The Plot Calls #27 : "My Fair Share"

Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination and/or Ai-assisted-content-generation. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

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Jeff Halley wasn’t greedy for wealth or fame. He was greedy for fairness. His version of it.

When a coworker got praise, Jeff wanted more. If a friend bought a new car, Jeff needed the upgraded model. When his brother bought a house, Jeff put in a higher bid on the same street—just to prove a point.

It wasn’t about success. It was about keeping score.

Winning wasn’t enough. They had to lose. That was fair. That was just. That was Jeff.

So when his brother hosted a family dinner—new home, new grill, freshly painted trim—Jeff didn’t comment on the upgrades. Didn’t compliment the landscaping.

He waited.

Waited until dessert. Homemade pie. Baked by hand. Eight slices. His—the smallest.

It wasn’t an oversight. It was a declaration. It had to be.

The message? Jeff was lesser.

They had more. They were better. They won.

Jeff lost.

After dinner, while the others laughed around the table, Jeff stood staring at the back shed on the edge of his brother’s property. Half-covered in ivy. Forgotten.

Then, a whisper tugged at him. No voice. No sound. Just pressure—something rising beneath his thoughts.

Jeff followed.

Inside the shed, beneath tools and lawn bags, he found a patch of violet-black soil, pulsing faintly like something dreaming underground. In the center—an open porcelain hand. Still. Expectant.

Jeff didn’t question it. "The opportunity might disappear if I hesitate. I will win. Jeff Halley doesn't lose," he said, gritting his teeth.

He offered the only thing he had—his empty dessert plate. Crumbs clinging to the edges. Dry. Bitter. Insulting.

The porcelain hand accepted. The soil shimmered.

The pact was made.

The next morning, Jeff’s life expanded. The recruiter called. The better position was his. Weeks later, a podcast. Then interviews. Invitations. Applause.

Everything tasted sweeter. Especially the attention. That was fair. That was just. That was Jeff.

But then his brother bought a boat. Used. Small. Quiet. Still, it burned.

Jeff felt it again—that gnawing. Unearned victories. Uneven slices.

He stood in his backyard. A patch of dirt had changed—slight shimmer, faint vibration.

The Plot had followed.

Jeff fed it: a bottle of wine from his wedding, a college trophy, a birthday card from his dad.

By morning, he felt better. Bigger. Brighter. Ahead.

Then a friend got married. Jeff upgraded his own wedding photos—hired an artist to rework them, made them viral.

A neighbor adopted a rescue dog. Jeff bought two purebreds and paid for training so they wouldn’t bark when he left them alone for days.

Someone else succeeding? That was loss. That was theft.

What they earned, what they had, belonged to Jeff. Why shouldn't it?

So Jeff fed the Plot: childhood notes, gifted books, an anniversary ring. Everything that once bound him to someone else.

Each offering erased a tether. A warmth. A memory.

But Jeff didn’t care. The pie slice was even now. Bigger, even.

He was winning. Even if no one was watching anymore.

Jeff’s house gleamed. Open-concept. Curated art. Floor-to-ceiling glass. Still, silence ruled it. His poster-wife vanished. His kids had better things to do. But Jeff had his victory.

Jeff was recognized at work. He hit his goals. He made money happen, even if he took a small shortcut by feeding the soil.

He paced the halls with no one to talk to. Scrolled through contacts he didn’t recognize. Nothing hurt. Not exactly. But nothing comforted either.

He looked in the mirror. Pale. Thin. Eyes sunken. Smile trained—but empty.

Jeff drove back to his brother’s property. Dinner long forgotten. Family, estranged.

The shed still stood, hidden under fresh vines.

The Plot remained—shimmering, waiting. Patient.

Jeff fell to his knees beside it. He offered everything and anything of value left: his will, his father’s watch, and a photo of the last real hug he remembered.

It all sank.

Yet, the porcelain hand didn’t return.

Instead, a figure approached.

Tall. Pale. Cloaked in black. Not watching. Not waiting. Just Idle.

The Idle Man held a fork.

Worn. Cheap. Bent.

Jeff recognized it. It was from the dinner. From the pie. His fork.

Jeff began to cry. Not from pain. Not from regret. From comprehension. In that moment, he understood:

He never wanted his fair share. He just couldn’t stand others having theirs.

Jeff comprehended what he was. Tears streamed down his face. He was a fraud. He committed fraud.

He stared up at the sky. The sky shrugged, indifferent. Jeff was beyond repentance.

The Idle Man knelt beside Jeff. He—it, whatever it was—placed the fork in Jeff’s hand.

Jeff stared at it. The tines were bent—scraped against an empty plate. Like Jeff. Scraping and clawing at nothing to be nothing—a hollow representation of a successful, dominant, and powerful caveman whose club was his pointless, pitiful avarice. Gluttonous, prideful greed that enviously lusted for wrathful victory from the vantage point of moral sloth.

He had been given the chance, many chances, to change. He summoned the One Beneath. The Plot appeared. Then, the soil called.

Soft. Hollow. Feral.

It spoke a truth Jeff had always known, but never accepted. He could have let it go, but he wanted. Jeff wanted oh so bad to "be." Be what? Be who? For what? For who?

He looked at the gnarled fork. He understood.

The questions didn't matter anymore.

The Plot called. Jeff, greed incarnate, answered.

He made the deal. He earned the victory. The One Beneath delivered.

Jeff looked to the sky one last time. No one answered.

By his hand, Jeff departed from the world, sinking into the soil. The final offering.

Neither waiting, nor expecting, the Idle Man whispered:

“The Plot Thickens.”

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