You can read the whole thing here, but I'll share the first vignette because it gives an idea of what we're dealing with. If you're still interested in this prince's writing skills, he answers the question on all of our minds in another post: Is Skyler White a Cunt? I haven't read it yet, but I can guess what his answer is.

Sean swings back the last of his Guinness and finishes scribbling in the tip on his bar receipt.

He is dressed in a well-tailored suit and expertly shined shoes.

An onlooker might guess he is either a lawyer, in finance, or maybe consulting, and they would be correct. His look and demeanor imply success. He stands six feet even. With his sandy hair and modestly freckled complexion, you might guess he is Irish, but he is actually more German. Thirty eight years have wrinkled his face some but his good looks have remained.

He places the receipt and pen in front of an Italian looking bartender with a beautiful ass and long hair.

“I stiffed you on the tip because that last Guinness had a little too much head”, he says, “You’re lucky you’re cute or you wouldn’t have a job”

She looks down and notices he is only teasing. He left 20%.

“Okay”, she says, her voice is high and flinty, “Next time you can pour it yourself then.”

His smirk meets her playful smile and she has a certain look in her eyes.

He recognizes that look.

It says fuck me.

Perhaps she didn’t notice the wedding ring on my finger, he thinks. Or more likely, maybe she did.

The moment fades as the long-haired beauty is summoned by another patron. Sean’s friend Mike is just returning from the bathroom.

“7 o’clock” says Sean, “I’m outta here.”

“Yeah I gotta run, too” says Mike, “I’m meeting that girl I told you about.”

Mike is a bit shorter than his friend but is the better looking and more muscled of the two, remnants from his days as a striker on his Undergrad lacrosse team. They went to a top business school together and had found work in the same city. Like Sean, he is also wearing a suit, but his suit is newer and brand name. Mike’s darker complexion reveals his southern Italian lineage, though you wouldn’t be able to guess his Dutch/English roots from his father’s side. He is also 38.

“Which girl”, asks Sean, “the Colombian one?”

Mike’s roster of girls was hard to keep up with. If his notch count was not yet in triple digits, it was damn close.

“Yeah the one with the ass” says Mike, more offhandedly than crudely

“Well wrap it up” says Sean, “The last thing the world needs is a Mike-Colombian hybrid baby running around importing cocaine.”

Sean walks to his Chevy Impala parked near the corner where Mike will hail a cab.

This is where their paths diverge.