Malcolm D. Claw realized on a cloudy July that even though he was the 9th richest man in the world with a net worth of a bunch of billions, that life was unfair. Life was a bitch. His life sucked.
As he stared out of the window of his three-story penthouse atop Manhattan, Malcolm contemplated his 74 years. Short years. Years that had flashed past too quickly despite four wives, nine children and 127 cars, most of them Lamborghinis and Ferraris.
Goddam, he thought, those Italians do understand how to have fun on wheels.
The fun is over for me unless Harter pulls off a miracle—
Yet every fiber in his frail body shouted that there were no real miracles despite the irony that over half the planet had been suckered in by religion. As those thoughts bounced through the billionaire’s mind, his watch vibrated. Harter was in the elevator moving faster than a Formula One auto.
A door in one of three private elevators opened and there stood Dr. Harter.
Dr. Harter wore green scrubs and a stethoscope dangled about his neck. The stethoscope resembled a carelessly arranged ascot crafted from silver and rubber. A helluva calling card, and anyone could buy such a device providing they had spent seven years and half a mill in tuition. The young MD carried a medical bag. Pink.
Jesus, was he queer? Oh, well. To each his own, thought Malcolm.
A moment later the two sat at the north window, sipping brandy that ran $90,000.00, and a small bottle at that. The old man thought it a nice touch to serve the brandy in thick jam jars with cheap pressed glass handles. A fortuitous find from a nearby 99 cent store.
“You know what we’re drinking, Doc?”
“Suntory Yamazaki 1960—the century old stuff.”
“Top it off for you?”
“I’m fine. I have rounds at the clinic. Got a Coke Zero?”
“I’ll send for some,” said Malcolm.
“Thanks, no. The documents?”
Malcolm handed a black folder to the physician. How could someone that young have graduated from Harvard?
The kid skimmed the three pages. An agreement to transfer a hundred million dollars to his Swiss account. “All in order,” said Dr. Harter. “I hate to rush but—”
“Right, your clinic awaits. Look me in the eye and tell me again—”
“Sure. I’ll give you an injection that will reverse your aging process … in six months your body and brain’ll be 23 years old. You’ll retain all your present knowledge.”
“And my heart disease?”
“Just a bad memory.”
“And I’ll live forever?” asked Malcolm.
“Only god makes that kind of claim. I can guarantee you a thousand years—minimum. You’ll repeatedly replace your DNA with brand new chromosomes. No death genes.”
Malcolm finished his brandy. “If you’re bullshitting me you’re a dead doc.”
“Be inconvenient for me.”
“Shut up and listen. If I die within twenty five-years—and that death is not an accident—cancer or my Goddam heart does me in or I get a cold my immune system can’t suppress, you’ll die a painful death.” Here he paused for dramatic effect, then continued. “So back off if this is a charade.”
“I want to keep you alive— just so I can see your face when you pay my bonus of fifty million in a hundred years.”
“Whatever. But if I have an accident that can in any way be linked to you, your death will be a hundred times more dreadful than my demise.”
“You may catch a cold the first year but it’ll just last a few hours. Won’t even have time to buy Kleenex.”
“You’re betting your life on our arrangement, Doctor. A hundred million is spit when you’re fucking dead.”
“Speaking of fucking. Within hours, you’ll fuck like a wild monkey. Better than the first time you jacked off. Which I suspect was about ten.”
“Twelve. The males in our family were slow bloomers. Folks made me go to church twice a week.” Malcolm had a gift for reading people—he was certain that Harter was sincere. Always a chance that the doctor was simply delusional. What the hell? Roll the dice!
He taped a few keys on his iPhone and ten seconds later a coded message verified that the physician was a hundred million dollars richer.
A slight pinch as the needle pierced his forearm. Malcolm heard the erratic beat of his heart.
When he came to Manhattan was a carpet of lights. He felt amazing. He could hear his heart beating. Sounded perfect. He saw what he thought was his reflection in the enormous window. Something was wrong. He walked to his bathroom. The pain from his knees and hips no longer existed. He looked into the mirror over the enormous gold wash basin.
He could not see himself in the mirror. Dead. He realized he was dead. Shit. Well, at least when they found his body, the evil kid doctor would die an excruciating and well deserved death.
The billionaire considered the injection site on his arm. All the little prick had given him was a prick in his flabby skin. And now the Goddam quack was a hundred million richer. Probably hiding out in a New Zealand rain forest disguised as a goofy Pukeko.
Malcolm touched his neck, felt more injection sites.
He realized he was … horny, more so than he had been for decades. Were dead people supposed to experience … boners? What happened to the tunnel of exit light?
An hour later Malcolm burrowed under silk sheets with the second most expensive whore in North America. The most expensive one was blowing the president of these United States. Malcom figured second best tried harder and he was right.
She was amazed at the old man’s stamina but curious about the bite mark on his neck.
Malcolm tongued his way to her exhausted clit and brought her to orgasm twice more. She thought only her pimp knew how to do that. Was she in for a surprise.
(C) jaron summers 2019
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