George Flame would not sleep. He kept twisting nervously and impatiently in his very expensive white satin sheets. He was looking at the silver screen of his white cell phone, then at the golden chandelier with the incorporated fan to keep him cool, and then all over again. He felt empty. He was famous, popular, successful and incredibly handsome and stylish, but he couldn’t care less. George Flame was unhappy.

He stood up abruptly and put on his freshly and meticulously ironed white shirt. His tall sculptured body was bare underneath. He looked at the mirror and combed his snow white hair precisely 60 times. He wanted to look outside the window, but he kept his blinds down all the time. Balconies were meant to hold flowers not people. And life is worthless if not devoted to the pursuit of pleasure and beauty. George Flame was an absolute hedonist.

He was pouring a glass of white Chardonnay wine when his fabulous white stereo automatically started playing ‘Stairway to Heaven’. He stared in awe at the painting of the 12 Greek Gods just above his bed. He was a firm supporter of this mythical religion. He murmured along with the song and felt himself ascending to Heaven as well. He was the 13th God. Or better else he was the one and only.

He lighted up a Havana cigar. He inhaled the smoke deeply into his throat and lungs. He was a dedicated nonsmoker and hated the smell of cigars. He inhaled deeper. He put it out and started blowing himself with the hair dyer with an uncontrollable drive. He stopped and looked at the mirror again. He looked sharp in a James Bond kind of way but his hair let him down again. He exhaled, cursed and went mad, but deep down he absolutely enjoyed it. George Flame was the man who never compromised.


A Tribute to My Very Own Rockstar.

In loving memory of George, a father, an icon, a flame.