Capitalism (laissez_faire) wrote in forgotten_gods, @ 2010-02-01 04:24:00 |
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Entry tags: | capitalism |
The expression you desire - dye it crimson.
Who: Capitalism (laissez_faire) [Narrative]
What: Disjointed clippings from Capitalism's mind.
Where: -
When: -
Warnings: None.
It is September 15, 2008. His name is Shane Vernand. As sure as the Sun rises, he wakes up at six thirty in the morning - not a second before, not a second after. The television is on after he steps out of the shower and puts on clothes which are all the same and yet never the same.
He knows today is the day, before he is even told. Preparations had been made months in advance, so when he arrives at work and sees that Lehman Brothers has officially declared bankruptcy, the meeting he calls is only part of the formalities he is unable to dispense with.
It is May 17, 1851. His name is Kevin Gallagher. It has been 59 years to this day; 6 hours, 42 minutes and 37 seconds since the establishment of the New York Stock Exchange. The snow pours ceaselessly from the sky. It burns his skin and tastes like ashes.
He finds the child he has been looking for, purely by chance. 59 years of effort, worthless like the piles of trash the boy was squatting next to.
Love. Perhaps.
It is during what is called the 'Industrial Revolution'. He does not know the date. He gains consciousness. It feels like he is waking up for the first time. His heart beats and his skin is cold. Electrical signals fire in his brain; one million, two hundred and fifty-six thousand, nine hundred and forty-two go off at the same time. The floor is colder than his skin. He moves.
Inquiring minds wanted to know. He calls himself Joseph Midas. There is no beauty in this filth. The world is a landfill. Everything decays. Everyone dies.
Ugly. Certainly.
It is October 29, 1929. His name is still Stephen Avis. He had built a construction company from scratch after World War I, and his buildings were everywhere. He used to own everything worth owning in this city, and Capitalism knew no bounds. Before the Depression catches up to him, he sells everything. Now he owns nothing. He is the richest man in the entire country.
He had seen this coming. He knew it was coming. Still, his brows furrowed as he crouched down, and cradled Wall Street's heavy head in his arms. It will not be for another ten years that he sees the vulpine smile again.
Sleep. No.
It is April 6, 1919. His name is Stephen Avis. The war is over. The streets are silent.
He decides to start a construction company from scratch. He will name it after himself. In ten years' time there will be a hundred buildings and construction sites to his name, and he will own more than half this city. No one will know his name. No one will know his face. This is the true meaning of wealth and power.
Megalomania. Yes.
It is February 1, 2010. His name is still Shane Vernand. As he looks out of the oval window next to his Business Class seat, he ponders on his existence; of 06:30:00 mornings and morbidly obese, greedy humans, filled to the brim with sin, grease oozing out from grubby hands.
Is there anything more to this life?
All he has to do is snap his fingers. He can make the world disappear.
His blackberry vibrates against his thigh. When he answers the call, the playful voice on the other end says hello and tells him his old dinner appointment with a client was cancelled. Now he has a new one.
Smile. Filth in the beauty.