It’s
amazing what people will do for money, or status, but mainly money.
Take me,
for instance. An average man in his thirties, average looking, not athletic nor
out of shape, with no skills or qualifications that make him stand out from the
rest of the herd. What could I have ever done to satiate my hunger for a
superior lifestyle, to indulge in my proclivities for fast cars, high-end
tailored suits and houses with spacious quarters and outdoor pools? I did what
every person whose desperation rendered him/her devoid of any values and morals
whatsoever would have done: at the sight of an ajar opening, I schemed and made
sure every step of that plan went as smoothly as it possibly could.
The
opportunity laying behind a washed up Hollywood actress who suddenly takes up
an interest in you and sees qualities in you that even your parents have failed
to do so for twenty-something years entails many things, and you have to be
willing to make certain trade offs.
Like
anything in this world, the chips you have to offer are just that, a currency.
Exchange your ephemeral relationships with twenty year old bimbos for a
Porsche, your old circle of friends for a gamut of the most exquisite perfumes
money can buy, your pride and sense of self-respect for a reasonably sized pool
and a private tennis court.
Good thing
I tried to earn a few bucks working as a script writer, otherwise the cliché of
a plan never unfolding as originally devised would have taken me by surprise at
a rather critical moment.
You see,
there is a reason why washed up artists are a breed usually kept at a distance,
and that same reason is, in all likelihood, why they became washed to begin
with. My newly found better half’s mental instability coalesced with an
overwhelming sense of greatness and self-importance made her jealousy fits
nothing to be sneezed at, and the revolver she kept in her night drawer had
already taken several hours of sleep from me.
To tell you
the truth, part of my doing was also fuelled by how much I missed former
aspects of my life, only this time there would be no trade offs of any kind as
I now had newly acquired tastes and habits I wasn’t inclined to relinquish.
So I went
back to scheming. I turned the tables and used my wife’s aforementioned mental
instability in my favour.
Spending an
entire night blatantly glaring at other – younger – women, I then decided to
call one of my old female friends and made certain that eavesdropping on our
conversation would have been fairly easy. With the ball now on her side of the
field, she played her role as expected.
I guess
luck had its part on it as well, seeing as the third bullet held in her
revolver was not a blank, and the coroner luckily wasn’t acquainted with drugs
that temporarily simulate death.
With the
money I had gradually drained off of her account on a weekly basis and was now
safely stashed away, I had joined the best of both worlds and was on my way to
a carefree, ostentatious lifestyle. God if you had seen the face of the
paramedic when the supposed drowning victim got up, opened the ambulance’s rear
door and walked off, that alone would have been worth this whole hassle.
Back when I
was coming up with storylines for films and TV shows they called me a hack.
Well, how’s this for a Hollywood script?
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