He is surrounded by a sea of magazines, each opened to the centre-fold. The red carpet beyond the glossy edges looks shabby in comparison; its pseudo Moroccan print is far less exotic than the women, long legged and midriff baring, smiling smiles that promise evenings of debauchery out at him.
He looks them over with the clinical eye of an appraiser, studying every curve, every mole, and every lash. So far none have matched his high standards. He could pick the next pretty girl, but he wants to do this right. “Be patient,” he tells himself, casting a glance around his paper harem, “your Anna Kornikova is out there somewhere.”
He reaches for a fresh magazine, hoping that at its centre, he’ll find the face that’ll launch his destructive program to every inbox across the world, a virus that’ll define this new decade.