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Short story: <i>Tycoon</i>

I’m a rich man, a tycoon, a player, one of the top ten most eligible bachelors of all time.

I have hair that sits exactly how I want it to, all the time. I could walk out in a hurricane and my hair would still do what it’s supposed to. It looks like a million bucks, my hair, but for me, that’s pocket change. My teeth have caps and are so shiny I could direct aeroplane traffic at the airport with my smile. You know in toothpaste ads, where someone smiles and they get a twinkle on their tooth like a Christmas star has landed there? That’s my smile, all the time. And when I have my picture taken I get the photographers to add the Christmas star in. So that everyone can tell how white my teeth are.

When I walk around the city, any city, any city in the world, smiling my Christmas star smile, people recognise me. My suits are so well made and expensive that I don’t wear them, they are one with me and caress me and make me feel like I’m walking inside the president’s skin. With my smile and personal grooming and the way I walk with a rich man’s walk, it’s as though God’s reaching down through the clouds and there’s a single ray of sunlight in the day and it’s hitting me, following me where ever I go. People turn and stare and stop and try to figure out if they know me or not and then they see my body guards and realise I must be famous. And then they gawp some more. Like watching a fireworks display; something bright and multicoloured and three dimensional and bigger than them that they might have seen before but feel drawn to every time.

My fingernails are so well maintained I could probably scrape them along the concrete as I walked and not mess them up. My plastic surgeon is so good that I could step out in front of that bus right there and tomorrow I would probably look better than I do right now. I don’t need to step into any phone-boxes, I already am Superman.

I can date whoever I want, nobody has ever turned me down, married, single, terminally unavailable, male, female, Bride of Christ. I don’t have to see how these people get ready for dates with me, I know already. They fling everything out of their wardrobe onto the bed, try everything on four times, pull their sexiest underwear and jewelery out of the cupboard, and then go to the most expensive boutique they can find and spend six months salary on an outfit I probably won’t even compliment them on. And I could turn up wearing a polyester bathrobe and a pair of cheap hotel slippers and my manicure, hair and Christmas lights smile would still have them feeling under-dressed.

I have my body guards, but I also have this personal assistant who will get me anything I want. If I want the skin from the right hand of a seventeen year old virgin peasant girl from Greece cured, tattooed with the words “blue moon” and sent to me in my hotel via carrier pigeon, just so that I can light a fire in the basin to watch in burn, I’ll have it within twelve hours. Six, if that’s what I ask for. If I say to this personal assistant, I want you to fill that Olympic swimming pool with truffle oil so I can go for a swim, and then once it’s done tell her that’s not what I wanted at all and to get rid of it immediately so I can swim in water, she won’t even bat an eyelid.

So she hasn’t asked why I’m climbing to the top of this building, leaving everybody downstairs because I want to be alone. Everybody’s paid not to ask questions. But I’m looking forward to smiling my Christmas star smile as my body plummets thirty stories head first down to the pavement. The screams. The attention. Bet my plastic surgeon can’t fix that one. My funeral’s going to be some party. And at least I won’t have to be bored by it.

I’m looking forward to doing whatever I want in hell.

This is the result of a fifteen minute writing exercise. The only constrictions were the time limit and five randomly selected words from the dictionary. Today the words were: tycoon, multicoloured, fireworks, cupboard, and truffle.

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