They’re on almost every corner now, kinda like Starbucks was back in the two-thousand-oughts, back before they connected dark-roast coffee to that rare form of prostate cancer. People buy the stuff like it was going out of style...Tom can barely keep up with the demand, even with his crack staff of draftsmen, illustrators, and painters.
He’s practically printing money. Shit, at the rate we’re going, I’ll be able to retire to my own island in two or three years, where I’ll never have to look at one of those damn things again. My own fucking island. Sweet.
Oh, the business was OK before. Good, even. People loved his crap. It was the logical next step after Big-Eyed Kitties and Puppies. The rubes ate it up.
But it was my idea that kicked it into overdrive. Turbo overdrive.
Took some selling, it did...but once the ol’ cash register started ringing, Tom never looked back...and neither did I.
You think a rustic thatch-roofed cottage at sunset, its interior glowing with the bright light of a warm hearth, looks good? How about a rustic thatch-roofed cottage at sunset, its interior glowing with the bright light of a warm hearth, with a gorgeous, naked lady on all fours on the front lawn?
Yeah, I thought so.
“Painter of Light,” they called him. Hell, I said - why not “Painter of Light - and Titties and Asses”?
After that, the money really started to roll in.
Another couple of years, I figure, and I’ll cash out. Buy that island. Do it before the Next Hot Thing comes along, before sales start to cool off. I’ll keep a low profile, enjoy life.
Nobody needs to know that I’m the guy who put the “kink” in Kinkade.