Seven-Greed

Do you want something?

Do you desire, in the deepest depths of who you are, some cold, simple object, just to call it your own?

He's there, and he sells that desire to you.

He's mister big shot, advertising king, the fancy suit expensive watch cookie cutter man you see in all the movies, the mogul, the modern king, who leans over a desk from his leather throne, and calls his cell phone baby.

Except for today. Today there's a piece of paper on his desk, a piece of paper amid all the little administrative toys and moving attention grabber and golden trophies, a little piece of paper with a red seal, and he hates the phone. He screams into it, profanities lost to the world that make fuck seem like a polite greeting. They crackle in the ear, and would sear your mind if you heard them too clearly.

He gets frustrated, kills the phone. He hits the hang up button, snaps it closed.

That does not satisfy him. But it is a posession, and to part with it would not be in his nature.

He glares at it, sleek and smooth and desirable....

His fingers, encircled with so many cold hard rings of silver and gold, close shut on the phone.

There is a crunching, grinding noise, and he dumps the shards and pieces into his pocket, before rising from his desk, sighing expansively, and looking about the room.

He counts his posessions, one by one, and vows lovingly to each one that he'll return soon, just one insignificant little matter to attend to.

He walks to his private jet, humming a jingle he'd made up, a little song that had made him a million dollars overnight, selling greed.

He loves America, he truly does. There is no other word for the wonderful thrill he feels for its each and every deluded inhabitant, so enraptured with him.. His love is truly consummated, of course. To them, he is practically a God.

He boards his private jet, gently caressing its lovely steel hull.

He owns it, of course. Another wonderful posession, along with the landing strip. He has deeds to both in his locked vault, along with the money he has not yet used.

Money.

One of his more inspired inventions.

His pilot (only one of the many people he owned) asks him where he'd like to fly today.

"The ends of the Earth." he replies with a sour frown.

Greed does not like the way that tastes in his mouth.

He suspects he'll like the following weeks even less.

-Locke and Peter