It's nightfall and you are rushing home from the ball park. On the way back to your studio apartment, you see a man standing on top of the staircase of a classy and expensive brownstone. He holds a cigar between his fingers adorned in custom leather gloves. His trench coat is lengthy. His hair is luminous silvery white. Wrinkles resonate across his face like dissipating ocean waves, and he bears a beard slightly tinged with a crimson hue. Underneath his outer garments, the moonlight shivers over his expensive crocodile boots. Puffing a few more times and then tossing the cigar onto the sidewalk, he puts one foot down too quickly and topples down the stairs. Blood oozes from the gash on his forehead. Next, the reddish brick pavement turns a dark violet shade. Adrenaline rushes through your veins, so you run through the speeding traffic, almost jack knifing an eighteen wheeler, and make it to his whereabouts. Slowly and softly raising his head up, he stares at you twice and coughs a bit. Blood erupts from his lips and his hand draws your ear to his mouth. He says to you: "I am not suppose to tell you this, but I'm an elite member of the Bilderberger group. Therefore, I have the ability to grant you what you have always desired: Power, Money, or Fame. Now choose wisely, because you can only have one of them."
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