The door opens by itself. He doesn’t open doors. They open for him. They said it couldn’t be done, back in the 80s, when he built it, stone by stone, with his own bare hands. And a large team of builders. Not immigrants though – he checked. Soon he won’t have to.
There isn’t a hallway. Hallways are for small people, who need to be led where they’re going. His home opens into a cathedral, into a colossal cavern. He can go wherever he wants. Everything is gold.
The staff don’t talk to him, but they nod a lot. Women, all of them. Men don’t apply for jobs like these, they’re not designed for it. They’re the hunters and gatherers, they need to be out in the open air. The blonde who takes his coat, in the uniform he sewed with his own bare hands, bare hands, the hands that built America, this is what she wants to be doing. She smiles at him. “Good evening, sir”.
You shouldn’t talk to them, it only encourages them. She takes his coat and he walks through the huge room, feet sinking into the carpet. He doesn’t believe in carpet, but carpet says something about a man. “Walk on my wealth”, it says, “I am goddamn rich.” He is so goddamn rich. £3 billion, that’s what they guess at. Idiots. Closer to £10, when you take into account his branding. He pats his hair and smiles. Nobody understands like he does the value of the personal brand.
That bitch, though. That scheming bitch, in her pantsuits. The kinds of things she said to him, he hasn’t heard those kind of things since he was a boy. No one speaks to him like that. Sometimes, his advisers come to him, and advise him (ha!) of people on the internet saying things about him. “Say them to my face!” he retorts, and sends them out of the room. They never come and say it to his face. They’re too afraid.
That bitch though, standing there by the microphone, swaying like she can’t quite manage the size of him in the room, like she can’t quite stand still in his presence. That’s who they think will be beat him?
No one will beat him. No one has beaten him since he was kicked out of school at 13 years old, and that wasn’t a beating, that was an opportunity. He eats bastards like them for breakfast now.
The door to the bedroom opens by itself, or maybe there’s someone there opening it, he doesn’t see them. All he sees is his big bed, his big gold bed, and beside it his wife.
“You did wonderfully, dear!”
“I know.” She picks up his favourite brand of whiskey, pours him a heavy drink. Some men drink vodka, some men drink water. Those men are weak. “Here you go, darling.” She extends her hand to hand it to him, but he walks up close to her. She melts into his touch. She’s afraid of him. Everyone is.
“Do you want me to do it?” she breathes into his ear. This would make most men melt. She has the right kind of body, the good kind, with the long hair. She looks like a woman should look like. Women like this have always gravitated to him, because they understand.
He nods, tightly, and sits in a chair, leaning back. This is the only time he relaxes, and even then, he’s watching. He never switches off. Men never do. Each night he makes her check the light fixtures for cameras. She doesn’t even know what she’s looking for, but it soothes him. She does it naked.
She moves behind him and picks up a brush. It’s gold. Softly, like he likes it (he likes most things hard, she knows that) she runs the brush through his hair. It’s all his hair, despite what the people say, his hair because he paid for it. You can make anything your own if you have enough money. He is so goddamn rich. £3 billion. What a joke. Jokers.
She pins the front down with her palm as she brushes the back, short light strokes, like you’d brush a horse. He’s never brushed a horse, but he knows how horses should be brushed. He can smell her wrist. She smells expensive.
That bitch, though. How dare she, standing there in trousers, raising her eyebrows like she knows something. Well. If a woman can still stand there, like that, when the world knows what her husband did. If not even her husband wants her, then why should anyone else? They don’t, that’s a fact. None of them. They don’t know what they want.
His advisers, the ones he listens to, they’ve told him to prepare for a loss. He doesn’t know how to do that. He’s never lost before. You’re a loser if you admit to being a loser.
Still, though. A man in his position has to think about the jealous ones, the ones who want to get him. They’d be outside the wall, if he had it his way, but they haven’t let him build it yet. They wouldn’t be above twisting things, rigging the polls. Everyone knows it happens. Everyone knows how easy it is.
“Faster,” he says. She gets sore wrists. She’s complained once before. There’s a mirror across from them, gold, and in it he can see her wincing. Weak, just like a woman.
He’d love to be able to fire them. All of them. Just point a finger and yell, “You’re fired”. Everyone loves it when he does that. He’s never lost a damn thing in his damn life, and certainly not to a woman. That nasty woman. She represents all women. The ugly ones.
The thing about women is that it’s so easy to see what they want. They think they’re complicated but there’s nothing complicated about them. They’re easy. And they always come to him first. He’s never chased a woman in his life.
“Faster,” he says, again. “Don’t make me say it again.”
“I could do this all night,” he says, cradling his whiskey in his crotch. She knows that.