An allegory on our modern world. holding no punches. Celebrating the rich, the white, the beautiful. On my phone, where my writings begin, in a Google Docs file ambitiously named gold dust, which contains all my creative writing ideas; my initial note (to myself) upon the 'The White Man's Game ', usually a paragraph or two some times pages, the note was one sentence which read; 'a super rich man is winning the game of life.'
Here's the first page of the subsequent novella;
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I have spun another ten on the spinner of life and I am now worth another ten billion pounds. To celebrate I went straight from the meeting to Monaco and had my yacht motor into the middle of the Mediterranean Sea. A key lesson one must learn early, when winning at The White Man’s Game; one has to take the time away from game to savour one's victories. Very few people truly understand what it means to be as rich as I am, to be worth what I am worth.
The few people who do understand, are the other players and l have to be careful around them. They circle, of course, we all circle each other, keeping each other at just the right distance close enough to view yet close enough to strike when errors are made. Close enough to take a step back and parry when a player lunges. Rather than the image of vultures circling prey think of vultures circling vultures. At the heights that we soar the ground can barely be seen.
I make it sound like I am lonely, that I live in a violent world but that is far from the truth. Take for instance my evening. I spent the majority of my flight on a treadmill as my secretary fielded my calls, on short haul flights I considered this the best use of my time. As I ran I studied the markets and business news scrolling beneath the live feed from a camera I had had installed in the nose of my jet. Running over European clouds is quite disorientating to begin with but once one get used to it it is empowering to say the least .
Upon landing in Monaco a limousine carried me from the steps of my Jet to the canopied brow of my motor yacht. I showered in my rooms at the stern and changed into the black tie apparel my butler had arranged. I insist on formal wear for dining it is a tradition I enjoy to uphold, I find it punctuates the day.
By this time my yacht was clear of the coastal waters and my captain had pushed the engines to the maximum, the prow raised slightly as the yacht cut through the swell. I entered the lounge and signaled my barman for a gin and tonic. I greeted my guests and then stood for a while alone on the head sucking in the sea air. The bell was struck for dinner and I joined my guests again and took my seat at the head of the dining room table. My chef had prepared five wonderful courses and the wine the sommelier matched was perfect.
My guests amused me with their conversation; the politics of one country or another, the ethics of mass food production, the scarcity of oil, the scarcity of a decent golf courses within spitting distance of Chelsea. As I recall one squiffy British politician suggesting that Kew gardens would be the ideal space for such a fairway. I cringed. I am no politician, public anonymity being one of the golden rules my father told me to guarantee success at the game, but I could see that this man was a fool. I mentally noted to dock his party ten percent of my substantial donation and spread the difference between all the other parties’ substantial donation. Another one of my father’s rules being; it doesn’t matter which party is in charge it is still useful to have the Government indebted to you....