Other people hated the portrait, often saying it was hideous, ugly, or plain evil. But Chris had a soft spot for it: he liked to think that when he reached ninety years old, he’d look like that: a life of excess, well lived. But hell, that was sixty years off yet. At thirty, Chris had a long way to go.
But he wasn’t like that anyway. He didn’t like company, rarely went out, just played computer games, and read. Lockdown suited him. Food delivered, beer too: everything he needed. Here.
Everything, including his friend and confidante on the study wall.