“If you ain't got no money, Take yo' broke ass home You say: if you ain't got no money, Take yo' broke ass home. G-L-A-M-O-R-O-U-S, yeah. G-L-A-M-O-R-O-U-S, Oh the flossy. Flossy. ” - Stacy Anne “Fergie” Ferguson - Christopher Brian “Ludacris” Bridges
“Partyin', partyin' (yeah), Partyin', partyin' (yeah), Fun. Fun. Fun. Fun. Lookin' forward to the weekend. We... we... we... We so excited! We so excited...” - Rebecca Black
Like a rhinestone cowboy, he saunters into the club with a pronounced John Wayne-swagger.
The crowd huffs at his impetuousness.
Every duke and earl and peer was here.
Everyone who should be here is here!
But who is he?
In this club? Marque Provocateur?
Metropolis's most exclusive night club?
Who does he think he is?
Over diamond goblets, after swilling a disdainful sip of their cosmoglintini, they whisper to their eyepiece.
“Who is it?!”
“WHO IS IT!??!”
The chorus of commands can be heard from all corners of the club.
As he walks through the bar and makes his way to the VVVIP section, the ruby and emerald covered sea of Boujees twist and frug but eventually part around him, repelled by their own deference to him. As he passes, the crowd follows, drawn to this magnetic mystery.
Just as their eyepieces scan his face and await a response, the DJ cuts the music and hits him with a spotlight.
“Ladies and Gentlemen, esteemed Boujees and Boujettes! We are humbled to welcome royalty tonight. Our very own Prince of Prosperity, the new CEO of Def Corporation, My Man, Brand-N Higgins!”
A dozen cocktail waitresses light sparklers around him while a dozen more shake Champagne bottles and pop them, spraying $328,487 worth of 18 th-century Veuve Clicquot on the Boujees.
A team of six-oiled up muscular men hoist Brand-N into a gold-leafed litter and carry him through the club.
“Bow down, bitches, bow down!” The DJ commands, hitting a inaudible sonic whistle, which causes every knee to buckle.
“Now make some noise!” A dramatic airhorn punctuates this sentence as ten strategically placed hypers start the “Who-dee-who” hooting. The wave of enthusiasm flows from these ten to engulf the crowd, who jump up and cheer.
“Almost too easy,” the Higgins-minded Brand-N thinks. “Bah before me, sheeple!”
The bleating crowd snaps videos of him and sends this to their social networks, each staking their claim as “One Who Was There for the Coronation Celebration.”
The litter tips and Brand-N tumbles into a pool full of swimming supermodels. These merry mermaids hoist him to continued cheers.
In unison, eyepieces switch to show his pedigree.
He is the son of Lukasz Higgins from a third and forgotten marriage, making him heir apparent of the empire that rules this company town. He had a wild past. A vagabond turned pyromaniac, he spent his youth torching and running. After exploring islands and mountains and jungles, he sat in a silent meditative retreat for three months. He awoke one day to realize that he had been called to take over the family business. And to lead the Haughties to the promise land!
The story seemed a little thin and was riddled with holes. But every Haughty knew that their claim to social status lay on similarly shaky grounds. Had their father really invented Candy Crush or had he only swindled the code from a Ukrainian teen?
No, it was best not to question. Just applaud along. If people start scratching the surface of other people's past, they might question theirs one day. They had to all agree to be down with O.P.P. (Yeah you know me!)
The holovideos of the ceremony raced through Metropolis. This fawning effect of millions shows the ludicrousness of the human mind. Moments before, he was alien to them and they were ready to kill him, sacrificing him for the sin of social climbing. But then, in an instant, their minds were changed by well-choreographed external forces and they vaulted him high above themselves, venerating him, until they were ready to sacrifice themselves for him.
“It's good to be the King!” Higgins chuckles to himself.
Running Def Corporation now was easier now than he could have ever imagined when he began it forty years ago. Almost every part of the sprawling Def Corporation empire was automated. He barely had to lift a finger other than to approve the well-regarded recommendations of his advisor software, built by the Richelieu Corporation. Like a conductor, he only needed to lightly flick his wrists for an avalanche of activity to happen.
He proved himself to be a benevolent dictator of Metropolis. Sure, there was still an administrative government for the city-state, but Def Corporation retained complete control over it. All he had to do to win their obedience was to throw them lavish parties and offer them small gifts, tokens of his appreciation for their submission, like at-home coffee enemas, Zoloft in the drinking water and ecstasy after-dinner mints.