Prompt is from WriteWorld
The suds are slippery between his fingers, that space between his hands, but it is to be expected. In fact if it weren’t slippery he’d be more worried. In the silence of the bathroom, the occasional squelch is the only ambiant sound.
He admires himself in the mirror, crisp shirt, buttoned to the neck, the cuff are plain but today’s meeting requires none of the usual splendour he is accustomed to living in. Instead, he aims at dressing plain, modest. His hair is jet black, neatly combed, and while he isn’t particularly happy about his bloated face it gives him the appearance of a kindly, understanding grandfather. He is satisfied.
He rinses the soap away at the faucet, drying hands off on his monogramed towel (finest Egyptian cotton), and finishes the outfit off with a crimson silk tie and a smart, well-cut black Caraceni suit. A gift, he recalled distantly, but he can’t remember who. He has received so many before. Somewhere deep inside of him, there is a twinge of panic, guilt but he quashes it, stepping outside to where the chauffeur is waiting.
He arrives at a swanky club in one of the glitziest districts, where he is immediately ushered to a private room, sheltered away from the general hubbub of the already-high class clientele. A hushed whisper falls as they watch him, but he knows not a word will be breathed beyond these mahogany panelled walls.
Finally they come to a pair of heavy wooden doors, perfectly polished, matching the opulent carpet. A pair of doormen swing it open, and inside a toothy, grinning businessman awaits him, pearly white gleaming as he ushers him to sit down. The table is already set, a red wine decanting. The bottle next to it reads “Chateau Petrus”, though he cannot make out the year.
The man launches into a spiel about how his latest endeavors into the housing markets, how the profits are wonderful, and how he is seeking to expand it in. Then, after several minutes of waffling, he finally murmurs “I could use some help” and then pushes a Patek Phillipe watch towards him. A Chronograph. The two men regard each other evenly, before he himself cracks a small smile.
That night he washes his hands again, the suds slippery between his fingers. Outside, the Chronograph rests on his bedside table. He may get caught, of course, he’s already seen how Bo Xilai and countless other big-names fell. But he has time. He has connections. He knows. He leaves for another dinner, thrown by the local city council this time. Something about the building of a new factory.
Rinse, lather, repeat.