The plan was nothing sort of mad genius.
Get a rich heiress to fall madly in love then murder her - the prize her $50 billion inheritance from the proceeds of the sale of African diamond mines that her great grandfather had bought a hundred years ago for two hundred bucks and a few quarts of fresh milk. It wasn’t a matter of luck; rather it was a matter of being at the right place at precisely the right time.
Hell, the bitch didn't even know where South Africa was. "Is that were the Africans in South Beach hang out?” she asked once, half jokingly, over cocktails at the Delano. From that moment on, his contempt for her grew with bridled furry. He had graduated top of his class from Harvard and was accepted as a Fulbright at Oxford, but he found himself here, surrounded by transparent people, sipping $20 Manhattans at noon.
Her demands for sex were unmerciful. "I want to feel 20 again!", she would scream, as she shoved his head deeper into her decrepit pussy - diseased with the stench of old age and the memory of a myriad of lovers. Hell, she had more casual sex in her 40 some odd years than the average Hare Krishna.
Her best friend was her plastic surgeon - truly the only man happy to hear her voice on the other line. She spent more on chemical peels every year than most people spent on their mortgage over 30-years.
Art dealers loved her because he taste was limited, but her pockets deep. "Oh really, he was featured in Art News?” she was frequently overheard saying, "You sure the price is going to increase?"
He had been studying his mark for sometime. She was so self-involved that she didn't question why a man, of his background with his lack of social connections, would have such an intimate knowledge of the socialite life she was part of, but more importantly he knew enough about her to have been considered the leading scholar on all things her.
"I have had many suitors throughout the years, " she bragged when they first "bumped" into each other at the Prince of Jordan's yearly holiday hunting retreat in Amman. To her, he was yet another adoring fan and a worthy companion till she got bored. To him, she was his meal ticket - a way to make his dreams come true even if it meant having to fuck that rancid witch for sometime.
....to be continued....
Get a rich heiress to fall madly in love then murder her - the prize her $50 billion inheritance from the proceeds of the sale of African diamond mines that her great grandfather had bought a hundred years ago for two hundred bucks and a few quarts of fresh milk. It wasn’t a matter of luck; rather it was a matter of being at the right place at precisely the right time.
Hell, the bitch didn't even know where South Africa was. "Is that were the Africans in South Beach hang out?” she asked once, half jokingly, over cocktails at the Delano. From that moment on, his contempt for her grew with bridled furry. He had graduated top of his class from Harvard and was accepted as a Fulbright at Oxford, but he found himself here, surrounded by transparent people, sipping $20 Manhattans at noon.
Her demands for sex were unmerciful. "I want to feel 20 again!", she would scream, as she shoved his head deeper into her decrepit pussy - diseased with the stench of old age and the memory of a myriad of lovers. Hell, she had more casual sex in her 40 some odd years than the average Hare Krishna.
Her best friend was her plastic surgeon - truly the only man happy to hear her voice on the other line. She spent more on chemical peels every year than most people spent on their mortgage over 30-years.
Art dealers loved her because he taste was limited, but her pockets deep. "Oh really, he was featured in Art News?” she was frequently overheard saying, "You sure the price is going to increase?"
He had been studying his mark for sometime. She was so self-involved that she didn't question why a man, of his background with his lack of social connections, would have such an intimate knowledge of the socialite life she was part of, but more importantly he knew enough about her to have been considered the leading scholar on all things her.
"I have had many suitors throughout the years, " she bragged when they first "bumped" into each other at the Prince of Jordan's yearly holiday hunting retreat in Amman. To her, he was yet another adoring fan and a worthy companion till she got bored. To him, she was his meal ticket - a way to make his dreams come true even if it meant having to fuck that rancid witch for sometime.
....to be continued....
posted by Aki at
12:18 PM
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