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She climbed onto the parapet. Not that Art could kill or injure herself, of course. She would merely be crushed, torn to pieces, and scattered to the winds. She jumped. She fell down, down, down. The wind whistled in her ears, the roadway hurtled toward her wide-open eyes. Whump! She landed plump in the sumptuous upholstery of a gleaming 1929 Phaeton. Money was at the wheel. The car was toasty warm since it boasted the latest nuclear fission car heater. "This is your lucky day," Money said. "I happen to have an opening for a portrait painter in my entourage." He flung her an application form.
Art began to concede that on this planet you have to make compromises. Besides, you had to admit Money had certain attractions when you looked at him without prejudice. For one thing, he was incredibly wealthy. He wore a dazzling jewelled ring you couldn't unglue your eyes from.
Money veered off into a neighborhood so exclusive that no one else could live there. He screeched to a halt before an ultra-magnificent mansion. "I call it Happy Nest," he informed her. "Get it? Money can buy Happy Nest! Haw, haw. Anyway, I've completely forgotten that insult you devastated me with the other day."
Art stayed at the mansion that night and, I regret to report, she lost her divinity. No doubt you've seen the portrait Art conceived that night. It showed Money rearing up on a white charger, his plastic card brandished high and glinting in the sunlight. His teeth gleamed like pearls, his hair like gold, his dark glasses like polished ebony. The portrait was hung in the National Gallery next day and was reproduced on the cover of an influential magazine that ran a glowing profile of Money. The limited edition print sold like hotcakes. Likewise the coffee mugs and the T-shirts and the video about the making of the T-shirts. A new artistic movement, Monetartism, was born. Art was a success. She moved into a townhouse in a chic part of town. Customers lined up at her door.