Davide Duvalier Dimitrov felt like a king when he flew. He prided himself on his success. His father told him hard work pays off, but Davide watched his dad break his back to build a business he could leave to his sons. Davide took the money and scarpered.
The expensive education was worth it as Davide rubbed shoulders with other like-minded duckers and divers who wanted to seek out quick fixes, ways of quadrupling their winnings, discover havens where they could hoard their overnight windfalls without having to fork out for public services which pandered to the undeserving masses. Occasionally, and to divert attention from their dirty dealings, they’d play Robin Hood and fling panini at the hungry crowds who gulped it down then spat it out with laughter at the ever-so-dreary clowns. Duping the gullible was such fun.
Davide Duvalier Dimitrov did not give a fuck. Dare, Do or Die was his aim.
DDD was the middle child, neither the cleverest nor the cutest. Forever vying for attention, he resented his older brother his brains and resented the younger guy his looks. DDD wanted to make his mark on this world.
When his father droned on about how he’d never had all the things his own kids took for granted, how he’d worked his way up from the bottom to the top, how he’d always sworn to provide everything and more for his family, DDD had to stifle his yawn.
The chums he met at university while studying a subject that bored him senseless had all sorts of bright ideas. He felt proud but not surprised that he was invited to join the club. He arrived with cash to burn and, one night, they built a bonfire and threw banknotes into the flames. They enjoyed evenings out in fancy restaurants where they proceeded to smash expensive bottles of wine against the walls. Women were excluded from events, of course, but when the boys went on their lust-fuelled rampage, hookers were dragged in for that release of extra fizz.
DDD was a stud. His bank cards sparkled between his Hollywood teeth and he whisked girls off to islands on that private jet with his initials emblazoned on the tail. Take-off was his favourite type of hard-on and no-one could say what went on above the clouds. When one of them blabbed, he rubbed her lips red raw with dollar bills.
Davide Duvalier Dimitrov was a high-flyer. He rubbed shoulders in the corridors of power. Nothing broke him out in a sweat. Beyond reproach, beyond the laws of mortal men, he was a god. Gloriously untouchable.
His initials were scorched, yet visible, when the flames stopped flickering from the wreckage of his plane.
Biography: Lizzie’s a Glasgow writer with 2 published novels. One of these, Vandalism, was shortlisted for a National Book Prize in Malta where she lived for 12 years. Her flash fiction, short stories, CNF and poetry have appeared in anthologies and journals, such as Epoch, Briefly Zine, Pure Slush, and On-the-High. Twitter: @lizzie_eldridge | Facebook: facebook.com/lizzie.eldridge | Instagram: lizzie_eldridge