Alone in the bedroom of what may be the late Hilton Hershey, is Dr. Hirschstein and in his hands, a chocolate bar—a living chocolate bar. This, this has obviously never happened before—what should the Incredible Dr. Hirschstein do? Should he risk removing the chocolate bar’s paper layer? Should he play it safe and tell medical institutes world wide? Would that not cost his once-in-many-lifetimes chance for him to show the world that he truly is the greatest doctor ever in mankind? He is sick of only being “the Great,” he wants to be “The Greatest,” with both words capitalized. Not only does he desire to be seen in history books but he wants his name to be embedded into everyone’s mind to the likeness of knowing George Washington or Abraham Lincoln—he wants his full name, his full title to be first thought of when thinking of him. The idea of losing this chance plays with Hilton. He calls the bet and raises Hershey’s life.

Dr. Hirschstein played both piano and violin growing up, skills which his parents anticipated to increase his IQ, hand dexterity, and hand steadiness. Everyday after medical school—homeschooling—they’d drive their son to a heavily prestigious music academy—never attending a recital. Though they intended music for sheer-knowledge, they never anticipated how often music plays in Dr. Hirschstein’s mind when he operates. Moonlight Sonata would play in the first movement that lifts the patient’s skin. Partita in D minor as he gets rid of any foreign bodies. The climax of a Chopin’s scherzi as he moves organs around for inspection. Finishing with Clair de Lune as stitches were set. Though he always believed music to be a hobby, it wouldn’t be wrong to say he always dreamt of having his own audience amazed, moved by his instruments rather than a singular that laid asleep. Yes, he had medical students worldwide to come see his surgical operations—in a remote room with masks covering their expressions full of silence. Shining trophies embedded with “Hilton Hirschstein,” lay in the attic unseen.

Dr. Hirschstein closing his eyes, finishes his operation, unable to stitch the chocolate bar’s wrapper, and instead used a bandaid. Alone, he ponders about what to do until Thomas comes through the door again.

“Dr. Hirschstein!” quietly announced Thomas. “Mr. Hershey’s guests have arrived!”

“Visitor!?” quietly responded Dr. Hirschstein. “Why are they here!?”

“Mr. Hershey had planned for a party today before he became sick, what do I tell them!?”

“Tell them to leave, say that your master is sick!”

“I cannot possibly tell them that! If they hear that he is sick, they’ll come barging up the stairs and see his welfare!”

“Then what do you suggest we do!?”

“Please, why don’t you be Mr. Hershey’s host instead today? I’m sure they wouldn’t mind having you as their host. They may even forget about Mr. Hershey’s attendance, we can tell them that he is running late.”

“Why cannot you be their host? I’m clearly busy at the moment.”

“I’m just a mere servant, they don’t want me as a host, but you are the Great Dr. Hilton Hirschstein. I’m sure they’d be pleased to have you as a host!” 

A brain smiles. A wide array of teeth hidden between closed lips.

“Then,” Hirschstein paces down. “I suppose I have to. Go greet them. I need to rehearse. Thomas, also inform your fellow servants to clean every room but this one. We must keep your master’s disease a secret; we cannot let anyone know about this. You and I may be in serious trouble if I do not cure this disease.”

The doctor finds himself pacing in the downstair’s bathroom with a wide enough floor to walk to and back on. A light shines against the mirror which reflects Hilton Hirschstein’s face. For all he knew an audience awaits to hear his marvelous ninth symphony.

Knocking on the mansion’s front door, are several plump gentlemen in their penguin suits. Some have tall top hats; some monocles; some canes. But one. One particular man, Mr. Bour stood out. 

“Thomas,” says Mr. Bour gruffly as he went under the doorway. “Where is Mr. Hershey?”

“He’s getting ready upstairs Mr. Bour,” Thomas responds.

“Thank you Thomas.”

Mr. Bour enters the living room and takes a large sit down, groaning for a short moment, moving his hips to find the most comfortable spot on the armchair. Mr. Bour reaches for his pockets and pulls out an old pre-cut cigar and lights it. He places the cigar between his two mummified fingers, softly positions his mouth around the cigar’s tip and slowly inhales the obnoxiously intoxicating smoke. He opens his mouth and allows an oppressive, sulfuric smell to spread throughout the room. Briefly, he grins but immediately returns to his natural face, a serious and frustrated face.

To describe Mr. Bour in the fullest description, he is an old man twenty years younger than Hershey, yet appeared twice older than Hershey. Mr. Bour is balding—he only has the gray hairs at the side of his head, and in the middle of his head lays a large desert that would’ve been shiny if it weren’t for the poor, gray, skin that caves into what little muscles he had left. He is the type of person who looks like they’d be the front desk receptionist of hell—the kind who’d greet you with a sinister grin that hid a sinister smile—the face of a man who greeted and presented Lucifer to Judas, Cassius, and Brutus as the fiend’s late night snack. With all of this ugliness, you’d expect the man to at very least know a few jokes—he does not. He never laughs: only faking one when he makes an unanimously humorless joke. 

Mr. Bour, who is a crouching, ugly, smoke-loving fiend whose heart is beyond two sizes too small you wouldn’t touch with a thirty-nine and a half foot pole, is the exact opposite of Hershey, who was a cheery, old, fat chocolate-loving man (similar to a red-suited, cheery, old, fat cookie-loving man) that knew many jokes and tales (and gifts) that draws in many. Yet despite this extreme difference, Hershey was very fond of Mr. Bour. This was only because Mr. Bour was the college professor of the late Jackson Hershey who died in a car accident with Mrs. Hershey and Stella Hershey. According to Mr. Bour, Jackson, and Mr. Bour were very close and had long conversations of the functionality of science—long enough to be considered dullingly boring to the naked ear—and of how fascinating it was: a reminiscent conversation that made Mr. Bour the top of every invitation list solely for. It has been a long time that Mr. Hershey had his daughter’s tea; a long time since he had his wife’s stew; a long time since he has tasted his family-made chocolate cake on his birthdays.

“So, I was at the park. . .” begins Mr. Bour with artificial, uncanny enthusiasm and an ugly smile. “And I saw a woman run from a small rodent! Fascinating, no?” 

Mr. Bour conjures a choked laugh and over exaggerates his overly unexaggerated face. His frowning peers look at him for a moment, and continue with their previously undisturbed conversation now spoiled. Mr. Bour’s laugh slowly evaporates and vanishes, turned into smoke as Mr. Bour’s lips continue back to his tobacco.