In a universe far too close to here, Tark and Mara were one weekinto their 30-day plan to single-handedly rescue the reputations of the world’s super-rich. Ruminative steam rose from the sparkling glass roof of their 12th-storey penthome in the heart of Dublin, startling some seagulls, which had yet to detect the military-grade anti-avian cannonsjust thirty seconds away from detonation.
“I have to do my bit,” said Mara. “Give back to society. It’s my duty as a person of great consequence.”
Tark looked up from the 22-carat-gold-plated laptop his wife had handed him, tears glistening in his eyes. “And so you have. This is magnificent, my darling,” he breathed, shivers of excitement rippling through his impeccably muscled five-foot-two frame.
Mara’s dubiously lush lips pursed in an approximation of a smile as she stretched languorously on the antique chaise-longue. The sun poured in the windows of the penthouseas the…
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