Upon the hills of a tall and wide 6-floored mansion built of various richly colored woods and surrounded by a column of tall, lively palm trees is the largest collection of chocolate.

Chocolate was something Cornelius Hershey enjoyed. Laying on his firm maroon rocking chair lined by golden-yellow divots and with a lit Cuban cigar between his plump fingers, Hershey snacked on chocolate truffles, which were carefully organized in parcels wrapped in delicate paper. Arranged in colorful rows of vibrant flavors were dark chocolates, milk chocolates, caramel chocolates, butterscotch chocolates, salted chocolates, and white chocolates. Hershey snacked on each row of chocolate, lobbing his hands towards any chocolate he saw—unless it was white chocolate. He hated the taste of white chocolate; he felt that it was a waste of the cocoa bean. (In fact, white chocolate is not even chocolate! They are not even made of cocoa beans, just butter, so they are zero percent chocolate! Why would they even put them there?!) After finishing every row of chocolate (of course, with the exception of the row of white chocolates he so much despises), he would call for Thomas, his closest personal butler, a man who would abandon any position from the long file of servants, waiters and maids for Hershey, to discard the box of chocolates and to refill. After a silly debate over white chocolate and a new box of his favorites, joy would replenish Hershey’s soul.

To say that chocolate was something Hershey enjoyed is quite an understatement. Chocolate was the thing he loved the most next to money, of course.

“One can’t buy chocolate without money, nor can one buy anything else without money,” he would say.

But still, chocolate was something Hershey loved more than anything. He ate it for breakfast, brunch, lunch, supper, spinner, dinner, and dessert. Each was served with its own appetizer and main course, individually prepared by his many chefs and bakers. And of course, he ate chocolates in between meals, and when he simply just craved for the sweet delicacies late into the night, God pray that he never learns what brinner is.

“The taste of chocolate,” a lecture to Thomas would begin. “Is revolutionary. It comes in many distinct passages of flavor similar to the distinct passages of wines; you may get a hint of creaminess, a hint of milk, a hint of butter, an earthy taste, a bitter note, an acidic note, or the sheer purity of chocolate’s richness. It all works so well.”

The fanciful prances of his chocolate rants would always end with some dull and redundant saying. Hershey being an old man whose had all the time in the world to do everything he wanted, was fully content with his life. He enjoyed sitting around, scratching his back, eating chocolates, smoking Cuban cigars, and watching I Love Lucy on his 21-inch television set which many sought after.

He was very fond of I Love Lucy and found comfort when watching the show—though to be fair, he was mostly always in comfort. Hershey could easily relate himself with Lucy Richardo, a woman with a rebellious spirit. His favorite episode was the one where Lucy and her friend Ethel were challenged to work at a chocolate factory, not because it had chocolate in the episode, but because it was also his old chaps’ favorite episode.

Hershey had lived alone in a mansion of six floors, three of which were essentially two master bedrooms and a master-master bedroom. But to say he’s alone isn’t accurate. He sees various friends aside from his servants, butlers, maids, chefs, gardeners. Today, Hershey had “planned” a party, sending invitations a night prior with still warm wax. He had on his best outfit: his glossy, tailored-smooth, hickory-brown suit with glossier porcelain-white lapel and stripes, his sterling silver cufflinks, and his mocha-colored leather shoes with gray laces.

Hershey rocked in his chair in rhythm to his program’s climax, shoving chocolates in his cheeks like a chipmunk following a large supply of chocolate. In syncopation with the show, unexpectedly to Hershey, but anticipated by his advising peers and his silently frustrated doctor, Dr. Hilton Hirschstein, his stomach sharply tuned out his thoughts. Hershey groaned deeply, clutching his stomach as Lucy Richardo cringed in disgust by her husband’s chocolate addiction.

“Thomas!” Hershey called. “Fetch a chauffeur for Dr. Hirschstein and ready my bed. I do not feel too well.”

In a black limousine, tapping his fingers on a flat surface as if he were to be listening to beautiful music is Dr. Hirschstein. Dr. Hirschstein has been the Hershey family’s doctor for many years. Barely needing to tend to Hershey and typically only advising him to refrain from his chocolatey diet, he was surprised to hear those 68 years of chocolate had caught up to Hershey. Though he is not the cynical, pessimistic type, Dr. Hirschstein relished this news.

“I’ve told you countless times, Mr. Hershey, to keep up a healthy diet. This ought to happen,” has been a phrase that Dr. Hirschstein expectantly hoped to tell Hershey.

For the average doctor, telling your patients “I told you so,” is looked down upon in the medical field, but the Incredible Dr. Hilton Hirschstein is no average doctor. He is the doctor that looks down upon the medical field. Everyone in the medical field looks up to the Hirschstein family to perform the most complex and dire of surgeries, and everyone in the Hirschstein family looks up to the Fantastic Dr. Hilton Hirschstein, son of Robert Hirschstein, and the heir to the Hirschstein family. His cousins would come from around the world for family reunions, asking for the doctor’s advice, usually some mystical response.

A light shines upon the Amazing Dr. Hilton Hirschstein, his overcoat swaying in the wind. To have some pompous side character he saw once a month—not every the week—conclude his interventions to be mere suggestions was daunting. It dampened the light, hushed the wind, and toned down his overture. To have Hershey concede to his fault would be a delightful sight. It was discourteous to Hirschstein’s cordial routine.