The Last Waltz

Guests arrived in elegant attire to the ballroom of the Emblem, a boutique hotel in Prague, and were greeted by tuxedoed servers offering champagne as live orchestra music played.

Dr. Hastings was, at long last, hosting his "Survival's Waltz" for his guests from prestigious university philosophy departments.

He had been planning the event for months, even years, and was eager to engage in the liveliest of debates with colleagues, all of whom strongly disagreed with their host’s uncompromising yet untested theories that a survival instinct always and inevitably trumps ethics. This is why he had selected them, for tonight would be the test.

Dr. Hastings tapped his glass and the lively chatter died down. "Welcome, esteemed colleagues," he began. "Tonight, as you see from the great carving knives upon your tables, we shall dine on a most exquisite roast carcass. But not yet! I hope you have had your champagne because first. For before eating, we shall waltz whilst debating the old question of survival versus moral instincts, and we shall see who wins!"

The orchestra began to play, and guests paired up on the dance floor. Spouses uneducated to engage in academic debates sat out the waltz at their assigned tables.

Dr. Hastings discussed the evening’s topic with his dance partners, including a utilitarian from France, an existentialist from Germany, and, of course, a Christian philosopher from the United States, Dr. Creed, who was Dr. Hasting’s chief academic rival.

As Dr. Hastings and Dr. Creed danced, they debated vehemently whether survival and morality could be separated, as Dr. Hastings theorized, but Dr. Creed would not budge from the position that our survival is interconnected with others and motivated by both primal instincts and moral principles: if possessed of faith in an ethical restraint from any killing, Dr. Creed argued, a man would not defend himself from murder.

Just then, the other guest professors began choking, one by one falling to the floor as the waltz decayed into chaos.

They writhed and gasped for air, their elegant dance interrupted by the sounds of choking and collapsing bodies. Dr. Hastings grinned as he continued to dance with Dr. Creed, who was himself oblivious to the chaos unfolding around them. Renowned thinkers from different countries grappled with death in various ways, their final moments a collision of clinking silverware, shattered glasses, and spilled wine. The room once adorned with pristine white cloths and crystal decanters became a scene of chaos as philosophers fought for their last breaths.

Dr. Hastings watched with predatory satisfaction, his eyes alight with the triumph of an experiment coming to fruition. The sweet violins and deep cellos of the orchestra played on as if in a twisted serenade for the dying. The orchestra was the last to go down. Dr. Hastings turned to Dr. Creed and produced two pistols.

“We are going to have a duel to test our theories, Dr. Creed,” said Dr. Hastings, handing him one of the guns.

“Did you kill all of these people?” asked Dr. Creed.

“Of course,” Dr. Hastings responded. “I poisoned the champagne, you see, knowing you and your wife do not touch because of your, what is it, Quaker-Methodism?“

“My wife!” said Dr. Creed, in sudden panic. But she was sitting right at her assigned table with her hands folded.

“Don’t be so upset, Dr. Creed,” said Dr. Hastings. “Consider it a culling of mediocrity. Their theories were no match for mine. You, on the other hand, with your faith, are a true threat.”

Dr. Hastings aimed the gun with precision as if conducting a symphony of chaos. The barrel glinted under the chandelier, pointed at Dr. Creed's chest.

"Ten seconds, Dr. Creed," he intoned with clinical detachment. "Renounce your ethics and shoot me, or you will join the philosophers in their eternal debate." His voice was steady, his gaze unflinching.

Dr. Creed held the gun by his side.

"I will not," Dr. Creed stated simply, imbuing each word with the weight of his convictions. "I will not take a life, not even to save my own."

The seconds were a torturous metronome marking time to Hastings' cruel countdown. "Seven... Six..."

From her seat at the table, Mrs. Creed watched with wide eyes. Her husband stood firm even as death aimed for his heart—a testament to a belief that could not be shattered by fear or force.

"Five... Four..."

In a sudden burst of motion, Mrs. Creed leaped to her feet and grabbed a steak knife from the table. She charged towards Dr. Hastings like an avenger, heels kicked off.

"Three... Two..."

Dr. Creed saw what was happening.

"One..."

Dr. Creed’s gun, which he would not point at Dr. Hastings, now trembled in his grip as he raised it to his wife—to stop her from the desperate act of killing Hastings to save his life.

Bang!

The sound was deafening—a cacophonous echo that seemed too loud for the confines of human action.

Even so, Mrs. Creed, uninjured, stabbed Dr. Hastings in the stomach.

He whispered, “They were blanks.” Then he laughed painfully. “The guns were loaded with blanks.” He coughed his final cough, looked at Dr. Creed, and quietly asked, “Did I win, Dr. Creed? Did I win?” And then he was gone.

“Did you try to shoot me?” Mrs. Creed asked her husband.

Dr. Creed sat down and put his head in his hands. "I couldn't let you …" he whispered. “I had to save you from damnation…”

“I want a divorce,” she said.

“Ok,” said Dr. Creed.

“Ok,” said Mrs. Creed.

Around them, the great hall was coming to life once more. Guests rose, confused, and frightened. It was now clear that Dr. Hastings had only drugged them temporarily unconscious. The sight of Dr. Hastings’ corpse in the center of the room, however, caused unfathomable horror to those just waking up.

The orchestra conductor, quickly upon waking, instructed his musicians to finish playing the waltz that had been so rudely interrupted by unconsciousness: a waltz so elegant, so smooth, and so perfect that you could hardly hear the sirens approach.