Chapter 3
by Christi
"Check it out. It's like I'm in Goodfellas."
The observation that started it all.
"Sure does. You look like a proper gangster," said one of the other trainees. I glanced at the picture and suddenly my mind was saturated with color images: There he is, with an entourage. Not carrying weapons. Nah, he's got people to do that. He just looks cool. It's what he does.
Somewhere tropical. With the sound of an asthmatic ocean wheezing in the distance. The sky a searing reminder of the heat of South America. The fruity drink in hand being just a bit too sugary, and doubling as shellac for the artists drawing with pastels on the beach. And there he is, ordering an organic fruity drink with no artificial ingredients, poured into a BPA free container. The wind whipping through his hair.
But surely, this is my imagination running off. Yes?
Or has this really been his life up to now-now, when he has to be all ordinary like the rest of us, just to stay alive? Or what?
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