SUPERWORLD

François IV

He thinks it's too good to be true, which means he wants it to be true!

"I won the lotto!" François proclaimed, throwing his hands into the air in celebration. François turned to look at him. "I won because I dreamt of the winning numbers being announced on TV and then I went and bought a ticket with the numbers! I'm a millionaire! If I can make millions, who's to say I can't get you your badge?" François questioned.

Remy smirked and François saw the lightly lined face move subtly into contemplation.

"Tch. I thought I saw your rat face in the paper. You really dreamt the lotto numbers? Those shoes are real Gucci?" Remy asked, François could see that he still was on the island of disbelief, but at the water's edge. François lifted his foot in the air and slapped the side of his five hundred dollar shoes.

"One-hundred percent, mon ami!" François demonstrated, modeling the shoes. Remy laughed.

"Fuck it, I don't care if you're lying or not, you've got money. You're going to pay for everything. Every month of rent on the bar while I am gone. My room and board, and I will have a separate hotel from you at a five-star hotel. First class plane ticket, everything." Remy told François.

"Of course, but, fuck rent, I'll just buy the place for you! Nothing but the best for my friends!" François exclaimed.

Standing up in jubilation, arms spread wide signaling for an embrace. Remy put a distancing hand on François' chest.

"Ah, ah. We're not friends. This is a vacation for me, you owe me that and more. But, sure, we'll go to the senator's house on the day in your dream. And when no one shows up to try to kill him, I beat the shit out of you and fly back to France first class. Do you understand me?" Remy instructed.

"Oui, Capitaine!" François said, striking a mock salute. "But when we go to the senator's house and the strange man does show up and he does try to kill the senator, you and I stop him, make the front page news and you tell my daughter and ex-wife that it was all my idea and that I'm a hero and we be friends again, deal?" François offered his hand to his former friend, a man who was always harder and stronger than himself, his deeply gray hair accented with surviving black strands was still cut into a military-style and his clothing was sturdy and pragmatic, a far cry from the crisp, new opulent attire of François

He has to shake my hand now, no? I got him hooked, line, and sinker! I'd go alone and keep all the glory of being a hero to myself, but I can't fight worth a damn, or be a detective, or...

Remy looked at François' hand for a long moment and the artist began to swear a bit in his head, thinking that the old barman would change his mind and leave him high and dry. But in the end, the large, calloused hand of the soldier smacked into the smooth paint-stained grip of François and the two shook on the deal.

François went back home that night in high spirits, not just because he had secured his bodyguard for his grand heroic gesture, but because Remy had convinced him to stay at the bar and buy bottle service.

His money had attracted the attention of two young women at the bar, he invited them back home for a nightcap and the three of them shared his four-postered bed that night in a five-minute romp that left François thoroughly satisfied and the two women disgusted with themselves.

François held both women in his arms, turning away from the sliding glass door having been gazing out at the sea, a solitary white drone flying over it. That night he drifted off to sleep, hoping to dream of his great heroic act. What he got instead was terrifying.

Hotels all smell the same. Heavily sterilized as they are, you can still smell the human debauchery underneath.

"You're right, dear. But they're necessary, we have to keep moving." A voice behind him said.