The Miami scorching sun of July sparkled gently on his Gucci gradiented sunglasses, neatly saving him the somewhat troublesome effort of eye squinting. The palm trees swayed lazily in the delicate Atlantic breeze, leaving majestically ominous shadows gliding on the car’s chrome curves.
Immersing himself in this moment he took a deep breath and smiled barely noticeably, inserted the key into the ignition socket and with a sharp twist, started the car. The silenced, yet elegant roar of the engine signaled the turbines’ thirst for fuel, so within the blink of an eye, he floored the gas pedal and the metallic stallion took off, leaving only a gust of sand floating in its’ former place.
As he was driving on Ocean Avenue, he couldn’t help it but to ask himself how it all happened, basking in obvious content. For indeed there seemed to be no better way to put bread on the table (followed by caviar and ice-cold champagne) as performing plastic surgeries in the 21st century America – owning the power to give the angels their wings.