There he was, walking down the street, exhibiting all the cool that the stature that he thought he had could afford for him, for cool was what he oozed in his designer jacket and designer shirt, his designer jeans and designer shoes and his ever-so-slick designer glasses framing the rest of his face as he did not exhibit a smile on his smooth, powerful strut that seemed to indicate that he was worthy of awe and respect, such was the power of the coolness that was pouring from all of his pores and the fibres of his body.
Not looking at anyone in particular, giving the impression that he had other, bigger things to worry about than the people around him, he continued on with a dedication usually reserved for the walks that action heroes of the eighties would exhibit in a slower motion when they made an entrance so that you’d know that they meant business.
He was a man on the mission, or at least the impression was that he was a man on a mission and no one would stop the way that he moved along the pathway.
He knew how to portray himself to look above the rest and he knew how to make his way around the crowd. People would take notice of him and not suspect him for being anything other than a bad-ass.
He had the right body mass and the right sense of style. His jawline was rigid and prominent, yet smooth and supple in a way that seemed only reserved for those that no-one could touch and in this instance, this man was untouchable.
The breeze was light and the clothes that he had sat on the body that he had worked so hard to craft and sculpt. His figure was not emphasized, but also not hidden away. His posture gave the impression that he was a fine example of how to carry oneself.
His words were reserved to carry an air of superiority without revealing his hand. The language he chose was usually brief, sometimes lofty and sometimes blunt, always spoken with a coolness that left people with the impression that he was the ace, yet never so much that there was a wall between him and the others that he would be conversing with, for he wanted to make sure that the way he was perceived was that of someone who was the epitome of cool, but without outright stating the fact that he saw in himself.
Everywhere he went, he was the most smooth and nobody could reach just how much of a cool, smooth bad-ass that he was.
He was the epitome of cool.
Indeed, he had worked hard to cultivate the image that he had to ensure that everyone that was around him had known.
It was a pity then that the image that he had cultivated was not his, but the one that fit best into the society that he so desperately wanted approval from.
The time it took to write five-hundred words: 09:42:88
Not sure as to what I was going for with this.
It started off as something and then I went for something else, which I’m not going to bother explaining as that would be treating everyone like an idiot.
Written at UNSW.