Zoé Mahfouz
Fiction
First things first, buying a gold card from Donald Trump to emigrate to Los Angeles. Selling my house in Paris with everything inside, except my stuffed animals, especially Japi and Souricette. I will have them cargo shipped to my new home in West Hollywood. Oh, but that is going to be a big home. I will need employees working there full-time, like a gardener, a housekeeper, and an assistant. They will need insurance, but we should get cameras first in case they attempt to stage a fall to sue us. I saw that on Facebook Watch, some guy threw ice cubes on the floor and pretended to slip to get the company’s money. We are not making that mistake, no sir!
What about hiring a part-time dog trainer to keep an eye on the property? But hold on, what if the dog trainer gets sick? Then the property will not be guarded. We need at least two dog trainers. But how do I know they can be trusted and will not turn their dogs against me? We should run a complete background check on these people. But is that legal? I will ask my assistant to check with the lawyers. Oh, but they need to be good lawyers, like Roy Cohn-type lawyers who are ready to get dirty. I should check if Roy Cohn had a son. Oh crap, he was gay. That is a plot twist.
We also need a pool, but should it be indoor or outdoor? If it is outdoor, there is a risk of wild opossums drowning in it, which is highly hazardous because opossums carry diseases like tuberculosis, leptospirosis, tularemia, spotted fever, Chagas disease, coccidiosis, “and more.” At least that is what the website Urban Jungle Wildlife Removal says, so it must be true. And if the pool is indoor, then we will need a full-time pool boy to take care of it, like Chad from Saturday Night Live, but competent. Hope he does not try to seduce me before drowning me in the pool. No, that could never happen. I could never get attracted to the help. And I have seen the movie The Help. I know you still have to act nice towards them, or they will make you eat poop pie.
I should probably give away some money since it is tax-deductible. And also because I am a good person. But I only want to donate to charities run by celebrities, like the ones founded by Miley Cyrus, Oprah Winfrey, and Meryl Streep. That way, I will get invited to their annual charity galas and meet them. I should hire a social media team to follow me everywhere, including to these events, and capture as much content as possible for my IMDb page. That way, people will know I am important, and it will give me a great boost to launch my own production company. Maybe I could even partner with an existing one, like the one run by Mindy Kaling? Oh, she is going to love me. I am irresistible. Maybe Hollywood will even create an award that bears my name. That would be wholesome. I should start designing it, just in case someone asks. But I do not know how to draw. Oh, but I have money! I should hire someone to do it for me. Hold on, who makes the Oscar statuettes? Google says it is a small business called Polich Tallix Inc. based in New York. I should reach out to them and ask for a quote so I can forward it to my accountant.
But what about the food? I am French, after all, and Americans are not exactly known for their culinary taste. Maybe I could hire a team of chefs from the finest palaces in Paris, like the Ritz, the Crillon, and the George V. I saw in a documentary that rich people have chefs in their kitchens full-time, cooking whatever they want, whenever they want. So if I want fondue at 4 AM, I can wake them up and have it because I own these people. Look at me, I am already drunk on power! I inspire myself. I am about to create an empire. Now that I think about it, that would be a lot of people in my house. They would be watching my every move. They would know my routines. My weaknesses. They would have access to my entire life and could easily gather enough data to sell to sketchy people, like paparazzi or the FBI. I should consider taking self-defense classes. Oh, but that would take too much of my time between my SoHo House member privileges, my spa and surgery appointments in Beverly Hills, and my golf classes with my new white friends Miles and Piper, squeezed in between two seven-course meals.
I do not want to play the lottery anymore. I think I would rather stay middle class.
