My Bad Boy Billionaire (PARODY)

The Bad Boy Billionaire

I woke up and threw my alarm clock unreasonably at the wall. Damn my spontaneous stupidity! There goes my three-thousand-and-forty-second alarm clock.

I spent a long time making myself look extra-nice, even though the day wasn't going to be special in any way so there wasn't really much point. Before I left the house for school, I looked back at my bed, purely for expositional purposes of course. It's a sad little mattress with broken springs and, to top it all, a thin beige-coloured rag on top of it that serves as a blanket. My room is filthy, too; for unexplained reasons, I'm forced to live in poverty. Of course, I randomly and inexplicably have all the top makeup brands, designer clothes and an iPhone 6s. I don't know why my parents didn't spend £500 less on the phone and £500 more on my quality of life, but some people have strange priorities so I just have to stick it out, with my top-of-the-range phone, clothes and make-up. Damn am I unlucky!

I took one last glance in the mirror to admire my busty chest. I have a bit of an obsession with my busty chest. It's very...what's the word...busty. Yeah. For no real reason, I checked that my appearance was exactly the same as it was every other day. Dyed blonde hair? Check. Blue contacts? Check. Busty chest? I checked that last one off with a smile.

On the way to school, I met my friend Donalda, who is mainly there to look uglier than me and give massive chunks of plot and character detail where necessary.

Contrary to the average requirements of the genre, I have no slutty, slagtastic friend to deliver on-the-nose innuendos and sex jokes. I do all of that myself.

'Donalda!!!!!!' I said, hugging her and almost smothering her with my busty chest.

'Damn, Spanky!!!!!!' Donalda exclaimed overdramatically. 'Stop smothering me with your busty chest!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!' I glanced affectionately down at my chest.

Yup. It's still one hell of a chest.

When we arrived at my boring high school, painted in fifty different shades of grey, my teacher told everyone to go into the gym hall because we had a special guest speaker. Everyone trailed after me as I sailed down the corridors to the gym. I caught six boys staring at me, or more specifically at...you guessed it. I added six lines to the running tally of staring boys that I keep in the back of my iPhone case. It's filling up fast.

Me and Donalda sat on the front row of the bleachers miserably, sure that this was going to be some dumb basketball player sweating in our faces and telling us to never stop believing.

But then He walked in.

And my life changed...forever.

He was obviously way too godlike to be in my scruffy gym hall with its plastic bleachers and dusty basketball court. His suit was immaculate, the dark orange contrasting perfectly with his vibrant green tie. It was beautiful.

His jawline was so perfect it could cut diamond, kind of like a super-powered shovel. Like Edward Cullen, but sexier. And not a vampire.

'Quiet, please!' he purred, his silky voice cutting through us and instantly silencing us. He had the most warm, buttery British accent, one of those excellently cultivated, unbearably cute English Oxford accents that make you shiver inside because they're so sexy. And he was goddamn hot on top of it. I mean, I've seen English guys, and like ninety percent of them have horrible overbites and acne, but this guy, I mean...wow. Just wow. I didn't know England produced fit tigers like this bad boy. Me-ow.

The hot jalapeño before me bowed in a gentlemanly way that English guys seem to master. He was slim, but muscled - somehow, I could tell that he had amazing abs. I don't know how I knew. I just did.

'Thank you!' the flaming hot chilli pepper in front of me says in that fleeky accent. He can't be more than ten years older than us. 'I'm here to give you a talk about success. My name is Crispy Gray and I am one of the richest billionaires in the world, though none of you will ever have heard of me because the plot demands that I be mysterious.'

I turned to Donalda. 'Dat accent do.' I whispered.

Crispy continued. 'Today, I'm going to tell you how I made twenty billion pounds - that's about thirty billion dollars - in just seven years. Can anyone tell me how much that is per year?'

I knew the answer. 'Forty two pounds!' I yelled, thrusting myself forwards off the bleachers.

Crispy turned towards me. His eyes were a muddy shade of brown, like rotting leaves trampled underfoot. I noticed that he wasn't looking at my face. He was looking at something a bit lower down. Of course I didn't feel invaded or violated in any way that this man, who was ten years older than me, was staring at my breasts. Instead, I beamed with pride and thrust a bit more purposefully.

'Not quite,' he said. 'Forty two times seven is two hundred and ninety four. So nowhere near, I'm afraid.'

A sniggering broke out throughout the hall. Even Donalda was laughing at me.

'Right,' I said, laughing uneasily and sitting back down. Oh God. Oh God. I embarrassed myself in front of Crispy. How could I live with myself?

'Anyway,' Crispy continues, 'I'm going to tell you how I made my fortune. I started with a small loan of a million pounds from my father-'

But I couldn't listen. I was too humiliated to even concentrate on his delicious accent.

At the end of the talk, I stayed as long as I could, gazing longingly at Crispy and his beast figure. He never even looked in my direction. Why should he? I was just plain old me: attractive, busty and of course completely forgetful.

Eventually, there was almost no one in the hall. I took one last, long, desperate look at Crispy. My heart broke and even though I've known this guy for all of five minutes, I knew that my life is over when I left this room and left him behind. I began dragging myself miserably out of the hall, mascara dribbling down my cheeks in a completely unattractive way. Never again would I hear his luxurious, silky purrs caressing my ears. Never again would I stare as his sludge-coloured eyes...

And I tripped, sprawling all over the gym floor. I had some papers in my hand for some reason (probably plot convenience again) and they flew across the floor in all directions. I groaned. Could my day get any worse?

I began scrambling around, picking up the sheets with one hand and holding my skirt down with the other hand. It was my longest skirt as well, almost covering my thighs. I looked at the papers and realised with horror that they were covered in love poems. I must have subconsciously been writing them while Crispy was giving his talk.

'Oh God, please no.' I whispered, increasing my urgency to pick up the papers.

'Hello.' a lindor-chocolate-level-of-rich voice above me said like some heavenly angel. 'Let me help you.'

I saw a flash of carrot-coloured suit as my dream man bent down on the floor and began helping me gather the papers. I was getting more and more flustered.

I reached for a sheet of paper and he reached at the same time and somehow, our hands touched. An electric current ran through me - the metaphorical kind, of course. I knew in that second that he was The One. I gasped melodramatically and looked up at him, my heart hammering in my busty chest. Miraculously, he looked back at me at exactly the same time. The ugly mascara was magically gone from my face, leaving me perfect as always.

'Hello.' he whispers in that buttery voice. 'You're that girl, aren't you? The one who got the question wrong.'

I cringe but somehow manage to stammer, 'I-I'm Spanky.'

'Spanky?' he whispers some more, caressing my cheek. 'What a beautiful name.' he takes my hand. Woah! Boundaries invaded! Just kidding, I love it when random, mysterious older men touch me in invasive ways. 'I'm Crispy. I'm a bad boy billionaire. And from this moment on, I'm your bad boy billionaire.'

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NOTE: Oh. Well there it was. My parody of every billionaire/bad boy novel out there. Fun to write, I guess. Now I just need to see how many people think this is serious! Points if anyone got the Trump reference in there!

-Thlayli-la