Brad Peach was a star.
Men wanted to have his body. Women just wanted his body.
Brad had an unusual morning schedule.
Every morning, Brad sat on his fully automatic toilet and let himself be irrigated. The poop was collected, sterilized and placed in a clear lucite block suitable as a gift or as collectable memorabilia.
Brad signed every block, it was his way of keeping in personal contact with his fans.
Brad then walked into his personal beauty salon. Tommy next door might have a private Starbucks but Brad had a private army to wash his face, brush his teeth, groom his ear and nose hair, clip his nails, moisturize his hands, arrange his hair in that casual "bed head" that had made him such an icon of the modern casual lifestyle.
Brad would just lie there. Reading scripts off the overhead voice-activated single beam LCD projector mounted above the head of his salon chair in a custom soundproof housing designed by Pininfarina.
Breakfast was exactly what his personal trainer told him it was. Today it was sea kelp, orange juice, lemongrass chlorophyll shot and bran muffins.
Brad didn't know whether to eat it or wear it.
After his workouts, his sweat stained clothes and socks were sold at charity auctions. His underwear he kept for his favourite charities because it appreciated rapidly in value after just a few days in the sun. He didn't know his manicurist was making a tidy profit off his nail clippings.
Brad ate, slept, read, said, exercised where and when somebody told him to.
He couldn't even say his favourite lines because it violated somebody's copyright.
He didn't even own his voice. It was trademarked now.
Brad accepted all of this as the price of fame and success.
Because, he told himself, "when I retire at 65 I can do what I want!"