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445 pages, Kindle Edition
Published April 11, 2020
Dale was a stockbroker at Stryker & Marshall, one of the biggest brokerage firms in America. He always wore a suit when he went out in public, even when he wasn’t working, because there was always that odd chance he might cross paths with a client, or a possible future client. But regardless of clients, it assisted in reinforcing his pompous mentality that he was superior to others. He flaunted his suits and wore them like they were a piece of himself, an outer shell that created a buffer zone between his vainglorious identity and the peasants that made up most of the population.
Knowing Tim was a sucker for logical deduction and facts, he would pursue that avenue to entice Tim to step into the realm of blurred ethical lines where right and wrong weren’t as apparent and defined, or didn’t even matter. Dale also knew that if he could convince Tim before he alighted at the subway’s terminus of his argument, Jeremy would assimilate to his ideology somewhere along the journey without any direct effort on his part.
The title of the café suggested its New Age influence, but he had no idea the place would be littered with spiritual knickknacks and completely brimming with wishy-washy clientele sporting tie-dye shirts and earthy-colored, grungy pants. Dale gritted his teeth and painfully examined the place, taking in all its awfulness. The atmosphere alone felt like it was soiling his impeccable suit.
Dale turned back to slander the bitter hippie who was wearing a tie-dye shirt with colorful text that read ACID BATH. "Looks like someone forgot to take their micro-dose of acid today, or maybe you mistakenly consumed too much gluten for breakfast. Or perhaps you’re resentful for having woken up today realizing the world revolves around money instead of love and sexually transmitted diseases.”
An eccentric expression crept onto the hippie’s face while he half-lifted his arms in surrender. “Hey man, crimson and clover, over and over.”
Dale hadn’t the slightest idea what the man was talking about, but he was pretty sure he wasn’t talking about colors and flowers. Or was clover a weed? Well, if he spotted these hippies in his backyard, he’d definitely remove them like weeds, even if their tie-dye shirts were colorful enough to deceitfully pass as flowers. Getting up close to them to smell their pungent odor, instead of a flower’s fragrance, would most surely be enough evidence to classify them as weeds. Stubborn weeds that attempted to buck the system by creeping up between logically placed cemented sidewalks that paved the way to buildings of high finance. He had crushed many of their kind under his polished shoes as he made his way toward the office. They were the dying remnants of a generation who thought pervasive love could spark a peaceful revolution. What they weren’t aware of was that love wasn’t more powerful than fucking. The honorable elite factions who hold the reins of an ordered society continually raped the hippie’s love movement until it was nothing more than acid flashbacks and bad hygiene, which conveyed the power of fucking over love.
Dale was tempted to rip the electronic pad from its stand and shove it up the barista’s ass while shouting, “Here’s your goddamn tip, you inflated asshat. You’re no different than a bum on the street holding out a cup.” Instead, he merely pressed the NO TIP box and collected the receipt that spat out of the machine. He knew that once the barista was privy to his selection she would hand him his drink with eyes drenched in disdain as if she just found out he was the Unabomber or something.
Dale noticed a good amount of café patrons venomously staring at him as he returned to his table after the verbal altercation. He could care less about other people’s judgments, and most of these people weren’t even people. They were sub-people with sub-par ideologies, and he was willing to bet half of them didn’t even think that spectacle at the counter was reality, being that they were currently frying, stoned, blazed, tripping, or in some other way mentally incapacitated. Cocaine was the only drug Dale honored because it allowed him to retain his focus, didn’t cloud the mind with distortions, was expensive, and went hand in hand with any successful Wall Street executive.
Basements had always intrigued Dale. He thought a man could be summed up by what was kept in his basement. He descended the stairs with a mischievous smile, imagining what he’d find. Maybe some dead bodies in a large freezer, or a neighbor decomposing in a bathtub full of lye. He gleefully rubbed his palms together in anticipation as he continued to step down the stairs.
The end justified the means, he told himself. The deceitful deeds left along the path leading to a clever man's wealth were like a trail of bread crumbs. The crumbs would be quickly consumed by naïve birds and vermin, leaving the trail spotless, akin to a man grabbing abandoned, dirty money left on the street.
He now realized why wolves ran in packs—to more easily round up the large population of sheep and devour them. He also acknowledged that he could only climb the corporate ladder so high and so fast by solely using schemes. Joining a fierce and powerful pack was also essential.
The more time he spent out of the office and in the public, the more he had to deal with asshats and dipshits. Dale wished the general public would take up hobbies that would benefit him, like walking off cliffs, pressing themselves into meat grinders, diving into wood chippers, or anything that kept them at home so he wouldn’t have to deal with them.
Even though Dale had surpassed his aspirations of success, he was never satisfied with his current level of wealth or power. He always figured the next victory would provide him with an overall sense of accomplishment where he could relax in complacency and soak up his attainment. But every triumph was shortly celebrated as the next pinnacle stared down at him from above. Like the loss of enthusiasm shortly after a product was purchased, he casted aside his sense of accomplishment and hungered for the next greater and better conquest. He knew he would be fulfilled when his true aspiration had been procured. It would come soon, he could feel it. It was just around the corner.
Dale had been warned by a colleague years back that his hunger would never cease no matter how much money he accumulated, power he gained, or lofty status he obtained. He was told that the greedy train ride he’d boarded would never reach a suitable destination he’d want to disembark at. The next stop would always be imagined as grander and better. This advice had come from a colleague who ended up getting let go because he couldn’t pull his weight in the numbers-accumulating game. This had proven to Dale that the colleague was a failure, and therefore his advice was bogus. It had simply been vocalized jealously. Dale knew his train ride would soon come to the destination he desired.
Dale eyeballed the greasy, robust man and lambasted him before exiting the taxi. “You’re a foul greaseball lodged firmly within a shit-box that possesses a palpable odor amalgamation of permanent stains and gutter sludge. Go grease your slimy trail to your next regret before I pour salt on you, asshat."
A psychological test had to be taken to ensure the applicant didn’t advocate the moral dispositions of the general populace. Any applicant who was shown to be too caring, emotionally triggered by certain phrases, or lacked conviction in gaining money or power was rejected with a false reason. The repeating short clip that made up the logo for the app was a suited man holding another man upside down while he shook all the coins loose from his pockets. After the coins stopped falling to the ground, the suited man brought the coinless man down on his knee, breaking his spine. The short clip summed up the Elite Shakers & Breakers members quite perfectly. Dale passed the tests and had become a member of the app a year ago.
Their family tree had been part of the extremely few who had held the reins of civilization for centuries. So naturally Dale was champing at the bit when Aryana had requested a meeting with him. It was his chance to work himself into the main vein of power where ultra-wealthy individuals resided, the ones who were conveniently omitted from the annual wealth rankings made public by magazine publications and online lists. When a family held a certain amount of wealth and power for a long enough period of time, they slipped behind the curtain and out of the public’s eye. While behind the curtain, they pulled the strings attached to leaders of governments, companies, and organizations.
Before Aryana took another bite of her blood-soaked steak, she again leaned forward and whispered to Dale, “Your initiation will be held in the secret underground chambers of this club.”
Dale’s eyes went wide again. “I didn’t know there were underground chambers under the Maldekmars Club.”
Aryana displayed a devilish smile. “Well of course you didn’t know about it. It wouldn’t be a secret if just anyone knew about it. And that’s nothing compared to what will be revealed to you once you’ve shown your dedication and worth.”
Dale smiled, and while lifting his snifter to take a sip of cognac, he said, “If the sky is the limit, count me in.”
He ran to his building to collect his Ferrari Roma, which he had to buy in Italy because it hadn’t been released in America yet. Ah, the pleasures that wealth and power provided.
He revved the engine and bolted out of the parking garage, nearly driving over a pedestrian within the garage’s concrete maze in the process. The Roma flew out of the garage and into the street. Dale avoided traffic areas shown on the Roma’s digital display and gunned the sleek automobile toward uptown, on route to the senior execute VP’s house, where the executive would’ve been lying like a large butchered piece of meat on the floor if the hired killer had done his job correctly.
Instead of stopping at a yellow light that was turning red, Dale laid a hand down on the horn and shot through the intersection. It was his way of letting everyone at the intersection know that he was above mere traffic rules, and the long honk he produced was an aggressive warning that stated: You’re in a world of hurt if you hit my luxury car while I’m ignoring this red light.
The longer Dale had lived in the upper echelon of society where a buffer separated his existence from the everyday man, the less he found himself caring about morals and ethics; not that he ever cared about them that much anyway, but now he was in a whole new ballpark. Those words—morals and ethics—didn’t exist in the high world of finance and business. Say either one of them to a one-percenter and they’d look at you like you just invented a word out of thin air and were dumber for having said it. Then you’d be blacklisted in their book.
Dale strolled over to the window, crossed his arms, and looked down at the specks of people going about their lives far below. “This view is my favorite thing about this condo. It reminds me how small and insignificant the general population is. I could drop a gold bar at this height and watch it flatten one of those bugs below. The surrounding bugs would strain their necks up into the sky and wonder what god decided to intervene in their little day. Once the surrounding bugs discovered it was gold that had fallen from the sky, they’d instantly forget about the dead bug and start fighting each other tooth and nail over who would possess the gold. Wouldn’t even matter if the bar was fake gold, it would happen all the same.