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The museum opened without public warning. Once during the week and only at six o'clock in the evening,

no earlier, no later. Any bratty excuse such as a sluggish private jet simply did not cut it,

only those outside the gate at six o'clock were permitted inside.

No one knew where this giant playground for wealthy men was, I'm not even God. And in this place,

there was no God. My gods were the rich and famous, and they were merciless and cruel.

There was no security here, nor staff, besides me, on opening day.

It was a grand, lawless building only made for the top 1% of the top 1%.

Our reason for lack of employees was the same reason. Michael Jackson shut down a supermarket for a day

visit in the 2000s. Uninhibited fun without judgmental eyes.

I did the same thing I did every opening day. Adjusted in my maroon waistcoat,

calmed my hair, shined my shoes. At 5.59 I came tapping down the marble staircase with a spring in my

step. Not from excitement, rather, a jumpiness that came from instilled fear.

The museum was about to become their toy shop yet again, and me, they're plaything.

This time, I can only pray that they waited until midnight for asking to see our paranormal

relic display. I can only pray that they didn't let her out. The foyer was huge. Towering golden

pillars wedged between ivory-flavored marble flooring and a mosaic glass ceiling that let starlight

beam through. With one hand I braced the door that stood three men high, my other hand turning to

...