If he made it that far before bugging out. We passed the stairs, following a path lined with more plants. Mr. Owens shied away from the cobweb shrouded plants. We came to a hallway with doors to either side. I pulled out my keycard and opened the first door. Pushing it wide, I gestured for Mr. Owens to precede me. Inside, the room was very dark.

Mr. Owens scrabbled beside the door until he found the light switch. A small lamp in the corner of the room flickered to life, barely relieving the gloom. The walls were black, the décor was grey on grey, with moody artwork on the walls. With a huff, Mr. Owens strode to the window and flung open the curtains. I smiled at the mans back. It was clear he’d expected the bright Caribbean sunshine to beam into the room. The tinted window turned the bright sunshine into a watery light barely illuminating the space in front of the window.

“What kind of décor is this!” stormed the man, spinning on his heels and waiving both arms around his head.

I frowned and stared at my clipboard. “This is the décor you requested,” I replied, holding out the paperwork. My finger tapped the part of the page he needed to read. Mr. Owens looked at the page. It was a printout of an email that had supposedly come from his office. It was a list of ‘things to do.’ Item number four - gloom service.

“Gloom service? What that hell is gloom service?” Mr. Owens stared at the page, muttering to himself and then he smacked his forehead. “I’m going to have my secretaries head for this! I’ll teach her not to send emails without using spell check.”

You idiot, I thought. Spell check wouldn’t catch that. I made a note to mention the secretary to Mrs. Owens. We didn’t want this prank to get anyone fired.

“That’s supposed to say, ‘Room Service’,” he snarled at me.

I looked around the room as if seeing it for the first time. “Oh!" I leaned closer to him and winked. "You have to give the people what they want.”

He pulled back grimaced at being so close to service personnel. “Who wants something like this?” He waived away the comment. “Never mind. Show me the restaurant.”

As I turned to lead him out of the room, I heard him mutter “Can’t screw up a restaurant.”

That’s what you think. I grinned. In character, I rubbed my hands together. “I’m looking forward to seeing who won myself.” Mr. Owens just gave me a queer look but didn't deign to ask what I meant. I led him down the hallway and back to the Atrium. There was the faint tang of smoke on the air and the sound of fireworks in the distance. I couldn’t wait to see what he thought of our next scene. We climbed the stairs and crossed the white Terrazzo floor.

“Nice décor here,” he said as we walked through the deliciously appointed restaurant, all dark wood and forest greens and creams. Floor to ceiling windows looked out on a view of the island to the left and the ocean to the right. We walked past the fully stocked bar to the swinging doors of the kitchen. All the while the smell of smoke was getting stronger and the sound of fireworks getting louder.

“What is going on in there?” he hissed.

I didn’t answer. Instead, I pushed open the doors, showing a war zone. Blue smoke billowed through the air, revealing bits and pieces of kitchen - the crunched remains of a self-serve coffee maker, a blender, its blade glinting in the shifting light - give the impression that a bomb had gone off. Bodies, some alone, others in groups of two or three, lay collapsed on the floor or slumped against the wall, feet splayed out in front of them, clutching wounds and gasping. 

I could clearly see George crawling across the floor and moaning dramatically. He was known to go overboard, but this was too much. I glanced at Mr. Owens, afraid that I would see a glint of the lightbulb going off, or even outright anger at the prank. Instead, the man had pulled back, as if he were afraid to go through the doors.

“What the hell…?” he gasped.

Ahead of us, standing atop the 10-foot stainless steel island, were a dozen or so men and women, brandishing cutlasses, and machine guns. They wore camouflage and chefs’ hats.

In for a penny, in for a pound, I thought.

“Congratulations, Green Team,” I crowed in my best game show host voice. “I knew you could do it.”

The Green Team raised their weapons in the air, hooting, and hollering.

Mr. Owens grabbed my arm and spun me to face him. “What the hell is this?” he gasped.

“Didn't you get the memo, Sir?" When he shook his head rapidly, I continued. "We had a record number of recruits for the kitchen staff position." I gestured at the bodies around the room. "So many that we couldn’t possibly use them all. We also couldn’t decide who to keep and who to let go. So, we did the only sensible thing. We split them into groups and set them off on a battle royale fight to the death.” I grinned at the scene. “We streamed it and everything. You should see the ratings!”

Mr. Owens spun back and forth, taking in the whole scene. He clutched at the nearest counter and then sank to the floor, disregarding the pool of blood soaking into his suit.

I hunkered down in front of him. “Well, you know sir…”

He cut me off. “Don’t say it!” He hollered. “Who could possibly want this?”

“It would seem… everyone.” I replied. “The video has already gone viral.”

Mr. Owens gasped. “But... but that means... everyone will know this is MY hotel.”

“Exactly. Give the people what they want.”

Suddenly, Mr. Owens stopped whining and rubbed his chin in thought. “Give the people what they want, eh? There's one person who has wanted this project from the beginning. My wife." He looked into my eyes, but I could tell he was seeing someone else. "I bet I could get her to take this disaster over.”

He held out a hand, and I grabbed him by the forearm and pulled him to his feet. He dusted himself off, smearing more blood over the front of his jacket and pants. I couldn't have planned his outfit any better. Mr. Owens didn't seem to notice. He pulled out his phone and made his way toward the doorway. 

"Bring my car around," he shouted into the phone.

I scuttled to catch up to him. "Are you leaving? We haven't finished the tour."

Mr. Owens seemed to have forgotten that I was even in the room. “No need, Steven.” Then he seemed to think better of that. He spun around and I had to brake hard to keep from crashing into him. “I’ll thank you to keep this to yourself.”

“Of course,” I said. Had he already forgotten that I’d mentioned the video had gone viral? I followed him out of the restaurant, across the tile to the head of the stairs. I watched as he made his way down the stairs, through the atrium staying far from the plants. I couldn't see him walk through the lobby, but my vantage allowed me to see him when he got into his car and they drove off.

Back in the kitchen, the staff were still in character. The Green Team was still on the island, waiving their fake weapons in the air, hooting, and hollering. The dead and dying were still on the floor, clasping their wounds, moaning, or laying perfectly still. The smoke had dissipated, leaving the room in full view. The cleaning crew were going to work for their money on this job, for sure.

"It's ok," I called out. "He's gone."

"Oh, thank god," said one of the men on the island. He dropped his hand and tossed the machete he'd been waiving around on the ground. "I thought my arm was going to fall off." Green Team clambered down off the island. Around the room the moaning stopped. Those on the floor clambered to their feet.

"You did a fabulous job," I announced. "Even you, George." There were guffaws at that. "Go get cleaned up,” I suggested to those covered in fake blood. As the actors filed toward the back of the room, I stopped the leader of the Green Team. “Let the rest of the crew know that we’re meeting on the back patio, poolside, for the celebration dinner.”

I only had to wait a moment before Mrs. Owens joined me in the empty room.

“It’s done,” she said.

“And your husband is done in,” I replied.

“Good. You think he’ll be willing to give it up now?”

I nodded. “He said as much. Oh, he’ll find a way to make it his idea, but there’s no way he’s ever coming back here.”

She laughed. “I’ll fight him just enough. He’ll think he’s so smart to make me take it over.” She sighed and then, “There’ll be a lovely bonus once I get the paperwork done.”

I laughed. “Give the people what they want.”

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