When he wakes up, Mortimer still thinks the same thought. Is there really anything for him to do? His vast, criminal empire practically runs itself. He spends more money in any given hour than most people make in a lifetime, and he gains twice that amount. Yes, he has stolen top secret government plans, but what will he do with them? Sell them? For all he cares, he could make photocopies and give them away to every interested corporation, country, or other terrorist organization he could think of. The only reason he stole them to begin with was to see whether or not he could do it, and cracking into the CIA’s vast database had been painfully easy.
Mortimer Hex has no worries, no responsibilities, and nothing to prove. Isn’t that want people want out of life? He tries for a moment to feel content. He breathes deeply, thinking about all the things he has, all the power he has accumulated, and every sorry plebeian who would trade places with him in a second.
Currently, one such man leans against the cold facade of a bank in Albany, picking his nose and wishing he had his own tax-free mansion and someone to cook meals for him. Another cries on a black, sandy beach near Puerto Viejo, Costa Rica, trying imagine a world without God, countries, and possessions, but subconsciously wishing for all three to work in her favor. Another plots the downfall of our villain in his mother’s basement, but already one of Mortimer’s assassins sulks outside the door waiting for him to cough or sneeze.
Contentment does not come within Mortimer’s first few seconds of trying, so he gives up. He jumps out of bed, eats the scrambled duck eggs the Jelena has prepared for breakfast, puts on a suit previously owned by the president of Ecuador, and leaves for his mother’s house.