He knew he was beautiful. He didn't have to be told, although he accepted compliments as though by right. And he knew he was different. He knew there was no one in existence quite like Lucius Gynt. This sense of his own uniqueness pleased and satisfied him. He started each day with a personal homage to himself. He stretched languorously on his waterbed and thrilled to the sensuous shiver of the silk sheets that covered his tall, slim but exceptionally powerful body.
The apartment was decorated in pink and saffron with soft furnishings, garish wall coverings and, what Gynt thought of as, avant-garde art discoveries that included some minimalist sculptures and examples of art-deco objets d'art.
He had hung some of his own works bathed in subdued lighting. One day the mainstream art world would discover him. It was only a matter of time. Already a new and exciting gallery in Long Island City had a hung a select number of his artworks. He had made a particular friend of Quentin, the gallery owner. 'New Brutalism' was how Quentin described Gynt's work. He thought Gynt could be the next big thing.
Fluffy rugs and mats were strewn around the timbered floor of the large, open space, from the center of which a cast iron spiral staircase wound its way up to a railed gallery that circled three sides of the room. Large warehouse windows gave the apartment a light and airy feel.
In one corner of the room space was stacked Gynt's mountainous collection of teddy bears, their button eyes staring sightlessly from mounds of fur and fabric, their ears pricked listening for the sound of their master's voice.
Gynt's bears were his only really true friends. They knew how special he was and how lucky they were to be sharing their lives with him. And Gynt consulted them frequently, especially about the details and plans for his special assignments. They were very seldom wrong and were particularly good at reminding him if he had forgotten some very important, minor aspect of a mission. Lucius Gynt thought of himself as a perfectionist, a consummate master of his trade.
In a corner of an adjacent room were the accoutrements of his profession. Locked pull out drawers from a sideboard housed his weaponry. A narrow closet was home to his clinical and pristine work wear and by the side of the closet was a very small but purpose designed, free-standing cryogenic cabinet and clinical workbench. Inside this cabinet, Gynt created and preserved his very special weapons.
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