This man, a renegade from the outer-boroughs, would become a famous writer. After he sliced his wife’s neck he was offered a contract from the finest publishing house in Manhattan.
He married and divorced and eventually a squabble of half-siblings would meet harboring varying degrees of feelings of superiority. Golden Child, the youngest son from the last wife, liked to sit in the attic and daydream. Of the children he was the most determined, though precisely for what neither he nor anyone knew. Who had inherited the talents? Who had the looks? Who would get the money? Greed is its own master.
One day Pops died. Estate lawyers revealed that any proceeds were barely enough to offset their own fees.
The ex-wives got nothing and the children got nearly nothing unless you count a drab brownstone, which was fine looking when full of convivial well dressed guests from across the river, but those days were over.
The lower floors were sold and eventually Golden Child installed himself permanently on the attic floor. When he was alone sounds of hissing drifted from the rafters.
Golden haired, blue eyed, he grew up overtly confident and it showed in his swishy walk, in his combative talk. When he married a beautiful and talented woman he thought this his due. Meanwhile he toiled on manuscripts and mailed them to publishers. His life was sublime, he had it all, except for a book deal.
His wife of six months told him she was pregnant with the child of her lover and she split, tracelessly. He should have stabbed her, the local gossip went. Golden Child took his skills and proffered them to a louche pal of his deceased father. A wealthy pervert for whom he arranged nights of girls and drugs. Years went on in this manner demeaning Golden Child to a pimp. He played along, it wasn’t difficult, especially because he vowed, in the name of his father, one day he’d write a best seller. Take notes.