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Fantastic stories for the film adaptation
Lim Word
© Lim Word, 2017
ISBN 978-5-4485-9782-4
Created with Ridero smart publishing system
Heir
Hooray! I was twelve years old!
A lot of gifts, from all my two moms and four dads! But, what is this? Machine on the string? I can exclude this donor from a will! We must be serious. I’m already an adult.
By the way, I have not forgotten my new name yet.
My name is Dean.
Yesterday I successfully passed the exam for children’s spontaneity. From this day, you need to fill out a bunch of all forms, much more than usual. All about health – there are no palpitations, nightmares, depression. And – a page once a month – that comes to mind. A notebook can only be used by me. An electronic lock opens if I look in the well and say “Sim-Sim, open.” So my personal doctor Max ordered, adding that, in addition to the possibility of free choice, I have the right to … how is it? confidentiality. In general, many different doctors are interested in me: psychologists, biologists, psychophysicists, their assistants. So I am writing, in a neat handwriting, a report on everything I see. Soon I’ll get to know all my dads and moms – I try to be a good boy.
Edgar is my beloved father. He’s a cool surfer. Each day of the last month took me to the Ocean, to catch the Wave. I think “Wave” should be written just like that, with a capital letter, as he pronounces this word. It’s great to be standing in the streams of the breeze, to roll on the board by the water curled into the roll to the hot shore. Of course, at first it did not work out that much, but Eddie patience taught me everything. He was pleased with how exactly I am borrowing his movements and accepting the prescribed instructions.
After skiing, we usually went to the beach bar, my father ordered himself whiskey, cocktails, and me – allowed soda or tea. I know he’s got something wrong with his stomach, but he does not really bother about it, because he’s counting on me now. By the way, to enter the system of the Heirs and to get acquainted with me, he sold most of his business. Clear father. I remember especially how Eddie twists a glass with his burning adult drink in his hand, takes a sip at a sip, happily frowns and smiles: “Soon, Dean, son, you too can do this, then you’ll understand how delicious it is.”
Papa Duck. He is over eighty, but still very cheerful. Surname – Rockefeller, everyone usually utters in a whisper. He, too, for some reason is confident in me, as in himself. He thinks that the stupid boy, that is, me, was extremely lucky with him.
We have already visited five times on the board of directors of the corporation that he gathers. After the meeting, Duck let me sit on his, a high-backed chair, behind a mighty, probably half of a tennis court, a table. Nothing, between us boys, this, especially tempting. Directors are all boring, worried about nonsense, talking as if by numbers. And the food is so-so – endless fried eggs and bacon, toast, orange juice and warm milk.
Duck showed me a map of the world, on it arrows, flags and again – stupid numbers. Said: it’s bound to be ours. My. More precisely, probably, it. This Rockef got confused. But it seems, nevertheless, Duck loves me in his own way – he has turned pink, as if woke up from a bad dream, does not let go of himself a single step. Well, what about Dean?