+ Demigod +

~Ambitions. My own secret Ambitions, ever Ambitious.
Burning, Screaming, Scratching, Dissolving.

Tonight I walked in the Rain, I'm Cold, I belong.

I'm changing, I'm evolving, becoming the dream that only I could have had:

"Demigod".

 

I need no one or no lifes so everything will be nothing.
Fuck the dreams which drown in Me, be lost, not  found, but It's all Never now.

He was close to the edge. As close as a man can get when he is separated from a free fall that will last a hundred and twenty-seven stories by seven inches of flawless glass.

The view was spectacular.

He saw landmarks he did and didn't recognize, church steeples, smokestacks, the rooftops of other, tall-but-not-quite-tall-enough buildings and he imagined all the tiny lives being lived in the streets and homes below his vantage point.

He felt good. A nearly sour deal had suddenly turned sweet and he felt like celebrating. He decided that he would do it among his people.

He descended to the restaurant on the third floor of the building. The beauty of his profession was that it allowed him to be known without being recognized. He would never be seen on a television program hiring and firing employees. He didn't need to ride in hot air balloons for people to know his name or understand that he was a man who took huge risks and won.

There were a few photographs in the public domain but he possessed the kind of face that looked so different in pictorial form that he would not have been recognized by his own children if they saw the picture on the biggest billboard in New York's Times Square. He took his pleasures in playing real people like chess pieces and it was not essential for them to know who had moved them forward or off the board for him to feel satisfaction. As he liked to say, mostly to himself because he would never give away such an important piece of information about himself in public, "We are all going to die. What prevents us from having fun before we do?"

He wanted to play the benevolent god as he surveyed the restaurant floor, give the people what they want.

He spied the table of beautiful women. They had to be models, actresses, news anchors and spokespeople. It was the only way to explain so much beauty at one single table. Even though it was off to one side, it was the centre of all attention. Bathed by the rays of the early afternoon sun, waiters hovered dutifully while businessmen, playboys and struggling actors stole glances or tried to catch their eye. The women were oblivious, or so it seemed. They tossed their hair, smiled to reveal rows of perfect teeth, bent forward to hear each other and flashed hints of inviting cleavage and once in a while, a couple of them left to visit the ladies' room. A laser-sight experiment would have confirmed that all eyes were indeed fixed on the ladies that lunched.

Someone had sent over a couple of bottles of champagne with his compliments. The man watched as the bottles arrived and the women exclaimed their surprise and gratitude. He lifted a towel off a passing waiter's arm and went over to assist in the pouring. He knew how to blend in without drawing attention to himself.

As he poured he listened to the one who looked like a model complaint about how she had been starving for nearly five years. Without pausing for a breath she abused the last man she slept with and how the area around her vagina itched periodically ever since he stuck his dick in her. The one who looked like a news anchor moaned about having to give the boss a blowjob under his desk after lunch every afternoon. She sighed and said, "It's the price I pay for wanting that news slot." The one that resembled an actress leaned in and whispered, "Be careful or you'll be known as the news slut!" The news anchor smiled and leaned in with her own confidence, "I already am and I love it!" her cackle of laughter drew open stares from the men around the room but she didn't care.

When he was done pouring the wine and headed back to his anonymous station as surveyor of all he owned he overheard a twenty-something complain to the man seated across from her, "Oh Bobby the timing couldn't be worse! I have my career to think of. Why do we need to get married, why can't we just fuck like before."

He noticed the forlorn man in the expensive clothes who was downing single malts like tap water and stepped a little closer to listen in, "I told her. I told that bitch, she's not getting any more from me. She took the house, the kids hate me and I have to live in a condo while everyone else I know is buying their vacation home on St. Bart's. For what? Because I fucked someone else? What did she think I was going to do, hump her cellulitey ass for the rest of my life? I work out man, everyday I do a hundred crunches and push-ups. I'm not wasting all this on a woman who thinks childbirth is a valid excuse for obesity! And it's not the nature of man to fuck only one woman is it? I gotta pay so heavily for my nature because the fucking law says so? That is not right! When I make this sale I'm going to leave, take the plane and fly to an island without fucking laws about fucking. That's what I'm going to do."

He had seen and heard enough. It was time to give the people what they wanted. He made a few calls.

The first was to a local politician.

The second was to the network that the anchor worked for.

The third was to the boss of the girl who complained about her marriage proposal.

The fourth was to the wife of the man protesting his divorce settlement.

The fifth was to the model's dietician.

The sixth was to the director of the movie the actress was working on.

When he had disconnected his final call he returned to the window to ponder the wide vista before him.

Though none of them would have known it, even if they happened to glance up in his direction, the people on the other end of the phone line were doing his bidding. Nobody looked up, and if they did, nobody saw him. Except for the man scanning the high windows through the scope of his sniper rifle; he was not doing the bidding of the man in the high tower. If anyone had bothered to ask him, he would have confirmed that he was doing God's bidding. But his day was yet to come.

For the time being, the dietician was preparing to fatten up the model, the director was rewriting scenes to demean the actress, the boss at the news studio was going to begin demanding anal and the wife seeking a divorce had just learnt that her husband had withheld information about his owning a plane. The girl who chose her career over marriage was going to learn how slippery the rungs on the corporate ladder could get while the politician was putting into motion, the wheels of a machine that would levy further taxes on the people of that city. More expensive parking and steeper fines for simple violations would soon be enforced.

The man on the edge was satisfied.

As he would clarify in his autobiography several years later, "It appeared that the people were most interested in celebrating their misery. I was in the position to make it happen for them. So I did."

By DamianDior
[By Project 365]