Paul

It was thirteen degrees with a wind chill of five below and Paul was rocketing down the slope with a manic grin on his face.

Paul was a cocky son of a bitch. He had all the answers or at least gave off the practiced air of having all the answers.

Paul believed in living life. He snow skied, water skied, snow boarded, surfed; he owned a motorcycle and a private jet. He played tennis and golf and drank single malt scotch that cost more than a week's pay for most people.

What Paul didn't do was respect sedentary people. He despised computer nerds and bloggers. People who sat in front of the hypnotic screen taking in useless information and texting drivel.

Hell, he even hated readers. What was the point of reading about something in a book when you could just go out and do it?

Paul was a body guy. Not a mind guy.

He was  so goddamn successful that you couldn't argue with him. You know the type. The obnoxious, grossly opinionated fool who never hesitates to tell you where you went wrong with your life as he puffs on a $125 cigar.

Makes it tough to argue with him when you are wearing second hand clothes bought at a second hand store with change you saved up over time.

Even tougher when you have to borrow money from him from time to time.

Paul had family; parents, a brother, but he really did not care for them. Family makes you weak. Families demand love. Love does not result in success. It is the lack of love that drives success.

Paul did well with the ladies. Always had one on his arm. Stunning and beautiful. The kind of women who would smile for the cameras and squirm  provocatively close to his athletic body. The kind of women who would sneer as soon as they were out of his sight, even as they appraised the new piece of jewelry around their neck.

So Paul had his success and Paul had his hobbies. He never stopped moving. He wore a tattoo of a shark on his bicep.

Paul was joyfully indulging himself in these thoughts, thoughts of his own superiority, as he rocketed down the slope.

Indulging himself until he sensed the tree in front of him.

The tree of his death.

There were many things written about Paul after his death but the best was the one written by his brother Knox.

In his blog.

It was glowing.

Knox was a blogger and made a few bucks writing freelance. He wore second hand clothes and was a tad overweight. He planned on losing a few pounds, he was always planning on losing a few pounds.

When friends asked Knox how he could speak so well of  Paul he said, "Always looking for opportunities to sharpen up my fiction writing skills."