Richard Corey-meet Dorian  Gray

HMCuello

Aldrich, is a quaint sleepy town in New England. Sleepy but with many long-buried secrets. One of these involves Dickie Corey, 30 years old. 

Dickee was born into privilege as a member of a founding family; and an heir to a vast fortune. Compared to him, his neighbors were relatively impoverished, but since this was the town where his father had grown up, he tolerated their occasional intrusions into his world.

At the Aldrich Country Club, he was the center of attention. People lined up to greet him whenever he arrived to play golf. He was the embodiment of the saying: "All men want to be him, and all women want to be with him." 

Unbeknownst to him, some jealous, ascot-clad cads mockingly called him "Richie Rich" behind his back. But even if he knew, he wouldn’t care. 

He was a classic narcissist—tall and lean-spending hours in front of his full-length mirror, fixing his hair and examining his body. 

Acquaintances often said he resembled a certain infamous California ex-governor. Dickie scoffed at the comparison. "I’m better looking than that loser," he thought.

Thanks to his father’s weapons business—and business was booming—Dickie was a multi-billionaire. Wars, like 7-Eleven stores, operated 24 hours a day, 365 days a year. Life was good.

Only one thing worried him. He had watched his father Richard Sr. wither away despite his vast wealth. One summer while Dickie was on a hiking trip in the Alps with his friend Bob Bloch, his  father had shot himself in front of the main fireplace. Dickie knew his time would come eventually.

Obsessed with maintaining his youthful appearance, he had begun noticing wrinkles and crow’s feet. The streaks of gray in his hair? He convinced himself they gave him a distinguished look.

He neither drank nor smoked-except for an occasional $500 cigar. He hosted parties on his yacht and attended events, such as the annual fundraiser at The Alridge Historical Society, where his family trust had donated millions. The only other museum he had contributed to was the Rijksmuseum in the Netherlands, which he visited whenever he was in Europe.

At home in his mansion, he had a nighttime routine. He walked the long driveway and stepped past the wrought-iron gate to the edge of his property, where homeless people lived in the alley across the way. This was not to his liking-but the progressive mayor changed the law to allow them to exist there. 

He told himself he liked to see them to "Stay grounded." Sometimes, he stopped to talk to Reginald, an old neighbor who claimed to have lost his millions in the last market crash due to the tariff war of 2025. Reginald swore he had once played golf with Dickie.

"Did I win?" Dickie asked absently as he walked away.

"Of course," Reginald lied.

Dickie was sympathetic but thankful that his father had safeguarded their fortune. Their holdings were immune to losses—as long as hate, famine, death, and war thrived around the globe. 

He laughed. "There but for the grace of God go I—NOT! Thanks, Pops."

That night, he had trouble sleeping. Tossing and turning, he eventually fell out of bed. Staggering to the bathroom, he dragged a comb across his hair and examined himself in the mirror. A lyric from ELO’s Mr. Blue Sky popped into his head: "Hey, you with the pretty face…" He glanced at the clock—3:34 AM. He decided to take a walk and get a coffee..

Slipping outside, he wandered toward the 24-hour coffee shop down the alley. He liked that the clientele there, that were one step above the homeless, did not seem to recognize him. 

As he turned the corner, he was shocked to see someone attacking Reginald in the alley. At first, he thought it was just another hooligan "bum-rolling" a homeless man, a common occurrence in the area. Instinctively, he grabbed the assailant by the scruff of the neck. The attacker turned—and Dickie was stunned.

It wasn’t a person. It was a creature, maybe a vampire.

"Man, you’re one ugly vampire rat bastard," Dickie muttered as he lost his grip. The creature bolted down the alley, and Dickie, again ignoring his instincts, gave chase. It darted into the street and nearly got hit by a speeding police paddy wagon. Without thinking, Dickie grabbed it again and yanked it back.

The creature stared at him and stated calmly. "I was feeding off him," it admitted. "But I’m not a vampire. I’m a demon."

"A demon?" Dickie scoffed. "WTF?"

"Now I owe you my life. I must grant you one wish."

Dickie raised an eyebrow. "You guys can grant wishes?"

"Only in rare cases when someone saves our life."

Dickie doesn’t believe him, "Hah! I think I’ll pass. Maybe I’ll just beat your ass instead." Surprising himself with the rhyme.

"Wait, hear me out! I can give you wealth, power, the most beautiful women in the world."

Laughing, Dickie replied, "I already have all of those. I don’t need that wish." Then, still chuckling, he added sarcastically, "Well, except for immortality. But that’s impossible—"

"Not entirely," the demon interrupted. "There are loopholes."

Dickie’s laughter faded. "Immortality loopholes?-so I'd like to meet your lawyer. That's intriguing. Explain that further."

The demon hesitated. "I don’t know the details, but perhaps if we reframe the plan—"

"A way for me to look young forever, but not technically immortal?" Dickie mused.

The demon thought for a moment. "Yes, there is a way. But it’s complicated. You may not want to do it."

"Don’t tell me what I want. I'll decide that. But can I trust you?"

"Not really."

Dickie decides, "Then I’ll take you with me while we figure it out."

He  grabbed the demon and dragged it back to his mansion, locking it in a basement storage room. Using a negotiating tactic, he left the creature to wait. After 24 hours, he returned.

The demon sat cross-legged, staring blankly into space.

"Well?" Dickie asked. "Snap out of it. Have you figured it out?"

The demon grinned. "Yes. It’s called the Dorian Gray Protocol."

"What’s that?"

"Get me an easel, a blank canvas, art supplies, and a frame."

Dickie scoffed. "What are you, Picasso now?"

"No, but, but if you like,  I'll let you pick the style."

Dickie thought. "I’ve always liked Rembrandt’s The Night Watch. The Dutch Golden Age."

"Good choice. Though, maybe Van Gogh’s self-portrait would’ve worked too."

"Yeah, I prefer to keep my ear intact."

"I could paint it with a pre-severed ear."

"Fine. Do it. But again, how does this work?"

"Simple. I’ll paint your masterpiece. You mount it over your fireplace. You do have a fireplace, right?"

"Fifteen."

"Perfect. Just one condition: every 4th  mōnaþ period -or 4 months in your language, I need to feed.  Look, let's just make it simple. Every 120 of your days, you must bring me a fresh body. If you fail, there will be consequences."

Dickie is shocked, “Wait a damn minute  I never killed anybody. I usually have people that do that.”

The demon elaborates, “No need to kill them, just bring them to me. And protocol states that you can't delegate that. And like I said, better if they’re fresh.”

Dickie thinks about this latest wrinkle  “Yeah, probably better to not outsource this. How about if they are drugged?”

Demon: “Drugs might affect me a bit but I like to get high occasionally. That would be acceptable.” 

“Understood  Mmm-What if I’m late?   Is there a late fee?”

“Well, tell you what.  Keep an eye on the painting.  As long as you comply with the terms, then Van Gogh will age in your stead.  If you don’t meet the terms then you will age to your actual age after a 10 day  grace period. That's….”

 Dickie cuts in, “I know,  Protocol. Ok got it. So really, how long can we do this?”

“As long as you wish. You’re  calling the shots. As for me, I’m semi-mortal. As long as nobody kills me I can live forever. So, just don’t get any funny ideas about poison or shooting me.  Per protocol, If I die, another brother will take my place. And most like me are not as amiable as I am. Plus they have the option to invalidate the deal.”

They shake on it and Dickie adds a 110 day alarm to his calendar so he gives himself some time to comply. 

For twenty years, Dickie has upheld his end of the bargain. He still looks like a 40 something male model. To avoid suspicion, while picking his victims,  he used demographic data to not develop a pattern.  He also expanded his hunting ground, traveling the world to harvest victims. Easy when you have a private jet and an ex-CIA pilot that knows how to keep quiet and avoid immigration checks. 

After his latest trip, Dickie stands in front of the painting, which once a realistic portrait, was now a grotesque mask of rotting flesh, boils and oozing sores. A huge bandage covers Van Gogh’s  now-severed ear  A foul stench emanates from the canvas.

As per protocol, Dickie remained young in appearance. 

But he’s feeling a little under the weather right now. Just a nagging cough and a low grade headache, must be jet lag.

He decides to see a doctor under a false identity.he got from his CIA sources.   

After his labs and scans., “Randolph Carter” waits in the examination room. The doctor  enters with a concerned look on his face. 

“Mr Carter? Randolph Carter?”

“ Yes doc”

The doctor stares at the results on his Ipad, “I don’t know how to approach this.”

The patient is impatient. “Maybe, just tell it to me straight, doc.”

The doctor is still puzzled,  “The reason I’m confused is that outwardly your body appears to be 40ish=and one of the most handsome men  I've ever seen- but yet your internal organs are like that of  a man in his 80s. I checked your labs and scans 3 times. I thought there was a mixup but you were the only patient during that time frame.”

Dickie just stared at him trying to process what he just heard 

“Mr Carter, I’ve only encountered this before in patients with an advanced case of industrial disease.. Do you work in a high risk factory environment?”

A now sullen Dickie: “No I’m more of a desk jockey,  are you sure?” 

The doctor is adamant, “Yes, as sure as I can be. I’ll be frank with you, Mr Carter you have about 2 months to live. And those 2 months will be very painful.

Dickie is still in denial but remembers his fathers illness, “Well what can I say doc, I’ve actually had a good life. Thanks.” 

The doctor has a  parting comment, “I’m sorry and my condolences. Please try and spend your last days with your loved ones.”  

“I only wish.”

Dickie rushes home in a haze.

He grabs a gun from the credenza, runs down the stairs and throws the storage room door open.

The demon is sitting in his usual position-with his legs crossed staring into space. 

“Hey look at me, demon WTF!. You tricked me, I should kill you.”

The demon retorts, “Remember your wish was to look young-nothing in the protocol  about your insides.”

Dickie is frantic, “So I’m going to eventually degrade into that thing in the painting. You should’ve warned me.”

The demon, “Oh, did you think we were friends? Or I was your employee? No, it was all business. It’s like they say "caveat emptor", it’s in the…

Dickie finished the sentence, “Yeah, the damn protocol.  I outsmarted myself.  There is no use to you staying here then.”  

He waves the gun toward the door,  “Well get out and go to hell.”

The demon laughs: “Exactly where I’m going, but it’s been a pleasure doing business with you.”

The demon leaves, cackling on the way out.  “See you in hell, sucker.”

Dickie Corey runs upstairs, he can feel his pulse rising and his 80 years old heart straining. He stops in front of the roaring fireplace, and looks at the putrid painting. Blood and pus ooze from the deteriorated canvas, dripping onto the mantle like some kind of cancerous discharge .It occurs to him that this is the spot where his father stood when he shot himself . 

He decides that he needs to put a stop to this madness.  He points his gun at  the painting, his voice rises to an enraged crescendo, echoing through the grand Victorian-era room.

He screams in an entitled tone, “How could I have been so blind? I’ve always won—I deserve to win! It’s my destiny!”

He tucks his gun into the waistband of his $2,000 trousers.

Mustering his diminishing strength,  he rips the painting from its mount. The frame is slimy and almost slips from his grip as he hurls it into the fire. Flames hungrily attack the canvas, greedily eating the grotesque portrait. The thick oil paint bubbles, blisters and pops, melting into blood red and flesh colored droplets that drip onto the burning logs. The air fills with the pungent stench of burning flesh and oil paint. As he watches in amazement , the canvas, all the paint melted off--like his life-has faded away. It is now blank.

Suddenly—The firebox erupts in a violent explosion. The force blasts the lintel apart, sending flaming debris shooting like falling stars across the room. Embers scatter like lightning bugs, igniting the Victorian-era furniture and enveloping the ornate curtains in waves of flame.

Dickie, who turned his back in response to the explosion, has turned back and now feeling the flames licking his face staggers, trying to get his bearings,  like a blind man, Searing pain shoots across his back. Embers are embedded in his $4,000 shirt, the  hungry flames eating their way through the finest Mulberry silk.

He coughs, inhaling smoke, his mind racing. “How did it come to this? There’s no way out . No negotiations, no deals left to make.”

He chortles loudly, paraphrasing  a line from Neil Young:

"Better to burn up than to fade away."

As his final act, Dickie removes the  gun from his waistband, raises it, presses it against his temple, pulls the trigger and puts a bullet in his head.