Bourgeois

The guests arrived at seven-thirty. Their cars all drew up in unison. They were all black Mercedes with high quality speaker systems on which they listened to Nina Simone. The insides were beige, leather. Their exteriors, shiny. They had been polished by the servants as they always were before their owners drove anywhere.
The men got out of the car first. They descended, stiff and proud, from the driver’s seat of their car. They all wore black tuxedos. They examined their bowties. Raised their hats to the other guests. Then they walked around the front of the car to the passenger seat. Still in unison, like they were all walking to the rhythm of some cruel, absurd waltz. They opened the passenger door of the car, gracefully drew it open. One foot, and then the other, of the lady descended. They wore tall, black high heels. Black was in fashion. The ladies, all at one time, floated out of the car and graced the asphalt with the oh-so-lovely touch of their stilettos. Once they had gotten to the other side of the car, picking up their feet ever so slightly with each step so they looked as if they slid across the ground, the full content of their outfits was displayed. They wore slim, black dresses. They went down to about their knees.
Offering their elbows to the ladies, who naturally accepted with grace and poise, the men walked towards the mansion, and the ladies inevitably followed, seeing as they were rather attached to the men. They made their not-so-long and not-so-harrowing journey through the not-so-wilderness of the street on which the mansion was situated. They were thoroughly tired at about the halfway point and therefore decided to stop for some wine and cheese, after which they continued their walk. Being elegant is tiring. As they walked, they slowly formed into a single file line, with adequate space in between each couple. The first one arrived at the door. The man rang the bell. The host opened, greeted the couple with something like, you’re right on time, or, the early bird always catches the worm as they say. After this the couple was invited in. The second couple approached the door. Waited for the first couple to get comfortable. Rang the doorbell. The host greeted them with something like, second ones here! The third couple approached. Similar procedure. And on and on until the reservoir of elegant couples was extinguished.
Each couple sat across from each other at the table. The host sat at one head, the wife at the other. It was a rather long table. An abundance of silver covered it in the form of multiple spoons, forks, and knives for each person. The tablecloth was white and frilly.
The host stood up and tapped his champagne glass lightly with his dessert fork. It made a dainty tinkling noise, not unlike the sound of a champagne glass being lightly tapped with a salad fork. “I have an announcement to make,” he said, “I would just like to thank everyone for coming and I would like to tell you all tha–“ he was cut off by the champagne glass exploding in his hand. A barrage of bullets erupted from the tommy guns held by the two gunmen who had jumped through the doorway that led from the adjacent room to the dining room. People tried to hide, but it was no use, as the gunmen had obviously had a large amount of practice and were very quick and efficient in their jobs, gunning down a room full of people in about forty-five seconds. Blood leaked onto the expensive carpet from multiple bullet wounds. Expressions of shock and horror were imprinted on the dead. Their body positions resembled more a bag of potatoes than an elegant swan. One of the woman’s heels was broken.

The two gunmen surveyed the carnage. Nobody was alive.

One gunman turned to the other and said, “Bourgeois fucks.”

The other one said, “Yeah.”