#business oligarchs

[lovingbeta]

Socialism is bad as long as it’s for working people. When it’s for the rich, it’s capitalism.

[thelasthippie]

I have tried to explain that the majority of people are good, that in all countries the majority of people are victims of a few and that if we hate each other being divided they will continue massacring countries until the world turns to ashes...

And they have called me a propagandist

Is this our fate ? To be ashes ? Or are we enough people united for stop this madness ? I'm rly affraid of the future ☮️😞

Soldiers have the key. If tomorrow all of them say NO, power people wouldnt have any power and all the pain would stop...

Is sad. So sad

[isawthismeme]

[bennett-media-is]

My favorite GUNDAM series!

[wilwheaton]

Trump donning an apron in a closed-to-the-public McDonald’s and handing out fries is cosplay. In no way does he gain any further true understanding of what real fast food workers’ lives are like. Taking off the apron ends Trump’s cosplay; in reality, taking off the apron doesn’t end challenges for minimum-wage workers. They don’t shed rent, health care, and transportation costs they can’t afford on part-time minimum wages. They don’t lose the challenges of scheduling child and elder care, education, household needs when they walk out the restaurant’s door. Trump donning a suit and tie, then touting economic policy he doesn’t fully understand is both cosplay and kayfabe. Like a wrestler we never see without their trademark hair cut and attire, we don’t see Trump outside his blue suit and red tie or his white polo shirt and khaki golf pants. These are the element of both his cosplay as business person and president and golfer. They are signs of his engagement in kayfabe – when he’s wearing them, he’s on. But you never see him outside these costumes, you might note. That’s because there’s nothing there behind the suit and tie, behind the de rigueur golf apparel, and now behind the fast food apron. Trump is an empty husk of a man. His narcissism underlies his fear others will discover this, that he is nothing but a propped-up costume used like a puppet by his sponsors whether Putin or billionaire oligarchic fascists. He’s compelled to cosplay because he dare not do otherwise. Whatever costume he was wearing would crumple to the floor as he decompensated.

Donald J. Trump, Cosplayer - emptywheel

[mostlysignssomeportents]

NLRB rules that any union busting triggers automatic union recognition

Tonight (September 6) at 7pm, I'll be hosting Naomi Klein at the LA Public Library for the launch of Doppelganger.

On September 12 at 7pm, I'll be at Toronto's Another Story Bookshop with my new book The Internet Con: How to Seize the Means of Computation.

American support for unions is at its highest level in generations, from 70% (general population) to 88% (Millenials) – and yet, American unionization rates are pathetic.

That's about to change.

The National Labor Relations Board just handed down a landmark ruling – the Cemex case – that "brought worker rights back from the dead."

https://prospect.org/labor/2023-08-28-bidens-nlrb-brings-workers-rights-back/

At issue in Cemex was what the NLRB should do about employers that violate labor law during union drives. For decades, even the most flagrantly illegal union-busting was met with a wrist-slap. For example, if a boss threatened or fired an employee for participating in a union drive, the NLRB would typically issue a small fine and order the employer to re-hire the worker and provide back-pay.

Everyone knows that "a fine is a price." The NLRB's toothless response to cheating presented an easily solved equation for corrupt, union-hating bosses: if the fine amounts to less than the total, lifetime costs of paying a fair wage and offering fair labor conditions, you should cheat – hell, it's practically a fiduciary duty:

https://www.jstor.org/stable/10.1086/468061

Enter the Cemex ruling: once a majority of workers have signed a union card, any Unfair Labor Practice by their employer triggers immediate, automatic recognition of the union. In other words, the NLRB has fitted a tilt sensor in the American labor pinball machine, and if the boss tries to cheat, they automatically lose.

Cemex is a complete 180, a radical transformation of the American labor regulator from a figleaf that legitimized union busting to an actual enforcer, upholding the law that Congress passed, rather than the law that America's oligarchs wish Congress had passed. It represents a turning point in the system of lawless impunity for American plutocracy.

In the words of Frank Wilhoit, it is is a repudiation of the conservative dogma: "There must be in-groups whom the law protects but does not bind, alongside out-groups whom the law binds but does not protect":

https://crookedtimber.org/2018/03/21/liberals-against-progressives/#comment-729288

It's also a stunning example of what regulatory competence looks like. The Biden administration is a decidedly mixed bag. On the one hand there are empty suits masquerading as technocrats, champions of the party's centrist wing (slogan: "Everything is fine and change is impossible"):

https://pluralistic.net/2023/01/10/the-courage-to-govern/#whos-in-charge

But the progressive, Sanders/Warren wing of the party installed some fantastically competent, hard-charging, principled fighters, who are chapter-and-verse on their regulatory authority and have the courage to use that authority:

https://pluralistic.net/2022/10/18/administrative-competence/#i-know-stuff

They embody the old joke about the photocopier technician who charges "$1 to kick the photocopier and $79 to know where to kick it." The best Biden appointees have their boots firmly laced, and they're kicking that mother:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/08/16/the-second-best-time-is-now/#the-point-of-a-system-is-what-it-does

One such expert kicker is NLRB General Counsel Jennifer Abruzzo. Abruzzo has taken a series of muscular, bold moves to protect American workers, turning the tide in the class war that the 1% has waged on workers since the Reagan administration. For example, Abruzzo is working to turn worker misclassification – the fiction that an employee is a small business contracting with their boss, a staple of the "gig economy" – into an Unfair Labor Practice:

https://pluralistic.net/2022/01/10/see-you-in-the-funny-papers/bidens-legacy

She's also waging war on robo-scab companies: app-based employment "platforms" like Instawork that are used to recruit workers to cross picket lines, under threat of being blocked from the app and blackballed by hundreds of local employers:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/07/30/computer-says-scab/#instawork

With Cemex, Abruzzo is restoring a century-old labor principle that has been gathering dust for generations: the idea that workers have the right to organize workplace gemocracies without fear of retaliation, harassment, or reprisals.

But as Harold Meyerson writes for The American Prospect, the Cemex ruling has its limits. Even if the NLRB forces and employer to recognize a union, they can't force the employer to bargain in good faith for a union contract. The National Labor Relations Act prohibits the Board from imposing a contract.

That's created a loophole that corrupt bosses have driven entire fleets of trucks through. Workers who attain union recognition face years-long struggles to win a contract, as their bosses walk away from negotiations or offer farcical "bargaining positions" in the expectation that they'll be rejected, prolonging the delay.

Democrats have been trying to fix this loophole since the LBJ years, but they've been repeatedly blocked in the senate. But Abruzzo is a consummate photocopier kicker, and she's taking aim. In Thrive Pet Healthcare, Abruzzo has argued that failing to bargain in good faith for a contract is itself an Unfair Labor Practice. That means the NLRB has the authority to act to correct it – they can't order a contract, but they can order the employer to give workers "wages, benefits, hours, and such that are comparable to those provided by comparable unionized companies in their field."

Mitch McConnell is a piece of shit, but he's no slouch at kicking photocopiers himself. For a whole year, McConnell has blocked senate confirmation hearings to fill a vacant seat on the NLRB. In the short term, this meant that the three Dems on the board were able to hand down these bold rulings without worrying about their GOP colleagues.

But McConnell was playing a long game. Board member Gwynne Wilcox's term is about to expire. If her seat remains vacant, the three remaining board members won't be able to form a quorum, and the NLRB won't be able to do anything.

As Meyerson writes, centrist Dems have refused to push McConnell on this, hoping for comity and not wanting to violate decorum. But Chuck Schumer has finally bestirred himself to fight this issue, and Alaska GOP senator Lisa Murkowski has already broken with her party to move Wilcox's confirmation to a floor vote.

The work of enforcers like DoJ Antitrust Division boss Jonathan Kanter, FTC chair Lina Khan, and SEC chair Gary Gensler is at the heart of Bidenomics: the muscular, fearless deployment of existing regulatory authority to make life better for everyday Americans.

But of course, "existing regulatory authority" isn't the last word. The judges filling stolen seats on the illegitimate Supreme Court had invented the "major questions doctrine" and have used it as a club to attack Biden's photocopier-kickers. There's real danger that Cemex – and other key actions – will get fast-tracked to SCOTUS so the dotards in robes can shatter our dreams for a better America.

Meyerson is cautiously optimistic here. At 40% (!), the Court's approval rating is at a low not seen since the New Deal showdowns. The Supremes don't have an army, they don't have cops, they just have legitimacy. If Americans refuse to acknowledge their decisions, all they can do it sit and stew:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/05/26/mint-the-coin-etc-etc/#blitz-em

The Court knows this. That's why they fume so publicly about attacks on their legitimacy. Without legitimacy, they're nothing. With the Supremes' support at 40% and union support at 70%, any judicial attack on Cemex could trigger term-limits, court-packing, and other doomsday scenarios that will haunt the relatively young judges for decades, as the seats they stole dwindle into irrelevance. Meyerson predicts that this will weigh on them, and may stay their hands.

Meyerson might be wrong, of course. No one ever lost money betting on the self-destructive hubris of Federalist Society judges. But even if he's wrong, his point is important. If the Supremes frustrate the democratic will of the American people, we have to smash the Supremes. Term limits, court-packing, whatever it takes:

https://pluralistic.net/2020/09/20/judicial-equilibria/#pack-the-court

And the more we talk about this – the more we make this consequence explicit – the more it will weigh on them, and the better the chance that they'll surprise us. That's already happening! The Supremes just crushed the Sackler opioid crime-family's dream of keeping their billions in blood-money:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/08/11/justice-delayed/#justice-redeemed

But if it doesn't stop them? If they crush this dream, too? Pack the court. Impose term limits. Make it the issue. Don't apologize, don't shrug it off, don't succumb to learned helplessness. Make it our demand. Make it a litmus test: "If elected, will you vote to pack the court and clear the way for democratic legitimacy?"

Meanwhile, Cemex is already bearing fruit. After an NYC Trader Joe's violated the law to keep Trader Joe's United from organizing a store, the workers there have petitioned to have their union automatically recognized under the Cemex rule:

https://truthout.org/articles/trader-joes-union-files-to-force-company-to-recognize-union-under-new-nlrb-rule/

With the NLRB clearing the regulatory obstacles to union recognition, America's largest unions are awakening from their own long slumbers. For decades, unions have spent a desultory 3% of their budgets on organizing workers into new locals. But a leadership upset in the AFL-CIO has unions ready to catch a wave with the young workers and their 88% approval rating, with a massive planned organizing drive:

https://prospect.org/labor/labors-john-l-lewis-moment/

Meyerson calls on other large unions to follow suit, and the unions seem ready to do so, with new leaders and new militancy at the Teamsters and UAW, and with SEIU members at unionized Starbucks waiting for their first contracts.

Turning union-supporting workers into unionized workers is key to fighting Supreme Court sabotage. Organized labor will give fighters like Abruzzo the political cover she needs to Get Shit Done. A better America is possible. It's within our grasp. Though there is a long way to go, we are winning crucial victories all the time.

The centrist message that everything is fine and change is impossible is designed to demoralize you, to win the fight in your mind so they don't have to win it in the streets and in the jobsite. We don't have to give them that victory. It's ours for the taking.

If you'd like an essay-formatted version of this post to read or share, here's a link to it on pluralistic.net, my surveillance-free, ad-free, tracker-free blog:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/09/06/goons-ginks-and-company-finks

[jeanjauthor]

They are going to try to push increasingly conservative ideology onto everyone through entertainment media. Stories in movies & shows are going to promote the "real man" and "submissive good woman" tropes.

Push back.

Refuse to see such things.

Post bad reviews fo such things.

Refuse to give advertisers revenue for pairing with all that.

We still control one thing in this world:

WE do all the work, so WE generate all the money.

Take control of what is getting watched. Take control of what is getting funded by us watching it. Absolutely tank the ratings on things that promote authoritarianism, neoconservatism, and obedience to the oppressors.

Understand that we can still control the narratives. Not just as producers, but as consumers.

Even if you only have a little bit of money, what you do with it matters to the oligarchs. The entertainment industry is pretty powerful, and they--above all other businesses--know to the bone that they have to please us, their customers.

Trash any and all media efforts to paint neoconservative authoritarianism and toxic patriarchy as "desirable."

[metamatar]

https://www.washingtonpost.com/business/interactive/2024/us-sanction-countries-work/?itid=ap_jeffstein

NEW: THE STAGGERING RISE OF AMERICA'S GLOBAL ECONOMIC WARFARE (summary by author Jeff Stein from twitter)

1. ~1/3 of all nations on Earth now face some form of US sanctions. Huge increase from when mostly applied to Cuba & a handful of regimes

2. +*60%* of *all poor countries* are under US sanctions of some kind. Has become almost a reflex of US foreign policy

3. Sanctions have spawned multi-billion-dollar lobbying & influence industry, enriching former US officials who are hired by foreign countries & oligarchs

4. Sanctions have had devastating effects on innocent civilians. In Cuba, they've made critical medical supplies impossible to import. In Venezuela, they contributed to a financial collapse 3X greater than the US Great Depression. Syria faces its greatest humanitarian crisis this year after a decade civil war & sanctions.

5. Treasury staffers drafted a ~40 page plan aimed at reforming the sanctions process that was dramatically whittled down amid disagreements w/ State

6. OFAC is widely described as overwhelmed by tens of thousands of requests. WH officials have brainstormed sanctions scenarios w/ outside nonprofits

7. Biden has unleashed unprecedented volley of +6K sanctions in 2 years. Higher than even previously unprecedented rate of Trump.

“We don’t think about the collateral damage of sanctions the same way we think about the collateral damage of war ... But we should.”

[dovesndecay]

The reason you hate reading is because the ruling class benefits from illiteracy. Not total illiteracy, mind you. That’s bad for business. The ruling class (law and policy makers, oligarch businessmen, celebrity, hedge fund managers buying up single-family housing, etc.) want you literate enough to be able to work for them, but not so literate that you realize how badly the working class gets fucked over in this world-making. Read enough to be able to consume and to execute, not to consider critically, certainly not enough to create. Because then what? A mass of people realizing we can create and recreate everything we see and touch to something kinder for us? Ghastly. Absolutely not.

Please go read or listen to Ismatu Gwendolyn's essay.

[cosmotropic]

I just really gotta talk about how fucking devastating Elon Musk has been for my life, personally.

I had over 1k followers on twitter. This was the backbone of my art career! I had mutuals with artists who are actual honest to god household names, and had regular customers, and while it was still a VERY small business it was still a business in the art world. This new rule of not allowing links to other social media though would kill an artist, because the "marketing funnel" requires links to other sites.

Now? I basically have to start again from almost nothing. Because one oligarch threw tantrum after tantrum. Tumblr is my only real option, and lets be real, its still kinda chugging along. I have faith its getting better but for now its a slog getting any attention for anything.

Anyways please PLEASE i beg you, reblog EVERY small business post you encounter, no matter how small or even not quite what you love. A lot of people are being forced to completely start from nothing again and we NEED new followers to do so!

[qqueenofhades]

I don’t understand. Why is not only the NYT but EVERYONE screaming in circles about Biden’s age? I mean I too would love a slightly younger president, but faced with Trump, I don’t understand how this is even a discussion. What can the motive possibly be?

First answer: Money. The corporate media is not your friend for many reasons, but especially because it will happily shill for open fascism, and sabotage Biden left and right, because the corporations and/or oligarchs who own the media (think how hard Elon has been trying to shill for Trump partly due to Biden's promised 25% billionaire tax) do not give a shit about American democracy. It's kind of nice in theory, maybe, but they do not give a shit as long as they get their tax breaks and "pro-business" legislation, which Trump has perforce promised to give them again. They are also not fans of Biden for other reasons, especially since he has been busy promoting unions, new labor laws, new industrial requirements/standards (even as fast as SCOTUS is trying to strip them away) and other things that interfere with the Reagonomics pursuit of the rich getting richer by any means necessary. Biden is the first US president since Reagan to openly call trickle-down economics bullshit, say that it doesn't work, and try to install a new economic model. Everyone who got rich under Reagonomics, therefore, has incentive to get rid of him.

First-continued, the money element also extends to the fact that Trumpists/MAGA love reading stories about how old and frail Biden is (especially if this distracts from their candidate being a raging fascist lunatic), so they will click on the story and read it and gleefully share it with other Trumpists/MAGA to shout about how terrible Biden is and how the Trump Vengeance Train is coming. "Biden actively dying RIGHT NOW!!" stories also make Democrats panic, so they will click on it and read it to find out how much they should be panicking, then share it with other Democrats to let them know that they should ALSO be panicking. Either way, it drives page views and advertising revenue, so the media is once more financially incentivized to produce these kinds of stories and to find "facts" that fit these stories, regardless of whether or not they are, uh, true. American media swings conservative in many ways, but especially if they can promote the "both sides the same!" or "Horserace!!!" narrative to keep Republicans gleeful and Democrats nervous.

Basically, no mainstream media outlet (even the so-called liberal ones like MSNBC) has any financial interest or incentive in supplying Americans with accurate information (we live in late-stage capitalist hell, etc) and many of them are openly pining for Trump back in office so they can be Principled Truth Tellers In Exile, get clicks and coverage from reporting on the crazy things he does (think the CEO of CBS saying that Trump was "bad for America but great for CBS") and other activities that drive the bottom line. This also adds up to an impulse to shill for Trump and sabotage Biden, who is competent but boring. After, American politics are a reality show and should be Driving Headlines!!!! Fascist America would be a great story!!! Think of the ratings!!!

.... anyway. We! live! in! hell!

Second, the media also loves to push "Democrats in disarray" stories, because there has always been a WILD double standard in regard to how they cover the Democrats vis-a-vis the Republicans. As such, they have completely given up on mentioning anything even slightly critical about Trump, and the 500 disqualifying and awful things he has already done and continues to do every day, in favor of driving as hard as they can at the "Biden should step down!!" story. Now, I'm not denying that obviously, I wish we had a better (and younger) candidate and that Biden's health is a legitimate issue, but trying to do it to the incumbent FOUR MONTHS BEFORE THE ELECTION is an exercise in sheer insanity and something that the media wants to do because again, It Would Get Clicks!!, regardless of how insane it would in fact be. It's also insane because this is the same exact fucking thing that the media did to Hillary Clinton in 2016 (running MONTHS of stories about her health problems, her emails, how she was secretly ill and/or the Democrats should replace her, etc) and A LOT OF Y'ALL ARE FALLING FOR IT AGAIN. Which isn't terrifying or anything, but also.

Now, of course, the establishment Democratic party is partly complicit in the tone of this coverage, and that is also a problem. I personally want to smack every "anonymous Democratic adviser" or "Democratic politician" giving these Anxiety Concern Quotes to Politico, NYT, the BBC, and wherever else with a brick over the goddamn head and tell them to Shut the Absolute Fuck Up and dedicate all their energy to helping Biden win, instead of deliberately and unhelpfully perpetuating the narrative that he's about to die at any moment. (And also, if he did have to step aside before or after the election for any reason: THE ONLY DEMOCRATICALLY ELECTED CANDIDATE TO REPLACE HIM IS KAMALA HARRIS. KAMALA HARRIS IS THE ONLY PERSON WITH ANY LEGITIMACY TO TAKE OVER THE NOMINATION AND/OR OFFICE OF POTUS FROM BIDEN. IF YOU DON'T LIKE THAT AND THINK YOUR MAGICAL WHITE MAN WILL PARACHUTE IN THERE INSTEAD, SHUT UP. THERE IS NO OTHER OPTION EXCEPT HARRIS. SHUT THE FUCK UP FOREVER.)

/deep breaths

Anyway. That is how you end up here: where the media is still diligently pretending this is an absolutely normal race between a terrible degenerate ancient Sekritly Dying Biden and.... some totally normal establishment Republican and not literally Donald Goddamn Trump. They are running many of the exact same hatchet jobs that they ran on Hillary Clinton for the same exact reasons, and ask yourself this: if Biden is just the status-quo stooge who will never change anything, HAS never changed anything, and is otherwise completely acceptable to the American/global power structure, why are they SO FUCKING DESPERATE to get him out? Why are they throwing absolutely everything they have at prying out a successful (albeit yes, old) incumbent when that incumbent is, by any reasonable metric, the most progressive president since at LEAST FDR, very definitely in any of the post-Reagan years, and possibly ever? Why are they so shit-scared of Biden as demonstrably the only candidate who can (and has) already beaten Trump, and therefore his entire ghoulish agenda of American fascism forever?

I just think it's worth pondering these questions. Yes, I had an awful anxiety attack today and applied to several jobs in Europe because the Fight or Flight instinct kicked in HARD that I needed to start working on a plan to get out of Fascist America, just in case. However, we can still forestall it. Yet again, as I will include in every post on the subject between now and November:

The end.

[ewanmitchellcrumbs]

Cozened Indigo - Part One

Pairing: Modern!Aemond Targaryen x f!reader Warnings: Mentions of murder, dark themes. Word count: ~4k

Summary: Unhappy with the assignment she has been given to work on for the Duskendale Gazette, she opts to pursue her own story, not quite realising what she's getting herself into.

Author's note: I have put my journalism degree to use here, to ensure as much accuracy as possible. However, as Westeros is a fictional place, I have warped certain laws and regulations regarding court reporting for the purpose of the story. Please suspend your disbelief for the sake of a fictional tale. No tag list. Follow @fics-by-ewanmitchellcrumbs and turn on post notifications. Community labels are for cops.

Chewing the end of her pen, she leans closer to the computer monitor as her eyes scan the Reuters website almost frantically.

Aemond Targaryen, son of late billionaire, Viserys Targaryen, charged for the murder of his nephew, Lucerys Velaryon. Case pending trial.

Nervous excitement swirls in her gut, as she leans back in her uncomfortable, creaky office chair. This is the first mention she has seen of such a scandal, unsurprising considering how high profile the Targaryen family are in Westeros. They’ll have worked hard to cover this up, however, with a court case imminent, the news is now public knowledge.

She knows that every media outlet from Dorne to Eastwatch will be all over this, but it will be nothing beyond surface level detail, the most basic of coverage. None of them will be able to get the family to talk, but she can, that is her specialty – was her specialty.

Essos Fraudster Glorified by White Cloak Magazine.

The headline passes through her mind like a stormcloud, a dirty mark upon her career that she can never scrub out. She had been duped, it was an honest mistake, but it had cost her dearly.

When whisperings began regarding an oligarch from Essos having shady business dealings in King’s Landing, she had set out to investigate, feeling it was a story worth telling. To her surprise, he had agreed to an interview, and she had been spun a tale of a man born into tremendous wealth, who was now looking to give back by setting up charitable foundations across Westeros.

She had done her due diligence, followed up on all of the sources at her disposal. Every phone call she made checked out, verifying his claims, and so the glossy double page spread had run in White Cloak Magazine, painting a picture of a misunderstood, altruistic individual who just wanted to share his wealth.

It had been the crowning achievement of her journalistic career, until two days later when the Blackwater Post had run their own story, utterly destroying hers. The oligarch was in fact guilty of tax evasion and money laundering, the charities he had founded mere fronts, empty shell corporations and hedge funds used to hide large sums of money that were never intended to be donated. The sources he had provided to back his claims had all been disreputable business associates of his, posing as bankers, accountants and employees.

He was jailed for his crimes and White Cloak was made a laughing stock for the piece they had run. As the person who had written it, it was her head that was placed upon the chopping block, a blunder of such enormity could not be overlooked.

Her humiliation had felt as though it would swallow her whole. She ought to have been more thorough in her research, but hindsight always possesses more clarity than what is right in front of you. She had considered just giving up and pursuing a different career path entirely, yet despite the shame that shrouded her, she had known that the urge to write would never leave her, an insatiable itch that must be scratched.

For a year she had looked for another job, had applied to just about every magazine and newspaper that existed in Westeros. If she had to relocate to Dorne, The Reach, or even The North then she’d do it for the sake of her career. Unfortunately, the blemish on her record was well known, and nowhere reputable would touch her.

That was until the Duskendale Gazette had taken a chance on her. The pet project of Royce Baratheon, it is a small, localised publication, a far cry from the nationwide reach of the high end White Cloak, but they were willing to hire her, the salary covers her rent, and it means not having to move away from King’s Landing.

For the last eighteen months she has occupied a desk in a darkened corner of the Duskendale Gazette’s offices, lovingly nicknamed “The Wall” by those that sit there - a place where writers at the end of their careers or close to retirement are sent to die.

It has been a slow, painful death, covering everything from disputes over fishing permits in Blackwater Bay to the implementation of a one way traffic system in Rosby. Discovering the news regarding Aemond Targaryen feels like the shot of adrenaline that her career needs to bring it back to life, provided he’s willing to speak to her – provided she can get sign off to write the story in the first place.

She sets down the biro she has been gnawing on and looks at the time on her computer. 9.02am. Glancing over her shoulder towards the big, glass walled meeting room that sits at the centre of the newsroom, she can see that Royce, along with the other editors and department heads are settling around the table, preparing to plan the next round of commissions.

Anxiously biting her lip, she considers her options. It would look bad to just walk in uninvited, however, if she doesn’t ask now then she’ll never get to do it. This is a story worth writing, surely they’d see that? Abruptly, she stands up, drawing in a steadying breath.

Fuck it, I’m going in.

She knocks at the door, not awaiting an answer before pushing it open. The men around the table furrow their brows, falling silent as they turn to look at her.

Royce shuffles the papers in front of him, sighing in irritation. “We’re in the middle of a meeting.”

Undeterred, in spite of the way her heart thunders in her chest, she steps further into the room towards the head of the table where he sits. “I know and that’s why I’m here. I saw on Reuters this morning that Aemond Targaryen has been charged with the murder of his nephew. I–”

“You won’t be covering that,” Royce interrupts, standing from his seat and lifting a sheet of paper from the pile. “I’m putting you on the upcoming curfew that’s to be implemented in Flea Bottom.”

“Royce, please, there’s something here, I know there is,” she presses, attempting to push down the anger that simmers hotly under her skin at his dismissal. “This could be huge for us.”

“You’ll write the story you’re assigned,” he insists, thrusting the paper towards her, “the last thing we need is a profile of some spoiled aristocrat, especially from someone with your track record.”

There it is. Someone with your track record.

“Just give me a chance–”

“You will write what I’ve commissioned, and be grateful you’re getting anything at all.”

“So you’re just going to ignore this?”

“We’ll place a court reporter on it once it goes to trial, but that is not your concern. Focus on your own assignment.”

She turns on her heel, storming back to her desk. Her skin burns with humiliation, tears blurring her vision as she sits down, slapping the commission sheet down next to her keyboard. Drawing in a steadying breath, she scrubs her hands over her face in an attempt to calm herself.

Scanning the assignment she’s been given, she scoffs. A curfew enforced by King’s Landing Constabulary as a means to curb the violent and drunken behaviour that’s rife in Flea Bottom. It's a soulless story, she knows she’ll be expected to simply present the facts, alongside a media ready quote from the police force, instead of addressing the rampant poverty in the area that is the catalyst for such problems. The final product will be better used as ad space.

It’s better to ask for forgiveness than permission, and wanting to prove Royce wrong, she decides to press ahead with the story that she wants to write anyway. Opening her internet browser, she searches the Targaryen name, presented with hundreds of links and articles regarding the family.

There is nothing she doesn’t already know; they’re from old money, own most of the banking and legal services from here to Oldtown and there is a rift that divides Viserys’ second wife, Alicent, and her children from his first daughter, Rhaenyra, and her family.

The remaining patriarch of the family, Otto Hightower, owns a law firm called Red Keep Solicitors which is based in the centre of King’s Landing. A good enough place to start for her background research. Scanning the office to ensure no one’s looking, she stuffs her assignment sheet into her bag and slips out unnoticed.

As she steps out of the taxi that has pulled up outside of the high rise office block, she is surprised by the lack of media presence. She had assumed that with the information that leaked this morning, there would be a line of news station vans parked along the pavement, with journalists all clamouring to get a vox pop from someone from either the Hightower or Targaryen family. Besides a steady flow of traffic down the street, it’s dead. Whoever is working to keep the media away is doing an exceptional job. For once, she is thankful she works for a small, local newspaper; no notoriety means being able to fly under the radar.

The polished black marble of the foyer floor causes each of her footsteps to echo around the lofty reception. The space is modern and minimalist; the reception desk placed at the far wall, the motif of a castle with the company name emblazoned across the wall behind it. A forest green, crushed velvet sofa sits off to the side, serving as the waiting area.

“Good morning,” the young woman seated behind the desk greets her. “How may I help you?”

“I’m here to see Otto Hightower,” she says, smiling politely. The less she gives away, the less likely she is to be turned away.

“Do you have an appointment?”

“I’m afraid not. I was hoping he might be able to squeeze me in for a quick consultation?” She asks hopefully.

“Hmm,” the receptionist’s eyes narrow, regarding her with suspicion, before she taps delicately at the keyboard of her computer. “I’m afraid Mr. Hightower is fully booked for today. Can I take a message?”

“No, it’s fine, I’ll wait,” she replies, keeping her tone light, attempting to appear casual. She moves to the sofa, taking a seat and crossing one leg over the other. She ignores the receptionist, who is now eyeing her intently.

Plucking her mobile out of her bag, she pretends to look busy as the woman behind the desk picks up the phone and speaks in a hushed tone into the receiver, clearly alerting whoever is on the other end to her presence.

Thirty minutes tick by in uncomfortable silence, during which she has checked just about every app on her smartphone and read through most of her emails. Her head snaps up upon hearing the elevator ding. As the doors slide open she sees a tall, much older, bearded man step out. There is no mistaking that this is Otto Hightower.

Jumping to her feet, she follows him as he walks quickly past her, out of the building.

“Mr. Hightower, might I have a moment of your time?”

He doesn’t slow down, doesn’t even turn to look back at her, his tone clipped as he tells her “I have no interest in speaking to the press.”

Undeterred, she lengthens her strides to keep up with him. “I understand your concern, but I’m not here to drag anyone’s name through the mud. I’d just like to understand more about what happened with your grandson.”

“No comment,” he says flatly, pulling open the rear door of a sleek, black Mercedes that pulls up to the curb and climbing in.

Before she has the opportunity to say anything else, he’s slamming the door closed and the car is pulling away.

She groans in frustration, walking back towards the entrance of Red Keep solicitors and leaning against the wall. She isn’t ready to give up, not when she’s had a small taste of what it’s like to work on something she actually cares about again. This is just a minor setback, she’ll find someone willing to speak to her. For now, she just needs to get back to the office and plan what the next step of her strategy will be. Pulling out her phone, she opens the taxi app, preparing to head back.

“You’re as subtle as a sledgehammer.”

The quiet voice pulls her attention away from her screen and she glances over her shoulder to be met by a dark, curly haired man, leaning heavily on a cane, an orthopedic shoe on his left foot.

“Excuse me?”

“You couldn’t really have believed that showing up here unannounced would get you an interview, surely?”

She scowls. “And who might you be?”

“Larys Strong,” he replies, eyes never leaving hers.

She turns fully to face him. “And how do you know what will or won’t get me an interview?”

His lips quirk into the faintest of smiles, eyes moving slowly from her head to her feet and back up again. It unnerves her and she can feel herself involuntarily shrinking away from him. 

“It’s my job to know. The Hightowers are keen to prevent any unwanted…whispers from occurring, as I’m sure you’ll understand.”

“So, no one from the family would be willing to speak with me?”

“Absolutely not. But I might be.”

“You? How would you be able to help me?”

His eyes seem to glitter, almost malevolently, as he stares at her. It sends a shiver up her spine.

“Oh, I provide all kinds of help to all kinds of people.”

He produces a business card from his inside pocket, handing it to her.

Larys Strong, Harrenhal Associates.

She gives a quiet thanks, fishing around in her bag and handing him one of her own. He glances at it quickly, before slipping it into the pocket from which he’d taken his own.

“Come by my office around seven this evening,” he tells her. “I’m sure we have much to talk about.”

Watching in stunned silence as he turns and shuffles back inside the entrance of Red Keep Solicitors, she knows she should feel excited – she finally has her in, dubious as it may be – however, she cannot shake the feeling that she has just unwittingly stepped into the midst of something sinister.

She whiles away the remainder of the day back at the Duskendale Gazette, ensuring she knows everything there is to know about the Targaryen and Hightower families – at least everything that’s publicly available anyway. She also looks into Larys Strong; there’s little to be found about him, but what she is able to dig up is impressive. He’s a solicitor, and has seemingly never lost a case for any of the clients he’s defended. She has an eerie feeling that the means through which he achieves this are far from ethical.

By the time seven o’ clock rolls around, she’s stood outside of a dingy brick building, located off of the Street of Silk. It does not even come close to the grandiosity of Red Keep Solicitors, without even so much as a sign to indicate it’s a place of business.

Ignoring the voice at the back of her mind that screams at her to turn and run, she presses the buzzer, pulling the door open as it’s released and making her way up the rickety wooden staircase to the top floor.

The room is dimly lit, small and stuffy, worn out carpet lines the floor, complete with furnishings that are likely older than she is. What strikes her as most odd is the abundance of flowers, there’s a vase on every flat surface and they look strangely out of place, a lurid splash of brightness against their darkened surroundings. She wrinkles her nose, the cloying scent of patchouli is overpowering. It’s either being used to cover up the odour of something else or is a misguided attempt to suggest opulence, but instead comes across as tacky.

Larys hovers in the doorway to his own personal office, watching her as she takes in her surroundings.

“Thank you for meeting with me,” he eventually says. “I appreciate that an out of hours visit is less than ideal, but I’m sure you understand the need for discretion.”

She nods, nerves swirling in her gut at the sudden realisation that no one knows that she’s here.

“My secretary has left for the day, so please leave your phone and any recording devices on her desk. I trust you realise that anything discussed this evening is strictly off of the record?”

“Understood,” she replies, deciding to just leave her entire bag on the desk as she follows Larys into his office.

It’s even smaller and more cramped than the tiny space that serves as the reception area. Overstuffed shelves of books line the walls, and the room’s only illumination is a lamp which sits upon the desk.

Larys settles into a leather armchair behind it, gesturing for her to take the seat on the other side.

“Can I ask what your involvement with the Targaryen family is?” She finally asks, once settled across from him.

He sits back, fingers moving absentmindedly over the grip of his cane. “I provide counsel to them. I will be acting as Aemond’s legal defense in the upcoming trial.”

She raises her eyebrows in shock. It’s surprising to know a family as wealthy as the Targaryens would be willing to trust such a delicate matter with someone who operates their business out of a seedy back alley. “You? Why?”

He huffs a humourless laugh, upturning the palm of his free hand. “Who else would? No one from Red Keep Solicitors could represent him, it would be a conflict of interest. And besides, I get results, as I’m sure you know.”

“Yes, I do, as I’m sure you know all about me. Which leads me to my next question, if the Targaryens don’t want the media involved in this then why have you agreed to speak with me?”

Larys is silent for a moment, fingers stroking delicately over the petals of a red flower that sits within a vase upon his desk. “My reasons are twofold,” he says, finally looking up at her. “First, both sides of the family have come to a mutual agreement that neither one will talk to the press. I feel that is a mistake. Aemond needs all the help he can get. I don’t necessarily mean starting a media circus to report upon his every move and dig into his past, just one reputable source to give him a leg up while he’s at a disadvantage. Second, I have chosen you because I’m aware of your past…indiscretions. The future of your career rests upon this, so I know you will treat it with the due diligence it deserves.”

She scoffs in disbelief, running a hand through her hair. “The guy’s been charged with murder, how much care could he possibly need?”

“The prosecution will be pushing for a sentence for murder, yes. I’ll be arguing for a lesser sentence of manslaughter.”

“So, he didn’t mean to do it?”

“I think it’s better said in his own words.”

“You can arrange an interview with him?”

“I can arrange a visit for you to speak with him where he’s currently being remanded in custody, at Dragonstone Prison, yes.”

She attempts to remain neutral as her excitement bubbles unrestrained internally. “When is the trial?”

“In three weeks, so we have to act swiftly. I believe this concludes our discussion. I shall be in touch regarding your visitation.”

She is taken aback by the abrupt ending to their conversation, rising slowly from her seat as she leaves his office and collects her bag. It’s unnerving that even as she descends the staircase she can still feel his presence, the sweet, heady aroma clinging to her clothes like an invisible fog.

True to his word, Larys gets her her visit, and two days later she sits in the ferry terminal for Dragonstone Prison. Having had her identification checked, and her details input onto the system, she is issued a number and has to wait for it to be called before she can board.

The wait is agonising, and a full hour passes before she is called forward, scrambling to her feet towards the boarding area. The grey waters are choppy, causing the ferry to rock slightly on its short journey across the Gullet, until the craggy isle that houses the criminals of Westeros comes into view. The high, cement walls of Dragonston Prison are imposing and bleak against the skyline.

Disembarking the ferry, she is guided through the visitors’ entrance and searched, her personal effects rifled through as she walks through a metal detector, and her electronic devices taken away, to be returned to her upon her departure. Her identification is checked once more, and her details input onto the system again. She is told to take a seat, her name will be called when it’s time for her visitation to begin.

The hard seat is uncomfortable, and without the distraction of her phone she is left to stare at the clock on the wall. Its relentless ticking is maddening, the minutes feeling as though they crawl past. So absorbed in watching it, she jumps when her name is finally called, struggling to compose herself as she’s ushered through into the visitation area.

A series of tables and plastic chairs make up the startling white windowless room, and she is led to one in the far corner. Unsure of what to do, she simply stands beside her seat, awaiting the man she is to meet.

From the photos she has seen, Aemond cuts an imposing figure, dressed all in black. She hopes that the softness of the grey prison uniform will render him less intimidating. However, those thoughts are dashed the moment she sees him walk slowly through the door on the opposite side of the room.

He is in no rush, his steps are methodical, unhurried, a predator stalking its prey as he moves towards her. The photographs do not do justice to his height, long and lithe, he towers over her, and she feels herself holding her breath as she takes in the sharpness of his features. His long, platinum hair is pulled back into an immaculately styled ponytail, giving her an unhindered view of his chiseled jaw, aquiline nose and prominent cheekbones, though spoiled slightly by the ragged, angry looking scar that runs the length of the left side of his face. The eye within the socket sits milky and lifeless, but it does little to lessen the intensity of the brilliant blue of his right.

She notices the slightest dilation of his pupil as he stares unblinkingly at her, making her heart race as the cold sweat of fear prickles the back of her neck. So preoccupied with simply getting her story, it has not occurred to her until now that she would be face to face with a killer.

Certain he senses her fright, she sees his lips twitch with the faintest of smirks. The fact that it does not reach his eye makes her blood run cold.

Part two || Series masterlist

[simply-ivanka]

Kamala Harris’s ‘Joyful’ War on Entrepreneurs

When Democrats talk about boosting the middle class, what they mean is government employees.

By Allysia Finley Wall Street Journal

Americans who tuned in to Kamala Harris’s coronation last week heard from plenty of celebrities, labor leaders and politicians. Missing from the “joyous” celebration, however, were entrepreneurs who generate middle-class jobs.

No surprise. Cheered on by the crowd, Democrats took turns whacking “oligarchs” and “corporate monopolists.” By the time Ms. Harris took the stage, the pinatas’ pickings had been splattered around. This is what Democrats plan to do if they win: destroy wealth creators so they can spread the booty among their own.

Corporate greed is “the one true enemy,” United Auto Workers President Shawn Fain proclaimed. Vermont Sen. Bernie Sanders insisted the party “must take on Big Pharma, Big Oil, Big Ag, Big Tech, and all the other corporate monopolists whose greed is denying progress for working people.” Pennsylvania Sen. Bob Casey railed against “greedflation” and accused corporations of “extorting families.”

Barack Obama lambasted Donald Trump and his “well-heeled donors.” “For them, one group’s gains is necessarily another group’s loss,” Mr. Obama said. “For them, freedom means that the powerful can do pretty much what they please, whether it’s fire workers trying to organize a union or put poison in our rivers or avoid paying taxes like everybody else has to do.”

Democrats treat wealth as a zero-sum game, and so Mr. Obama’s straw men are rich. They get richer by making everyone else poorer—and taking away from the well-off is the only way to enhance the lives of the poor and middle class. Hence, the left’s plans to raise taxes on “billionaires” and businesses to finance more welfare.

It isn’t enough that the top 1% of earners already pay 45.8% of federal income tax, which funds government services and welfare for the bottom half. As for poisoning rivers, perhaps Mr. Obama forgot that his own Environmental Protection Agency caused the 2015 Gold King Mine disaster, which spilled toxic waste into Colorado’s Animas River.

Quoting Abraham Lincoln, the former president invoked “the better angels of our nature” even as he appealed to America’s darker angels. His speech brought to mind a recent homily by my local parish priest about the dangers of class warfare and envy, one of the seven deadly sins.

Success, the priest explained, isn’t a zero-sum game. When a businessman succeeds, he creates jobs that help the poor. Envying and tearing down the successful makes everyone poorer. Rather than plunder the wealthy, society should celebrate success and try to help everyone prosper.

Democrats derisively refer to such ideas as “trickle-down economics.” They denounce and diminish business success, and claim the wealthy have profited from greed and government support. Who can forget Mr. Obama’s line in 2012 that “if you’ve got a business, you didn’t build that”?

Rather than try to make it easier for businesses to succeed—say, by reducing taxes or easing regulations—Democrats want to do the opposite. They call for “leveling the playing field” and “growing the middle class out,” euphemisms for taxing success so government can hand out money. But government doesn’t create wealth. People do.

While business success isn’t zero-sum, government growth can be. Its expansion makes it more difficult for business to thrive. The result is fewer jobs, lower wages and less tax revenue, which finances essential public services such as law enforcement and the “safety net” for the indigent.

Mr. Trump’s appeal in 2016 partly stemmed from slow economic growth during Mr. Obama’s presidency. The Republican promised to make all Americans richer by liberating businesses from government’s shackles. Mr. Trump’s deregulation and tax cuts worked: Average real wages increased nearly 70% faster during his first three years than during Mr. Obama’s presidency.

Yet most Americans have become poorer under Mr. Biden, as government spending has fueled inflation, which has eroded wages. Job growth has become increasingly concentrated in sectors that depend on government spending. When Democrats talk about boosting the middle class, they mean the class of government workers.

Government, education, healthcare and social assistance account for more than 60% of the new jobs added in the last year. In the 17 states where Democrats boast a “trifecta”—control of the governorship and both legislative chambers—the share is 98%. In the 23 states with Republican trifectas, it’s 47%.

Likewise, average wage growth since the start of the pandemic has been lower in high-tax states such as Illinois (13.6%), New York (14.4%) and California (17.2%) than in low-tax Florida (22.5%), Texas (23.3%) and South Dakota (26.9%). If middle-class Americans want to get richer, they ought to move to Miami, Dallas or Sioux Falls.

“As long as we look to legislation to cure poverty, or to abolish special privilege,” Henry Ford once observed, “we are going to see poverty spread and special privilege grow.” That’s the joyous future Americans can expect during a Harris presidency.

Appeared in the August 26, 2024, print edition as 'Kamala Harris’s ‘Joyful’ War on Entrepreneurs'.

[octuscle]

Body swap, not mind swap

Djamal dug his hands deep into the fat flesh of his customer. They said that Yuri was unimaginably rich. He was the very model of an oligarch. But he was also unbelievably fat. Djamal wondered why Yuri didn't just have fat suctioned out. Or at least take advantage of all the aids that would help him lose weight and stop puffing and panting like a walrus. Djamal's name meant “the beautiful” and his appearance was incredibly important to him. He thought to himself: better to be poor and beautiful than rich and a walrus.

Yuri had set his cell phone to speaker. He probably assumed that he could make a phone call undisturbed on the massage table on the terrace of his villa belonging to the hotel complex. He probably hadn't suspected that Djamal not only spoke the Arabic of his old and the French of his new home fluently, but also Russian. Russian clients in St. Tropez were the richest and most generous. To be able to serve this market, he had started to learn the language early on. And now he was hearing things he obviously wasn't supposed to hear. Because Yuri was in trouble. His liberal attitude, his good relations with the democracies of Western Europe and his critical attitude towards the military special operation had caused him to fall out of favor at home. Many of his Russian assets had apparently been seized or were about to be. Yuri lamented the fact that some paintings he had acquired from the depots of the Pushkin Museum would now fall back into the hands of the Russian state.

His conversation partner said that the preparations for Yuri's going underground were as good as complete. Now only the host was missing. Djamal had just found a tension point that he tried to release with a firm grip. Yuri said that his masseur could be a great host. “And would you like to be my host?” Yuri asked in Russian and laughed uproariously. “I'd love to, but my house is very modest,” Djamal replied. Yuri turned pale. ‘I'll call you later,’ he said. And even though Djamal was still working on his neck, the walrus turned around. ”You speak Russian? That's perfect! I have a business deal to offer you.”

It was 2:00 a.m. Djamal lay awake. The offer was too incredible to be true. Yuri wanted to swap bodies with him. In return, Djamal would receive €100,000,000.00 in an account that was frozen for five years. And full access to Yuri's body and life. Yuri was honest, it wouldn't be a walk in the park. He was being watched by the Russian secret service, tax authorities and God knows who else. He would probably have to give up almost everything except the €100,000,000.00 to save his life. But if he made it through the five years, he would be a rich man. A very rich man. However, he would also be a very fat man with a smoker's lung, a drunk's liver and broken knee joints. And Yuri would live a life of relative poverty, but in his own body. Djamal tossed and turned. This chance would never come again. Besides, the body swap wouldn't work anyway; it sounded like silly magic. Yes, this chance would never come again. Tomorrow he would make the pact with Yuri.

My God, what an unbelievably fat pig, Djamal thought to himself. Yuri had just polished off a large bowl of caviar, washing it down with Roederer Cristal. “And?” Yuri asked, looking as bored as possible. He was far from bored. It was a matter of life and death. “Done,” Djamal said, shaking His enormous paunch wobbled. What a pig, Djamal thought again. But now the deal is done.

Yuri's lawyer had done a great job. Djamal had to sign dozens of contracts. Most of them were with some offshore companies. Yuri's name was nowhere to be found. But after three days, Djamal was a damn rich man. His fortune consisted of real estate in Uruguay, shares in the Cayman Islands and a chain of gyms in Egypt. Djamal was no billionaire. But he was filthy rich. However, he wouldn't be Djamal for much longer. It hadn't been a week since he and Yuri had been on a private jet on the way to Tehran. An old Mercedes sedan took them to a villa hidden behind high walls and a large park in the north of the megacity. There were no explanations; there was just an envelope on the desk in his bedroom. For the next 24 hours, only water from the bottles provided, otherwise, remain sober. Djamal grinned. If the same applied to Juri, it would certainly be a greater challenge for him than for Djamal. He should stay in his room for the next 24 hours. There was satellite TV, internet and a Playstation, so he would survive that. And tomorrow morning at 8:00 a.m. he would be picked up for “treatment”. Djamal tried to distract himself from his excitement as much as possible. He did sit-ups to relieve the tension. He tried to sleep. Eventually he managed to do that. And eventually his cell phone rang. 7:30 a.m. Showtime.

The young man who picked him up didn't say a word. Djamal was supposed to leave everything in his room. The note said that he should only wear the surgical gown and slippers. He did as he was told. They went down in an elevator. The door opened into a futuristic-looking room. Juri was already lying on a table. His flabby body spilled over the edge on the right and left. He was obviously asleep. Djamal lay down on the couch next to Juri. Someone inserted a cannula into him. That was the last thing he was supposed to see. At least in his body.

When Djamal woke up, he was lying in a bed. The room looked similar to the one where he had played with the Playstation a while ago. Djamal urgently needed to go to the toilet. He wanted to jump out of bed. But he couldn't. Almost 200 kilograms of body fat were holding him back. It was a challenge to get out of bed. It was a challenge to go to the bathroom. But it was a huge challenge to look in the mirror. This was no longer the fit fitness trainer. This was a fat man. And with rings under his eyes and disheveled hair, he looked even more terrible than the Juri he knew from the Cote d'Azur. Djamal, no Yuri, looked around the bathroom. It was full of creams, serums and lotions. It looked like the cosmetics department of a luxury department store. Yuri didn't care about any of that. What use were all these luxury cosmetics to him in this body? Maybe a shower would help. Maybe he could go for a walk afterwards. Yuri showered and went back to his room with only a very large towel around his fat hips. There was a knock at the door. “Come in,” Yuri said in Arabic. Sasha entered. Sascha was Yuri's chauffeur and bodyguard. “All right, boss?” he asked in Russian. Sure, he was Russian. “All right, comrade,” replied Yuri. Sasha smiled irritably. And then he began to explain to his boss what was going to happen next. Breakfast would be served in a moment. Then his butler would come and pack his suitcase. In three hours, the helicopter would take them to the airport. Where they would then go. Yuri remembered the consultations with the old Yuri. “Tbilisi,” he replied. “Business!”

After showering, having some fruit and green tea for breakfast and sitting in a tailor-made suit in his private jet, Yuri felt a little more comfortable in his own skin. Okay, the few steps from the helicopter to the private jet had been exhausting. But he would get back into shape. Faster than he would have liked. As soon as they had left Iranian airspace, they were accompanied by two Russian fighter jets. She would not fly to Tbilisi. They would fly to Baku. And there she would be received by an envoy of the Kremlin. His jet and his luggage had been confiscated. And Yuri would be placed under house arrest. In a guest house of the Azerbaijani government.

Old Yuri would rage. At the Russians' audacity. At the collaboration of the Azeris! At the unworthy conditions in the shabby guesthouse, which was idyllically situated on the Caspian Sea. On board the plane, there had only been Sasha, the pilot and the flight attendant. But he was separated from Yuri. Yuri was alone and on his own. In a not particularly large house with a sea view. He was prepared for the fact that pressure would be put on him. That he should cede all claims to his assets in Russia and its satellite states. That he would have to pay a ransom for his own freedom. Yuri would have liked to consult with someone. But he no longer had a telephone, he was cut off from the world. So he did what he had done before: sports.

For a full four weeks, Yuri was locked up in his rather gilded cage. Then a “prosecutor” appeared and presented Yuri with various documents to sign. Yuri had no idea what he even owned. But it looked as if not much of it would remain. In fact, there was even a passage that stipulated that any mobile and immobile assets that would become known in the next three years would also be confiscated. Yuri was compensated with his apartment in Zurich, one million Swiss francs, and the luggage that he had had on board his plane. And he would be allowed to use this plane one last time for the flight to Zurich. Just under five years… He had to endure just under five years in these, for him, not particularly modest circumstances. And after that, he would get the secret account. And be incredibly rich. Yuri signed.

Obviously, he hadn't gotten all of his baggage back. Sasha, who was flying with him to Zurich, had helped himself to his jewelry and watches. It wasn't his. And Sasha had never been his confidant. But he knew that old Yuri would have been incredibly disappointed in his chauffeur and bodyguard. The new Yuri was just disgusted by a collaborator, who was now adorned with Yuri's tasteless gold jewelry. Yuri himself looked miserable. Thanks to plenty of exercise and a healthy diet, he had lost almost 40 kilograms in the four weeks. His tailored clothes hung on him like sacks. When they arrived in Zurich, Sascha Juri was taken to passport control with his suitcases and bags. He still had his Swiss passport, so entering the country was a mere formality. He had enough money for the taxi ride. And then he found himself sitting in a tacky apartment, which he would hardly be able to afford to keep with the little money he still had, and he began to make plans. He booted up the computer and googled “compression garments in XXXL”. And then he set out on a long and sweat-inducing walk.

Djamal was still in good shape and athletic. But for the owner of one of the largest fitness studio chains in the Middle East, he was not fit enough. He had heard wonderful things about the club's head personal trainer. And indeed, Yuri was one of the best in his field. “My Life Without 300 Pounds” had become a global bestseller. And his fitness channel was one of the most successful of an influencer over 50. Djamal was unsure. “Have we met?” he asked. “Vaguely,” replied Juri.