“It’s a good day to be rich,” the man thought to himself as he looked over the balcony of his company headquarters, basking in the bright neon lights of Las Vegas. Every day, thousands of people flocked to the promise of wealth, and every day thousands went home penniless, their dreams broken and their hopes crushed.
This particular man’s name was Philip King, and at that precise moment he was worth just over 37 billion dollars. Of course, it wasn’t enough. It never was. In a world where those with the most wealth quite literally made the rules, there was no room for slackers.
That was precisely the reason Philip was standing here on the roof of his 117 floor building, looking down on his minions. Next to him was a young employee, tied and gagged. He had a name, but Philip hadn’t bothered to learn it; it was unimportant. What was important was that the boy had been given a simple job, and he had failed at it. Whether this was due to inexperience or simple laziness meant nothing to Philip. Back when he was a youth, King had developed a nasty gambling habit from those damned casinos, which seemed to exist purely for the destruction of the American Dream. From those trying years of his childhood a simple philosophy developed: nip insubordination in the bud.
And so it was with the greatest pleasure and no regret that Philip flung the boy off the roof, and watched with a sense of mounting satisfaction as his body flailed uselessly in the air for a few fleeting seconds before hitting the tarmac with a dull thud. He took a moment to watch the reactions of the bystanders below with a childlike sense of glee before returning to his work persona. His secretary picked up the phone instantly; he had trained her well.
“The new kid from floor 43 is dead. Don’t bother to inform the employees, they would’ve seen it out the window.”
“Sss-hould I fill out the Murder form for you sir?” the secretary timidly enquired.
Philip noted the hesitation in her voice, and made a mental decision to fire her later in the week. He briefly entertained the thought of throwing her off the roof as well, but he had found that doing that too often led to a drop in employee morale and, more importantly, profits.
“Sir?” His secretary’s shaky voice made him lose his train of thought.
“Of course, get right on it.” His response came through gritted teeth. If there was one thing the eccentric billionaire hated, it was being distracted. He could have the mother of two privately shot, that wouldn’t have too much of a lasting effect on morale. It was a shame though; shooting was never as fun. It was too quick, too painless.
Alone in the lift, Philip headed down to his office on the 68th floor. As he did every time he had a moment to spare, he glanced down at his golden wristband to check that the total value of his assets was still fluctuating around 37 billion. It came as no surprise that the number had not veered far from the last time he had checked, 6 minutes earlier.
Wearing the wristbands was mandatory, and that was one of the few laws Philip found himself unable to circumvent. The rules of this world were simple; you owned anyone with a lower number than you. You could beat them, kidnap them or kill them and nobody would bat an eyelid (assuming you filled out all the correct paperwork afterwards). It was this opportunity for sadism that had inspired Philip to kick his bad habits and rise to the position he was today.
His pleasant reminiscence was suddenly interrupted by a high-pitched continuous siren emitting from his wrist. Philip’s blood ran cold, and it was several moments before he could bring himself to look down.
$74,292
It wasn’t possible. His stocks had plummeted. Even his desk jockeys had more than him now, and judging by the bloodthirsty screams he heard in the distance, they were well aware.
It took less than a minute for a sales manager to find Philip, trembling, his knees hugged to his chest, in the corner of the elevator. For an hour, his underlings fought for the chance to take out years of frustrations on their despised boss, and after an hour of utter pain and humiliation, his secretary had the honour of hurling Philip’s bloodied body from the roof.
When these same employees showed up to Philip King’s funeral a week later, they did not mourn him. They mourned the loss of their pay cheques.
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