Jergal Rappaport, Gentleman of Exquisite Refinement

Here wasn't just any man, he was a virtuoso of the absurdly exquisite, a sultan of the stratospherically swank.

His morning ritual involved gargling with vintage Chateau Margaux and flossing with threads spun from Pygmy Marmoset hair.

Breakfast was a symphony of quail eggs poached in the tears of Himalayan snow leopards, served on a solid gold plate engraved with sonnets by forgotten Renaissance poets.

His bespoke suits were woven from the underarm fluff of Tibetan sky monkeys and dyed with the ichor of the rarest beetles, each button an artisanal masterpiece carved from the petrified amber of the forest preserve on the planet Narcissus Septus, the last planet in the custom built system and the one only real connoisseurs patronized.

Some might call Jergal pretentious, a walking monument to conspicuous consumption, and they'd be right on the money. But Jergal, bless his ostentatious heart, truly believed in the transformative power of excessive refinement.