He wanted it all Two gods, his Belly and Mind Hunger ate his soul

The clock will turn, But time will stop. The people will burn, Even after we are on top.

On top of the world. On top of it all. With the stones unfurled, We will fall.

It will never end, This fight for importance. The belief that money will mend Our problems without hesitance.

We will go as far, As to put our hearts on the line, Our souls for a wishing star, Just to claim it mine.

We will continue even once everything is sold, To quench our thirst for power. It all started when we were wee bit old. But, the clock still ticks even louder.

When will we realize this is all for the naught? For there is no where to go once we reach the sky. In this war already fought. But, despite it all, we will try.

To go higher and higher, We will stand in the bodies of our own. To just become mightier But, our fate is already set in stone.

A sound will be heard, A metronome in the wild. In the midst of the apocalypse yearned, The clock still ticks, not affected in the mild.

The hand still turns, But not for much longer. We will never learn. We are goners.

Truth is, the clock is a bomb, ticking away. And all we can do is corrupt and cower. Because soon time will have run out, one day. But, the clock still ticks for another hour.

There’s nothing like doing a deal that lands you a few hundred thousand in one go. So I hear.

After starting out with less than nothing Steven had managed to work his way up from the lead generator in his office to becoming the main guy. The closer of closers.

He wasn’t selling anything extraordinary, it was life insurance. But after 18 months Steven consistently earned 30 thousand a month and was doing very nicely for himself.

You’d think that would be enough for anyone.

But Steven was as ambitious as they come, and he was always looking out for an opportunity.

One night at a bar after another stellar month he was spending out the bar, paying for everyone’s drinks as he’d just had his first 50k month and won the team a ski trip to the Swiss alps in January.

While the drinks were flowing he’d gotten talking to some guys who were in the bar’s VIP section and spent even more wildly than him.

They too were sales guys, also doing very well judging by the gold Rolexes and two diamond studded Patek Phillipe watches sparkling beneath the booth lights.

These guys looked slick as hell, and they had an edge. These were not insurance salesmen that’s for sure.

Once they got to talking it turns out that they were London bullion dealers. But they didn’t just sell physical gold. In London something called rehypothecation was legal, meaning you could sell the same asset more than once. So that the asset would back some paper contract that you sold onwards, like a big game of financial musical chairs.

Steven had proudly told them how he was doing in the insurance game, only to be met with mocking sniggers.

‘’You can do better than that mate’’ bellowed the giant, burly blond man with his slick hair and diamond encrusted watch.

‘’I done 480 thousand last month and went and bought a McLaren 720S on my debit card’’ they all laughed in victorious, gloating agreement.

‘’Fuck me, that’s not bad’’ Steve said.

The burly blond man, who seemed to be the leader of this boisterous pack said that if Steve could do 50 thousand a month in insurance then the sky would be the limit doing the gold thing. He’d get his own team and sales floor in no time.

————————————————

Six months later and the bar conversation had turned into a job, which had gone well very quickly and turned into the sales floor so presciently predicted by the burly blond man.

There were a few red flags along the way of course. There were no repeat customers and some of the lunch and dinners featured characters who could have been straight out of a gangster movie. Always burly, serious men with nice watches and half whispered sentences.

Within a year Steven was making between 300 and 800 thousand per month. But he knew very well who the men behind the businesses were.

His financial needs were more than satiated, and he wanted to slow down, or quit. However this wasn’t the type of thing you could just quit when you’re making, or should I say cleaning the amount of money Steven was for these faceless, mysterious people.

——————————————

Steve decided it was time to unofficially wind down the business, and by July he was back to making the amount of money he’d made in insurance.

This had of course meant throwing away a number of easy deals.

On the first Tuesday in August as the sales floor hummed with activity Steve was looking down from his tenth floor window onto the road.

A Rolls Royce pulled up and three very big men got out. The man who got out of the back opened the opposite side door to his and a smaller man emerged.

Something about this little scene alarmed Steve. Even more so when the small man gave a nod to the security, parking his car right outside the building in a loading bay.

He then looked up, as if looking Steven directly in the eye and entering the building with his three goons in tow.

The buzzer buzzed and the receptionist said that Charles Smith, or Charlie Jr as he was known was here.

‘’Fuck!’’

A personal visit from the heir to one of the country’s most notorious criminal families, and the invisible men behind the gold scam.

Charlie walked straight into the office and punched Steven in the face, right in front of the traders and admin girls on his floor.

Never a good thing for 50+ employees to see their boss get punched in the face but of course there was absolutely nothing he could do. This man and his family practically owned the police force if you ever thought of reporting him for a crime. You’d also get a visit from some very big, very unsentimental men in leather gloves.

Steven took Charlie into an office and his assistant Angela came in to take any drinks orders.

‘’What’s been going on these last few months buddy?’’ Charlie asked, flanked by his three huge bodyguards.

‘’Charlie, I....’’

Charlie shouted over Steve, stopping him.

‘’You what!? You fucking what? Decided to stop doing your job after a few good months. Decided that because you’d made a bit of money that was it? That’s not it until we say that’s it. If you are a good earner and you are earning, you keep earning my friend!’’

Steve’s phone rang, it was his girlfriend Heather. He looked at the screen intending to ignore the call.

‘’Pick it up’’ Charlie ordered.

Heather was crying hysterically and the baby was also crying in the background.

‘’Steven what’s going on?’’ she sobbed sounding terrified. ‘’Why are there men at the house making threats’’

Steve looked at Charlie ‘Fuck!’

‘Fuck indeed.’

Each day each part of his suit emerged from the plastic coverings on the hangers like a cicada rising up for its brief time in the sun. He rubbed his hands along each sleeve making sure it was smooth and wrinkle free. Then that last button at the top of the shirt pulled tight together and sealed with the exact matching color of one of his silk ties. In the bathroom he carefully placed a towel on his shoulder so that he could dab his face with anti-aging cream, not to make him look younger but to hide any lines of emotions in his negotiations for the day. Then in a swoop and swing of his hair goop, he sealed his hair on his head like a helmet. He was ready for battle, a warrior of wealth he liked to call himself proudly to his colleagues. As he walked out the door he grabbed one of the five leather briefcases that he used to match his suit and shoes and then he checked his ebony Porsche for any scratches or hint of dust. Something caught his eye and after licking the tip of his pinkie he removed the tiny spot on the windshield and slid into the driver’s seat. Off he went in a blast of speed, his designer sunglasses protecting him from the rising light. Traffic was bad that day, a frozen metal river in the valleys of the skyscrapers, but he had enough time to go over the deal in his head. He was a genius of turning nothing into value. Those miserable defaulters had to be turned into money somehow, it was just a matter of creative number crunching, arranging and rearranging, selling and buying and selling it again, just passing it on. At first a game, then colleagues started to bet on how far they could go, and he went further than any of them. His deals, his money was reaching for the moon. His heart fluttered at that thought: Money Moon, he liked it! And he was going to get there no matter what. Some said they could even smell the money on him like some kind of noisome cologne. He smiled, it sounded great, though he had to admit he didn’t know what ‘noisome’ meant, it wasn’t a word from his degrees in finance. As he approached the steel and glass behemoth which held his office, he could see a police line holding back a band of protestors around the building. A sigh slipped from his lips, how many times would he have to drive around the block before the underground garage entrance had been cleared. But then his clever eye caught the most rarest of gems in the city, and empty parking spot. He swooped in before the lady with the three kids in her car could take it. Sure, he’d have to send out one of the apprentices to swipe his credit card every thirty minutes to feed the meter, yet he felt clever for maneuvering into that spot. The seventy-five dollars for the day was nothing to him. Nothing at all, feeling we’re for the weak. After getting out of his car, he placed the bumper-bumpers on each end of the car, rubber accoutrements to prevent any dents. He just hoped the sides of his car remained untouched and if they did he had left the side mini-cameras running to collect evidence of anyone who might try. As he walked towards the office, he caught glimpses of those protesting and thought what losers they were who didn’t know how to manage their money just right, or couldn’t hold their jobs, those unsuccessful ones. He looked up and away from that dirty lot until a sign was pushed so close to his face that he couldn’t read what it said, but he heard a small voice from the loser at the end of the sign, “Derek, is that you?” He looked down and all he could say was, “Mom?”

Midas was taught values, Patience and hard work, Midas was tempted with more than he could spend.

Midas always told himself, That he would hold on to his morals, Midas threw that out the door for base pleasures.

Midas always told himself, That he would reach his goal, Midas sold his soul for the pleasures of the world.

I drummed my fingers against the desk. He was late. And that was making me increasingly nervous. Had I not been a warm, welcoming hostess? Had I not treated him with every kindness? Had I not done enough to earn his favor? There was a knock at the door and I hastily rose to my feet, smoothing my dress as I tried to repress my anger toward his lateness. With a sigh, I finished composing myself, and threw open the doors. “Ah, my lord,” I said, as pleasantly as I could manage. “Forgive my tardiness,” he bowed as he entered the house. “Well,” I smiled to myself as I shut the door. “How can I not, my lord? I’ve already prepared tea!” I gestured toward the parlor. “Please,” he removed his hat. “It’s Marcus.” “Marcus,” I tried it out as I turned to the parlor. “Join me.” He accepted, coming to sit beside me, him on the settee, me on my chair. I served him as he explained himself: “I would have been here earlier but, I’m afraid I slept in. It was an excellent party, my lady. I haven’t had such fun in so long. And I have never been so exhausted!” I laughed behind my teacup. “Well, I am pleased to hear it, my lord- Marcus.” He smiled. “And then, well, I spent the morning writing to my daughter.” I nearly choked on my tea. “Your- daughter?” “Yes, my Ella,” he smiled, almost dreamily. “I hate to leave her. But she accepts my absence, so long as I write.” I fell silent. My hopes were crushed instantly. When we were introduced, my associates called him a “very wealthy, very eligible bachelor,” not a loving father. All my attempts to impress him, to succeed in making his wealth my own, were snuffed out instantly. I managed to recover: “And your wife?” He then became quiet: “My wife. She... was lost to us. Three years ago.” Hope sparked in my chest as I sat my teacup on the table. “Oh, do forgive me. I didn’t realize-“ “No harm done,” he assured me. “What about your family?” I paused. How should I play this? If I continued to show off my social prowess and skill as a hostess, I might impress him. But if I compared our situations as single parents, I might earn his sympathy. I chose the latter: “I lost my husband almost ten years ago. My daughters and I have been living off what was left of his savings.” I turned away from him with a sigh. It was the first time I had admitted my hardships to anyone. It was a lot more strenuous than I had imagined. He looked at my hand, considering grabbing it. I hoped he would. But, perhaps I performed my “proper lady” act too well. “Ella and I live comfortably,” he finally said. “If you ever need help...-“ “Oh, I couldn’t,” I held a hand over my chest. “You are too kind, Marcus.” He smiled a little. “If I learned nothing else from my wife-“ I swallowed. I had heard enough about his dead wife. “I’m hosting another dinner party this weekend. Perhaps dear Ella would like to join us?” His face brightened. “I would so enjoy that. But I could never allow her to make that journey.” He got comfortable in his seat. “Perhaps when she is older. How old did you say your daughters are?” “They are twins,” I explained. “Both thirteen.” He beamed. “How wonderful! As is my Ella!” “Really?” I feigned excitement. “Well, we must introduce them!” Honestly, what had I gotten myself into? I didn’t want someone else’s child! I wanted to save myself from financial ruin! To be married and rich and aristocratic again. Instead, I was walking myself into a job as a nanny. “Wonderful,” he said, standing. “But, I’m afraid I must bid you adieu. I have a ship to catch come midday.” “Oh?” I followed him to the door. He turned back to me, taking his hat in one hand and my hand in the other: “Don’t worry,” he kissed the back of my palm. “I will return in time for your party.” As he left and I stood in the doorway watching, I realized I had gone too far to quit now - he had awakened a feeling within me the that I believed died with my Francis ten years ago. There was no question: I would marry Lord Tremaine within the year.

He looked at the number with many 0s trailing behind it. He had successfully harnessed a relatively low-risk investment strategy and it had earned him millions. He considered his position. He could stop there and live a happy and steady life. Is it not the goal of so many people on Earth to just have what they need and that would make them happy? He can take that step off the ladder and he would be in a position that he had long dreamed and strived for.

A notification pops up. It’s his colleague. She’s congratulating him on the his win and she wants to celebrate with him. He has a wife and two kids. Yet, he has been keeping an eye on this particular colleague with vague and perhaps adulterous ambition. He shook his head. No, he was happy with his life and with his wife. There’s no need to tread in dangerous waters. He minimised the notification to ensured it remained “unread” even though he had actually read it.

That number was still on his screen and he pondered. What if. What if I can make these millions into even more. What if, I just tried some medium-risk investments, or even a few high-risk and he could be so much more better off. He reopened the messaging app and reread the “Let’s celebrate!” message from his colleague. She had dealt with the higher-risk investments before... perhaps she could help. He opened it and began typing:

“Hey, thank you. Sounds good. Looking for my next adventure. Perhaps you’ll be interested?”

There are some who see greed as a good thing. It invokes creativity and innovation to monetise gaps in the market. Whereas equally, there’s always a balance and unfortunately for this man. He landed on the scale and shook the balance.

After some persuasion by his colleague, as well as some extracurricular activity, he had put his eggs into a wrong basket. He lost his money and consequently, his job. And though he could not see it. He would lose his wife and the right to see his kids. Just because his goals stretched further when he had reached his first. Falling victim to what most would deem as greed. He had gained nothing and yet lost everything.

“Are— Are you sure about this?”

Reese shifted to scan Emery’s face for any traces of doubt, finding only a stern, cold expression in response. Sweat dripped from Reese’s furrowed brow as the heat of the makeshift torch wafted and waned between them with each movement. The shadows cast on the walls of the manor seemed to want to reach for them, but somehow lacked the ability. Reese peered around sheepishly, before letting out an audible gulp, when Emery’s grip on the torch tightened.

Several painstaking moments passed, with darting glances and flickering heat offering the only indication of life. Deafening silence filled the spaces in the hallway. Then, as if on cue, Reese sighed. And pulling in another breath, the two of them fixed their gazes back on the mahogany door. Emery’s stare burned with wild determination as the pair simultaneously reached for the gilded knob, adorning the heavy wooden fixture.

With one last look exchanged and a final, culminating tug, everything they searched for, would be revealed. The years of work, the sacrifices, and tireless moments would all be worth it.

As the door creaked open, the terrific sight that befell the two friends, brought them to their knees in sheer panic.

Two desiccated corpses, slumped on the marble floor, propped up against the legs of a matching table. The bodies were surrounded by piles and open trunks full of rare gems and artifacts cast from precious metals, scattered throughout the large room.

However, the duo couldn’t be bothered with their spoils for more than a second, before the realization crept up their spines, spreading like a rash.

The clothing on the cadavers matched their own, except it appeared more worn and tattered, with holes chewed and cob webs strung about. And as the damp scent of decay began to leak into the hallway, those shadows on the wall suddenly reached forward.

The torch fire went out and a pair of horrified cries were the last things to escape the castle.

The two men shake hands and share a smile with each other. The one holding papers and a briefcase in one hand walks away whilst the other looks up at the new town house they just bought. A beautiful building made with red brick. Stunning glass windows and a chimney that connects to the warming fire inside the house. This was the ninth building he had bought with his grandfather's money. There was never anything wrong with the previous houses, but he needed more. He needed to be able to say that he owned that many houses. That they all belonged to him.

The first steps into the newly bought house was like a hypnotising symphony to his ears and yet, there was still a nagging at the back of his head. ‘Nine is hardly enough.’ the voice taunts ‘why settle for nine when you could own millions?’ he sure did hate his inner voice at times.

The door clicks open and suddenly blaring music is heard. He walks to where the music is coming from. Outside is his lovely new freshly cut green grassed garden, but the sound of some swearing rap song destroys the pleasant nature outside. His next door neighbours were having a bbq party. Groups and groups of people hanging around together, laughing and joking. Listening to loud music and drinking the evening away. And worst of all, they were all young. Younger than him.

He felt his lips turn down. ‘Should’ve picked the house on the other side of town.’ his inner voice chuckles at him.

“Oh, honestly, Suzanne. It isn’t as if I hadn’t kept it a secret that I was looking to move up in the company. I was pretty honest with you from the start.”

Suzanne stood there speechless. Melinda took off her glasses and laid them on the desk; the desk that up until twenty minutes ago had been Suzanne’s desk.

“Melinda, you played me.”

“Oh come off it, Suzanne. We’ve known each other for long enough for you to understand that I get what I want whatever it takes. Did you really believe I wouldn’t fight for this position just because we were sometime friends? How naive.”

“So that’s it, then? Suck it up, buttercup? You nasty, vile piece of humanity. I GOT you this job when you came crying to me when the logistics company fired you. I vouched for you. I have let you bunk at my apartment for months and now you have appropriated my ideas, slept with my boss, and have my job.”

Melinda sneered. “Are you done whining? Because I have work to do.”

“No, Melinda, actually I have one more thing. You might want to sign on to the project site. I left you my own little gift. Just a small thing to celebrate your new position. Oh! And the locksmith is changing the locks at the apartment right now. Your stuff will be on the street. You can ignore the “FREE STUFF” sign. There probably won’t be much left by the time you get there.”

“You wouldn’t dare!”

“Oh, but I would.” With that, Suzanne turned on her heel and left Melinda sputtering after her. Suzanne was waiting for the elevator when she heard Melinda scream.

“That bitch! She erased the whole damn project!”

Suzanne smiled at the man standing next to her who was staring wide-eyed down the hallway toward Melinda’s office.

“Karma’s a real bitch, isn’t it?” she said, stepping into the elevator and pushing the button for the Lobby. “Just a real bitch.”