You open the door to find your cousin sitting in your computer chair with his shirt off, head tilted downwards. As you stare at the top of his head, you can't help but notice his hair is gray. Holy shit - how did he...? You didn't think things would blow up in Walker's face this fast. Your cousin looks up at you and scowls. "You motherfucker!" He is practically foaming at the mouth, and all you can do is stare at the other man blankly. Walker looks to be in his late 40s; no, probably 50! Maybe older than that, even. "How did this happen...? I thought you were going to be careful?" He slaps your mouse away in makeshift response, disconnecting its cable from your laptop. It clatters to the floor noisily.
Your cousin's eyes are lined with gray-blue pouches that stand out next to his over-red cheeks, jaw, and hairline. Deep creases are carved out under his lower eyelids, spiderwebbing out into a wealth of tiny wrinkles. His hair is a sterling silver, the last stubborn stains of butter yellow fading away at his temples. Walker's eyes, which should be your chocolate brown color, are changed too. They look to be the color of dead leaves, dulled by age. There's a resemblance you can't quite put your finger on. An actor, maybe? Suddenly, you realize that he looks a lot like your uncle. Not a perfect match, of course, but a decent approximation -- Walker did always look like his dad, you suppose. Now he would probably be taken for his dad's older brother. A mass of age spots and broad pores fan out across the center of your cousin's face. The changes continue downwards, too. You gaze at the intermittent trail of liver spots that weaves its way from shoulder to shoulder. The echoes of fitness still make themselves known in his physique, but have given some ground to age. Walker's pecs and brand new paunch are fighting the beginning of a losing war against gravity. His frame has expanded, too, shifting his physique from "lithe" to whatever the retiree version of "kind of built" is. To say the least, he looks rough.
"Why would you swap with an old man, Walker?" You ask, trying to keep your voice even. Although your cousin is not as strong as before, you're not sure you could take him now either. "Well, for starters I didn't fucking know, you pin-dick. I wanted money." You can't believe he's still insulting you now that he's had his just desserts. And the tiny dick is his, anyways! Your real dick is a reliably sized six-and-a-half incher. You try your very best to sympathize with him -- you're going to have to stay on his good side to get the ring back. Walker is running his age-worn fingers across the track pad with difficulty. You eye the USB mouse on the floor impatiently. Then, he thrusts a hand at the screen suddenly, finding his target. "Look!" Spittle lands on his lower lip in excitement.
You go over to look at the screen, and see it's an article about the top ten most eligible billionaires. You motion for Walker to slide over, and he does with a loud breath. You can't help but notice that he buries one hand protectively in the other, hiding the ring from sight. Christ, really? You focus back on the screen, and look at the picture accompanying the number 4 slot. It's a small photo of a smiling blonde man with a hard body relaxing beside a pool. He looks tall, perhaps Nordic, and his white teeth sparkle radiantly in the sunshine. The photo has a strange coloration to it you notice; you scroll up and turn to Walker, prodding your finger at the electronic display. The article was written 10 years ago, and who knows how much older that photo is? You scroll back down to the wealthy man's photo and read the blurb next to it. It describes a reclusive playboy named Linus Holmberg and his empire built on the dot com boom of the early 2000s, followed by a flood of smart investments. A quick Google search shows you that no recent pictures of him seem to exist, and that he was born in 1965, making your cousin 53.
You turn to Walker. "Did you check to see if it worked?" His expression clouds instantly - he is fuming. "Of course it fucking worked! Look at me!" You shake your head gently, speaking slowly as if to a child. "Your bank account, Walker. Are you rich now?" His face flushes with embarrassment, but he maintains his angry expression. The older man pulls out his smartphone and begins tapping purposefully. Before long, he turns the screen to you and shows you his savings account: 391 million dollars. Not a billion, but still a LOT. He looks happy despite himself, forgetting his predicament for a second. You clear your throat, and he snaps out of his euphoria. "What are you going to do?"