DOLCE VITA.

Do you know what my biggest dream was? I wanted to be beautiful, famous, and rich, and on top of that, have power! Yes, I know, it's not original. Everyone would want it, right? You'll probably be surprised, but I don't want it anymore. I prefer my life as a scientist, lecturer, and thirty-four-year-old bachelor who occasionally hooks up with a cool student and goes to the pub for a beer with his buddies a few times a week. Just like I'm doing with you now. And you know why I say that. Of course not, and if I told you, you wouldn't believe me anyway.

I don't want it because I've learned that the beautiful, famous, and rich don't have such wonderful lives after all. I'll go further – sometimes they have it downright shitty. Their lives are full of entertainment, but very often they're unhappy because they've lost faith in the meaning of their own existence. The classic dolce vita. Why do I say that? Because I know it firsthand. Why did you open your mouths so wide? You heard me right. I'll say it again, slower: from autopsy!

But I'll start from the beginning. And you, smartass with the goatee, bring me another beer! You know I often stay in the lab after work and do various experiments. It's true – sometimes they fail, even badly. Sometimes things explode or start to stink. That's probably why they call me Crazy Fred. But sometimes I get something out of it besides my hair.

I won't go into the technical details, because you wouldn't understand them anyway. You'd have to be at it for years, like I have. All I'll say is that my latest invention works, and quite effectively. I call it a personality transmitter. It's small and can be worn on your wrist like a watch, but it has significant capabilities. It's used to enter another person's brain, peek into their thoughts, and see the world through the eyes of a delinquent.

Hey, David, shut your mouth, or a fly might fly in! And you, Stan, stop laughing or I'll take your beer away! You won't get any more. If he doesn't understand something, he laughs! Typical commoner reaction.

*****

My personality transmitter works this way: when I see someone I'm interested in, I turn it on, and it automatically scans the subject's brainwaves. When it reads their frequency to within a hundred millionth of a hertz, it stops and remembers the value. I've permanently programmed my brainwave frequency, so all I have to do is activate the transmission procedure, and I'm in the subject's brain. From that moment on, I think like them and practically am them, retaining remnants of my normal consciousness and memory of events once I return to my own body. At the same time, the personality of the person I'm inhabiting resides in my real head, which belongs to my real body. I simply swap thoughts with the person I used the transmitter with for a pre-programmed period of time, with the difference being that I choose who I want to swap with, and the test subject has no say in the matter. They have to give me their body and brain for a while. Sounds like a fairy tale? Maybe. But I'm telling you, I'll get a Nobel Prize for this someday!

My transmitter holds enormous potential. I just need to refine it a bit. Imagine entering the mind of the President of the United States for a few hours and changing the fate of the world! Me, Crazy Fred! It's impossible right now, because after the transmission, I think like the person I'm inside, not like myself, but I already have an idea how to change that.

First, I tested the device on a few—as I initially thought—innocent students and an elderly woman from my building. What the girls did in the dorms would make for good porn. Now I know what a woman feels like in bed with a man—the experience is diametrically opposed to a man's. But truth be told, the old woman's thoughts were more lewd than those of these young nymphomaniacs. Fortunately, no one fell for my grandmother's ruined body. Maybe that's a good thing, because I don't know if I could have endured all that filth...

Anyway, it turned out the transmitter worked flawlessly, so I decided to make my dream come true, which I've been telling you about. So, for starters, I wanted to be beautiful. It's common knowledge that women are the fairer sex, and in my opinion, the most beautiful is Angelina Croft. The only problem was that I had to get within five meters for my invention to work. And how do I do that? Of course, the easiest way was to blend in with the crowd of autograph hunters.

Just as I thought, I did. The lovely Angelina was in London promoting her latest film, in which, as usual, she showed off her full glory in several truly steamy scenes. So I flew there and ambushed her with a gang of puppies, aka signature hunters. We waited two hours in the rain until the press conference finally ended and my goddess emerged from the building. Dressed in a short dress with a plunging neckline, she looked stunning, as always. I pushed my way as close as possible to her and activated the transmitter. A moment later, I heard a beep – I already had her brainwave frequency. I set the timer for three hours and pressed start.

A split second later, I was Angelina Croft. I quickly signed autographs, a practiced smile on my face, though I wasn't exactly happy inside. Then the driver drove me back to my residence on the outskirts of London. My husband wasn't due back until the evening; he was away on business, so I was alone. So I did what I always did when no one was home. I stripped naked and stood in front of the full-length mirror in the hallway. I'd always loved to parade around naked, but because of the ubiquitous paparazzi, I rarely could. I admired my amazing body, examining it from every angle, lingering for a long time on my breasts and pubic area. I was undoubtedly gorgeous, and for good reason, I consistently won awards for the most beautiful woman in the world. If someone had said I had a narcissistic nature, they'd be right. Yes, I do! But besides myself, I also love looking at other beautiful women, especially without clothes. Ever since I hit puberty, women's bodies have aroused me more than men's, including my own. I couldn't reveal it, because what would my millions of fans say if they found out their sex symbol was a lesbian? I couldn't do that, because I would instantly lose popularity, and my viewership would plummet.

When I grew tired of admiring the best body in the world, happily mine, I went to the bathroom to take a bath. I happily immersed myself in the warm water. I closed my eyes and, caressing myself with my fingers, imagined myself being touched by the greatest love of my life, Vera Donna. No man had ever felt as good in bed as she did. Her skillful fingers and tongue brought me to orgasm with ease. Unfortunately, I couldn't see her until the following week. Vera was also a public figure, a famous singer, and she was currently on tour in the States. I can't imagine what would have happened if the media had found out about our relationship. They would probably have launched a campaign of persecution and ruined our careers.

Once I'd gotten over my lover's absence and brought myself to the peak of pleasure, I relaxed for a moment. Then I started thinking about my miserable life and that festering pain in my ass: my husband, Kevin. If by some miracle he hadn't gotten his hands on that compromising amateur porn tape from when I was just starting out as a stupid seventeen-year-old, complete with perverted lesbian photos of me, I never would have married that pervert and sadist. And yet, he could blackmail me, and he did it with obvious pleasure. He was thrilled, the fucking bastard, that the most beautiful woman in the world was his wife, and what's more, through marriage, he became co-owner of my multimillion-dollar fortune. And I couldn't leave him, because then the whole world would know that this sex icon had a different love and started her career in porn. What a terrible, deceitful world I lived in! After all, most movie stars started out in porn and then slept with anyone with a say in the industry—how else would they break into the big-name roles in blockbuster films amidst the throngs of horny producers, directors, and screenwriters? I knew this firsthand. I, too, had to go through more than one bed to finally achieve stardom and be able to pick and choose from scripts and role offers like a smorgasbord.

What hurts me most is that Kevin is an insensitive brute who loves to rape me whenever I have the slightest desire for sex. I can't remember the last time I willingly submitted to him. He loves anal sex and slaps my face when I refuse to comply. That's why I pull down my panties and stick my ass out whenever he tries to take me from behind, afraid he'll damage my face, and then it would be my fault again for interrupting filming.

How I hate him! He's completely disgusted me with sex with men, even though I've always preferred it with a woman. Moreover, because of him, my biggest dream in life will never come true. I will never experience the joys of motherhood. When I got pregnant with him, I decided to have an abortion because I didn't want to have a child with a man I despised. After the abortion, it turned out I would never be able to have children again.

No one would believe that this dazzlingly beautiful, sexy, and always smiling actress, a pop culture icon, the object of desire for millions of men and the envy of just as many women, is perhaps the most miserable person in the world! My life is not at all as sweet as it seems. All these parties, events, and trips can't fill the emptiness I feel. If I could tell the future, I would never have become an actress!

I got out of the bathtub and was drying myself off when Kevin came back. He burst into the bathroom like a tornado and shouted,

"There you are, bitch!"

I was shoved in the back. I hit the wall, and then he entered me from behind. I felt the pain. He was brutally raping me. As usual.

Fortunately, the timer worked perfectly and transported me to my own body. Good thing, because who knows—maybe I'd even enjoy anal sex and become a faggot? I was groping a young student on the couch in my apartment. She had amazing breasts and was determined to pass my class. I'd always liked that kind of arrangement—pass for pass.

Since I hadn't succeeded with the divine Angelina, who turned out to be as beautiful as she was unhappy, I thought I'd get inside the mind of someone famous. Like Bert Deckham, the best soccer player in the world, a star of Real Madrid, the idol of the crowds! He simply must be happy!

Getting close enough to him and entering his thoughts proved relatively easy. I went to a league match in Madrid and turned on the transmitter just as the famous Bert was walking three meters away from me, going down to the locker room after the match.

These post-match interviews really irritate me. After the final whistle, I'd gladly run for the shower to wash off the sweat and exhaustion. But servants aren't best men – first I have to stand outside the locker room and tell the journalists why I didn't score from a free kick. And what's that? Do I have to score from a free kick in every match?

Once, a young, beautiful journalist barged into my shower with a microphone – I wonder who let her in and where the security was? – and, brazenly looking at my penis, asked in an innocent voice,

"Why did you miss the penalty?"

I felt both embarrassed and aroused. The girl probably noticed, because she was all aflame. Good thing she didn't take a picture. That's the price of fame.

I quickly showered and changed. By the time I finally made it to my Dodge Kipper, I must have signed two hundred autographs. Two delicious, busty teenagers wouldn't let me pass until I signed their firm, hard breasts. Of course, I only complied out of politeness. After all, I have to take care of my fans, especially the female ones. What can I do if they're so into me? I make more money selling T-shirts, mugs, and other merchandise with my image on it than I do playing football, so I have to be nice to my female fans. Luckily, there weren't any paparazzi around at the time.

I haven't had a good run lately. My former employees—my housekeeper, maid, and stylist—gave interviews to various newspapers, detailing their imaginary sexual encounters with me. Victoria, my wife, was raging with jealousy and rage. If only it were true! None of them were worth cheating on, especially that fat brat, the stylist. It's interesting that no one knew I'd been sleeping with that cutie, Elizabeth, my manager, for years. But the French know how to keep their mouths shut.

It took me almost an hour to get to my suburban residence. Every time I stopped at a red light, drivers honked and waved at me cheerfully. Sometimes it just drives me crazy! Do I have to be happy to see every loser who recognized me? Unfortunately, I'm a public figure and have to put on a face. I'm feeling increasingly bored with this popularity, and that's why I'm slowly getting fed up with football. Well, not football, actually, but the whole atmosphere associated with being a star in this wonderful sport.

As I pulled into the driveway and into the garage, I noticed two paparazzi perched in the trees in front of my villa, and a third in a car across the street. Suckers! They think they're hard to spot. I'll have to close the blinds all over the house again. Damn it! I can't even have sex with my wife without reading about it in the newspapers the next day.

As soon as I entered the living room, Victoria was already there. Furious as a wasp, she threw a newspaper on the table with a picture of me standing next to Vivien, my former stylist, on the front page. I argued with her for a good hour. We shouted at each other until we were hoarse. I'm not going to admit to something I didn't do!

When I'd had enough of the yelling, I grabbed her hand and forced her into the bedroom. I pushed my wife onto the bed and started undressing her. As usual, she pretended she wasn't in the mood for lovemaking, even though I knew she wanted it just as much as I did. Only when I touched her small, bare breasts and kissed her sweetly on the lips did she stop pushing me away. We made love long and passionately, until I almost lost all strength.

If it weren't for our two small children and the fact that Victoria was unmatched in bed, I would have left her long ago. Before our marriage, she wasn't the insanely jealous and incredibly quarrelsome woman she is now. A grumpy nag – that's what she's become!

I'd barely managed to get dressed when the timer went off and I returned to my current body. Analyzing my experiences as Bert Deckham, I came to the conclusion that being famous wasn't as great as it seemed. Sure, the money and sex with Victoria were okay, more than okay, but everything else wasn't. Especially the maddening intrusion of fans and paparazzi who wanted to look everywhere, even up my ass. I don't think I could survive as a football star for more than a month, and if I had to spend all my time with the bitchy, loudmouthed Victoria, I'd probably be completely fed up after two days. I'd rather be myself than a hounded, beleaguered sports icon and teenage idol.

Next on my list of targets to check out was someone rich. The wealthier, the more suitable for my purposes, and ideally, the richest man in the world. So the choice was obvious – Gill Bates, IT tycoon, head of Macrohard, number one on Forbes' list. Filthy rich.

I tracked him down for a month, until I finally succeeded. I entered his thoughts as he was giving the opening speech at the world's largest IT trade show, World Info in San Francisco.

My speech was short and concise. Then I was supposed to go home, but at the last minute I changed my mind and returned to the company office to work a few hours on a marketing campaign plan designed to increase sales of the latest operating system, Doors XXP, by twenty percent. For the past few years, I've worked at least fourteen hours a day, Monday through Saturday, and on Sundays, I'd take home all the analyses for the current project to thoroughly review them in the comfort of my own home. I've had maybe ten days of vacation in total during that time. I'm a classic workaholic – many people have told me so, and I agree. When I'm not doing anything, I get bored and get terrible headaches. Besides, I don't think I can do nothing anymore.

Suddenly, I realized that instead of working on the campaign, I was thinking about my sons. Whatever the case, I certainly wouldn't have any children from them!

The older one, Alan, was a terminal drug addict. I couldn't cure him in the best rehab clinics in the world. He'd been through detox numerous times, but he kept going back to drugs and suffered from permanent, massive depression, which meant that when he wasn't taking drugs, he did absolutely nothing. I didn't understand him at all – the bastard had everything, literally everything he could have dreamed of! He was so bright and intelligent, I was grooming him to be my successor, and now this is what you get! A few more months, maybe a little longer, and the boy would be gone.

My second son, Paul, was a lazy, effeminate idiot, only concerned with satisfying his own pleasures. He fell for his mother, not for me, of course. Girls, cars, alcohol, fun—that was all he was interested in.

I feel like I shouldn't have started a family, because I get absolutely nothing out of it. Nothing but trouble! They always want something from me, constantly distract me from work, and what do I get in return? Nothing! Not even a kind word! I don't think my wife or children have any deep feelings for me. I repay them in kind. I know my wife hasn't loved me for a long time—if she ever did—so it's probably normal that I, too, treat her like an old friend living in my house.

I have no one to pass on my IT empire, built from scratch through years of backbreaking work, my hands, and above all, my brain. When I get old and can't work, the company's management will fall into someone else's hands, and it's unclear whether all my hard work will be wasted. Sometimes it seems to me that my work is pointless, since I have no one to continue my legacy. It's a good thing these dark thoughts usually pass quickly.

I'm the richest man in the world, so what? Just work, work, work—that's my only pleasure. I have no time for anything else, and I don't seem to be able to relax at all anymore. Or have fun, like I did years ago when I was a student. What good are these billions of dollars if I don't have time to spend them because I'm always at work, and I can't live without work? What good is it?!

And on top of that, everyone's trying to squeeze a penny out of me. If they want money, they should earn it first, like I did! Charities, sports clubs looking for sponsors, my wife, children, relatives, friends, and strangers—everyone just shouts, "Give me, give me, you're the richest in the world." And who am I? The Red Cross or Mother Teresa of Calcutta? And who gave me a cent for nothing? Nobody! I don't work like a dog to waste money! Everyone's just looking, as if they're going to rob me or extort money! I can pay a fair price for honest work, not give it to freeloaders. Money must be saved and then invested every cent so that the company can grow and remain a market leader. That's a fundamental principle of economics, and I will always abide by it!

No more wasting precious time on pointless thoughts! I need to focus and get back to work.

I stared at the monitor, meticulously analyzing the bars and charts. I had to make several strategic decisions, and in those cases, I relied solely on myself and my own calculations.

I was so absorbed in my work that I was literally angry when the transmitter transported me back to Crazy Fred, who was sitting in a chair with a beer in his hand, watching an NBA game. If every millionaire is a boring, stingy, selfish workaholic who can't and won't spend a cent on his own pleasures, investing all his money in the company where he spends his entire life, then thank you very much! I'd rather be me, Crazy Fred, with my university lecturer's salary and a reputation as a terror to young, pretty students. Certainly, when I manage to lure a pretty girl home or invent something original, albeit not always useful, I'm much happier than Bates.

I've crossed "filthy rich" off my list of subjects to test in my experiment. Only one word remains: "enormous power." I immediately thought of James Fastro, formally the Chairman of the State Council, but actually the dictator of communist Rafuda, who took over power on the island from his father. But how to get to him? I found information online about upcoming events and national holidays in Rafuda. I immediately noticed that in two weeks would be the anniversary of the overthrow of the monarchy, so Fastro would definitely be participating. Communists are fond of parades, so it was very likely that the military and the most important state dignitaries would march through Rafuda's capital, Gubanna.

I took a leave of absence from university, and on the day of Rafuda's national holiday, I was standing in the front row by the curb of Gubanna's main street. After several hours of waiting, I saw a cavalcade of limousines with small national flags on the hoods slowly emerging from around the corner. I waited, my finger on the button that activated the personality transmitter. When Fastro was a few meters away, I pressed start. Fortunately, the car was moving very slowly, so people could enjoy the sight of the leader greeting him with gestures. This allowed me to hit James, not Prime Minister Rafuda, who was sitting next to Fastro. Within a split second, the device detected his brainwave frequency, and half a second later, I was sitting in the backseat of the government limousine.

Greeting the people of Gubanna was as tedious as it was necessary. I knew these people hated me and were eager for my death, just as they had for my father's, but I couldn't help but be a loving father to the nation. Fortunately, this was the last stop on the celebration of the end of the monarchy, so upon arrival, I was immediately driven back to my residence through the city's main streets.

I told my assistant that I was off limits for the next two hours. I locked myself in my office. I poured myself a glass of whiskey and took a few sips of the fiery liquid. Only now can I breathe a sigh of relief. I knew from my intelligence services that someone had been trying to kill me for several months, which is why I significantly increased my personal security detail. It was most likely members of the Democratic Faction, secretly supported by the US government, who signed my death warrant. A month ago, I almost lost my life when a masked man parachuted onto the roof of my residence and then forced his way in. It's a good thing the security guard at my door was very alert and killed the bastard.

Since then, I haven't been able to sleep at night, and that's why I'm constantly angry and irritated. Despite having immense, practically unlimited power, I'm becoming increasingly afraid that someone will eventually succeed in killing me. In every window, around every corner, in every car passing by, I see a potential assassin in every mind's eye. I'm starting to get paranoid. I seek oblivion in alcohol, drugs, and women, but it only gives me short-lived relief.

Why do these ingrates want to kill me? They owe me so much! I maintain the most just, best possible system in this country—communism, which is a hundred times better than cruel, rotten capitalism! So what if people live a little poorer than, say, the middle class in the United States, when there's no unemployment or drug addiction in Rafuda, and the crime rate is significantly lower? Why can't they appreciate that? It's true that sometimes there's no meat or bread in the stores, but no one here has ever starved to death. There are certainly many more mass cultural events in my country, and people are kinder and much friendlier to each other than in inhumane capitalism, which is nothing more than the exploitation of man by man. And in gratitude for everything I've done for them, they now want to kill me! I'll hunt down this entire Democratic Faction and put an end to them. Once and for all! Ten thousand armed secret agents are snooping around the island like bloodhounds, so no revolutionary can escape alive!

What an irony of fate! The benefactor and father of the nation can fall at the hands of people practically fed in their own bosom! Parties with the most exquisite dishes and the most expensive alcohols have ceased to amuse me. I find less and less pleasure in sexual orgies, to which the most beautiful women are flown in especially for me from even the most remote corners of the world—white, black, yellow, and red. I don't enjoy the knowledge that at any moment I can change the law at my whim and all the citizens of the country must dance to my tune. Power is a wonderful thing, more pleasurable even than sex, but everything can get boring. I am a lonely, brilliant visionary whom no one can understand, not even my advisors who try to persuade me to lift the embargo on American goods. I have everything and can do anything, yet I feel a growing emptiness in life. Isn't it strange?

I drank the entire glass of whiskey and poured myself another. I was finishing it when my body rebelled. My head dropped to my chest and I lost consciousness. Some time later, the loud sound of windows shattering into a thousand pieces brought me back. I jumped to my feet. Three men in balaclavas, armed with Uzi rifles, jumped through the broken windows into my office. One of them aimed his gun at me and said in a cruel, cold voice,

"Your time has come, Fastro! I will free Rafuda from your burden, you tyrant!

I've never been so afraid!" For a split second, my entire life flashed before me. The assassin was already pulling the trigger when… drenched in cold sweat and mortally interrupted, I glanced around the lecture hall. Students were looking at me with astonishment, some even with concern. Oh, shit! I'd escaped the grave digger's shovel! I was so pissed I'd set the timer for 150 minutes instead of my usual 180. I left the students for a moment and went to the restroom to calm down.

That evening, all the television stations reported the assassination of James Fastro, the government coup in Rafuda, and the Democratic takeover. It all terrified me so much that to this day I haven't dared to use the personality transmitter.

*****

Let me tell you something, friends! I consider my experiment complete. I had realized my dreams: I was incredibly beautiful, incredibly famous, filthy rich, and had enormous power. I realized that I was happiest in my own skin, Crazy Freda. My existence—unlike the people whose brains I inhabited as part of the transmitter tests—has meaning. Theirs, unfortunately, does not. I am a happy person, full of joy in life, from which I live to the fullest, while they all feel an emptiness they unsuccessfully try to numb with entertainment and money-squandering.

And who has a truly sweet life? Angelina Croft? Bert Deckham? Gill Bates? James Fastro? No! I have a happy, sweet life! Crazy Fred!