The Billionaires

Thump, thump, thump.

Fucking hell! Someone take my head out of the drum of this washing machine. The

wash cycle continues as my cell phone vibrates against the surface of the bedside table. The sound is like a nail gun going crazy. I unglue my eyes.

My lofty, gilded ceiling comes into view.

I stretch out my arm, fumble around, locate the blasted thing, hold it over my face, and squint at it. The blue light from the screen blinds me. Screwing my eyes, I hit the green button and put it to my ear.

“Boss, I’ve been pushing the bell for some time, and didn't get a response. Are you okay?” Semyon’s alarmed, booming voice tips the washing machine into the spin cycle.

“What time is it?” “After seven, Boss.” “So?”

“At night, Boss.” “What?”

I took four pills and decided to lie down for a few minutes, but I must have been more wiped out than I thought. I should have been at the club by seven.

“Bring the car around to the front in fifteen,” I instruct, pulling myself off the bed.

My shoes are haphazardly kicked in two different directions, but I’m still in my clothes. Rolling my shoulders, I make my way to the bathroom. I open my mirrored cabinet, and reach for a new box of

tablets. Discarding the plastic wrapper, I go into the drawing room and head for the bar. It’s an antique, made from wood reclaimed from a Russian church.

Warning. Do not take more than twelve tablets in any twenty-four hour period.

Fuck that. I pop out eight pills into the palm of my hand. Grabbing a bottle of Grey Goose, I unscrew the top, and take a generous swig of neat vodka. Nice one.

Fortified by the best legal anesthetic available, I go swiftly to the bathroom. In ten minutes, I’m showered and dressed in a fine Saville Row black tailored suit.

I grab my phone and wallet, and glance in the hall mirror. No time to shave. Still the five o’clock shadow suits how I feel. I open the door, and cool autumn air fills my lungs.

“I’ve called ahead and informed Vanessa that you’re running late and to have dinner ready for 8:30, Boss” Semyon says, as he opens the rear door of the Maybach.

I nod my approval and slide into the limousine’s luxurious leather interior. The air is scented with expensive perfume, and over the smooth purring of the engine, classical music plays. Semyon closes the door for me, and climbs into the front passenger seat. Immediately, Zohar, my stone-faced driver sets off for the club. I let my body ease back into the seat. Shutting my eyes, I rest my throbbing head on the plush headrest.

Were it midweek I sure as hell would not have left the house, but it’s Friday. It’s the one night I never miss being at the club. It’s not the truth, but I tell everybody that it’s because Friday night is sucker’s night. It’s time the dreamers, the hopers and the scammers will all be along. They go because, of course, life is a complete fantasy-fucking-land.

In their tiny, greedy bird-brains they think they’re just gonna stroll into my club, and a few fun-filled hours later, hit the £100,000 Free Stake (which has the same lure of fresh blood for the Great White shark). Sure, the odd one does good, gets to hold it in sweaty palms … for a bit, but that’s when the big hook comes out to play.

It’s the glittering, sweet-smelling, dream ticket out of their miserable, pathetic lives: the irresistible

£5,000,000 Free Stake. The idea? Put a hundred K in there that didn’t belong to you in the first place, and win five million. It fucking fries their brains. Even the most cautious, most level-headed gambler will forget that he walked through my front door, the man who never loses.

What does the man who never loses, rush to his club like a slave running to his master, on a Friday night for, you ask? Even when his head is fucking killing him?

Awww … look at you. All curious.

Stick around, cupcake, and maybe you’ll see me get it.