The Billionaire sat at a table on the terrace of his marble villa looking out at the manicured lawns that sloped gently down to the azure bay of his private island. His superyacht, Fiduciary Duty, dominated the gentle waves, rising like a titanic confection of helipads and balconies out of the subdued water.
The Billionaire's eyes slid wanly from the rows of delicate fountains, the gold inlay on the balustrades, that magnificent ship, and the white coral beach.
It was all dust. The slag of failed ambitions. Worthless, stupid shit, embarrassing in its naïve pretence.
He looked at the colossal ship once more, and thought bitterly: "I am the same as the whores I hire for company: dressed in haute couture, but just needy trash on the inside."
At his feet was a discarded newspaper. The headline read: "Wall Street Celebrates the First Trillionaire".
#microfiction