The desert wind blew his faultless french crop tuft of coffee-brown hair. Slimes of grimy sweat made their own piece of art across the beautiful face of the adolescent. He'd driven endlessly in his Maserati 'till the engine could no longer grope for another drop of diesel. Sixty-four hours came and went. The machine choked and shuddered in the middle of Sahara.His Steve Madden combats took their first taste of earth yellow sand as he descended. He straightened his Armani suit and settled on the ground. At first it almost burned him but as long as he had his motive, there's nothing that he can't endure. Nothing. He smiled at the thought and made his dried , perfect-shaped lips bleed. The pain made him close his enchanting baby-blue eyes and he fished for the cigar case in his pocket. He drew in the comfort of the deep mint as he smoked; inhaled and exhaled until there was nothing left to consume in the stick. Panting now, he reached for the silver flute he tucked in his boots with his set of fingers that would have been a worthy example for proving the divine proportion- PHI- in human category. This man would have been a legend , a figure so marvelous that would sometimes be deemed myth. If only the Fates hadn't made him a captive for life in the name of love. After all, demigods always had bad-endings.They're always proned to tragic deaths and inevitable curses. And seeing where he was, the chances are getting slim that he would end up like Perseus or Hercules. That's the major problem with myths, they're controlled by the Oracles who decide their destinies.But he was only half a myth. His name was Michael di Angelo. The son of Thalia(the Muse) and the heir of the Di Angelo fortune by Nicolas di Angelo his mortal father. Who was the eleventh in line to English throne and who owned half of America.
