#ps: we updated the rules so please read them carefully ! !

[seoullo7017]

it's been a while, seoulites. skygarden staff is here to give an announcement, so before we continue and finally move forward with this community that has been in our minds and work for quite some days, we kindly ask that you read the notice and contact us if you have any question!

firstly, the seoullo staff wants to offer our most sincere apologies for the lack of communication and updates from our side. after having that little bump on the road with the blog and furthermore, noticing some glitches here and there in mewe, the mods had some time to consider where we'd like to see seoullo moving forward, platform included.

it's been some days of fixing, tweaking and reassuring over and over again that everything that has been planned for seoullo goes smoothly, and thus, it has taken us quite more time than we anticipated to ensure we have made it as easy as possible for all parties involved to join seoullo promptly.

please take a look under the cut to know the changes we've made in how we will operate moving forward. this goes to both prospective and current members of the community !

the platform seoullo will be based on will continue to be mewe despite the current updates we've seen as of these days (such as "upgrades" and private/public profiles ). if later on becomes a platform that we no longer think it's plausible to be roleplaying in, we will notify and ask for our member's input prior to any change.

as some of yo may have noticed, creating new accounts in mewe will not allow you to post pictures in groups for at least three days since the creation of the account. thus, we will be extending the introduction timeframe for all muses to three days from the moment you've been welcomed into the roleplay. we highly suggest to make your account prior to applying, and of course, to have in mind something for your introduction by the time you join so it's not a hassle for you to do later on.

reservations will now be able to be sent through tumblr, via private message only ( not anonymously or through inbox ) in the case that you will be applying with the very same account. this due to the fact that it allows us to check the time and if needed, we can crosscheck who's sent a reservation for a muse first.

upon acceptance, please read the post for your muse entirely, as we will post the information needed for you to join seoullo as a community. given the schedule we have set for running the duties as staff is quite lenient and gives days in between, we expect you to follow the guidelines entirely prior to sending a friend request to our staff account.

in the likes of the staff's schedule, we have chosen to prioritize an engaging community over the speed with which we introduce members to the roleplay, thus, we will slowly introduce new seoulites so everyone has their own moment to settle in, be approached by others and also, fulfill their introductory checklist on a timely manner.

we can't thank you enough for your interest and patience as we continued to make this changes. it has taken some time but it is our biggest wish that now that we've settled all matters and possible problems in the future, you're as ready as we are to enjoy life as a seoulite with us and all the lovely muses that are looking for a forever home in here.

we once again apologize for the tardiness and lack of daily updates as we've made these changes, and hope to see you all around once again!

to our current members: please take note that we will take it upon us to add you to the groups, so sit tight and get ready for the fun to start. as we understand it might have been discouraging to wait for days while we worked behind the scenes, we truly understand if you no longer wish to be part of seoullo. if you prefer not to join at this time anymore, we kindly ask that you let us know or simply, cancel the friend request to our admin account so we can update the masterlist and such. of course, you'll always be welcome to join us later in the future!

thank you everyone, we are extremely excited to fully open our doors for all of you and give you a community where you can have your muse grow, have new experiences and create unforgettable memories with other folks.

we can't wait to see you all at 7017 !

— with love, skygarden staff.

[dcbbw]

The Rules

I have Christmas asks, unfinished WIPs that I absolutely need to complete by the end of the year, and stories I WANT to write/update, but here I am with yet another story absolutely NO ONE asked for. It’s me dipping my toe into the Horrible Riley pool.  

You know, the MCs that are either an unapologetic bitch using any means necessary to get what she wants, or the social climbing, gold-digging crown chaser fucking her way through Court in her quest for bigger and better. (Take that how you will) 

However, I failed miserably at my goal; while this is a Riley unlike any I have written before, she isn’t horrible. She’s broken, hiding herself behind rules and walls; another exploration that has been done before.   

It is my hope that this story and my take on this character’s development proves to be both interesting and entertaining without stepping on people’s toes.  

So, let’s flip the fairytale shall we, and once again meet a Riley Brooks with a different mindset, perspective, and take on Cordonian Court.  

THANK YOU to all who read this over in part, and a special shoutout to @ao719 for the final read-through and assuring me it makes sense. THANK YOU to all who will read this story; your likes, commentary, and reblogs are appreciated more than you know.  

Please excuse any typos, missing/extraneous words, and/or grammatical errors. MS Editor rates this story 97% error-free.  

Rating this story M for mature themes and subject matter

PS—It goes without saying that this is yet another Liam/Riley AU from me, and it’s a one-shot.  

All characters belong to Pixelberry. 

Song inspo: Hard Times, Ethel Cain 

Word Count: 3,490 

My heeled shoes glide along the highly polished, gold-veined marble flooring in step with my husband, King Liam of Cordonia. The music from the orchestra fills the air, Liam’s murmured sweet nothings fill my ear. 

He smells of mouthwash, expensive cologne, and the smell that is uniquely him.  A smile that doesn’t quite reach my eyes curves the edges of my lips as we move as one amongst the dancers.  

I wish I could be happy. 

His grip on my hand tightens as the palm splayed against the small of my back pulls me even closer to him; I smell the starch in his shirt. He has just twirled me when Olivia Nevrakis walks up to us, smiling prettily at her King as she asks if she can cut in. I see the refusal in his eyes, but hear his lips acquiesce.  

I step away slightly, allowing the Duchess just enough room to slide into the spot I vacated. Before I take my leave, I give the couple a last glance. Liam’s eyes are filled with apology and regret; Olivia gives me a triumphant glare.  

I give zero fucks. I gave up on Cordonia a long time ago. It was no longer a fairy tale; it was an opportunity. One I was determined to take full advantage of.  

The tap of my heels as I maneuver my way across the dance floor is swallowed by the sounds of chatter and the clinking of glassware. I stop at the bar and request a whisky sour. I feel the eyes of Court upon my frame, as they have been since I arrived in this tiny Mediterranean country. I hear whispers of American throughout the snippets of conversation I’m privy to as I wait for my drink.  

It isn’t a compliment.  

I am adjusting the bell sleeve of my red velvet gown when the bartender places my drink in front of me. It has a draped scoop neck that teases with peek-a-boo glimpses of cleavage; there is a plunging v-back that showcases my very bountiful ass.  

I am standing before the floor-length three-way mirror in my bedroom’s walk-in closet, carefully inspecting my image when Liam comes up behind me. He’s dressed from the waist down: Black tuxedo pants, black silk socks, and black wingtips so polished, the overhead lighting reflects from them.  

“Where’s your shirt?” I ask in a strangled voice as my eyes travel the planes of his chest and abs.   

“You’re beautiful,” he breathes against my cheek as his arms clasp about my waist.  

I roll my eyes in embarrassment. I’m not unattractive, but like most women, I use cosmetics to enhance what nature gave me.  

His long, strong fingers begin peeling the dress from my shoulders and eventually my unfettered breasts. My body shivers beneath his touch. His head lowers so he can gently nip the skin of my neck; his hair is damp against my flesh. “What is it you desire, my love? Ask, and it shall be yours,” he entreats with hitched breath.  

I lean my neck to the side to grant him greater access as I reply. “A pair of diamond earrings and a shopping trip in Paris.” 

Rule #1: Assign a value to yourself. Men never see your worth, so you have to.  

“The jet will be ready first thing in the morning,” he promises as his erection springs forth from his undone zipper.  

More of the dress is peeled away until my buttocks are exposed. I feel Liam tug at my thong, rolling them down my legs. He sinks to his knees, spreading my ass cheeks apart as his tongue snakes into my forbidden hole.  

He says he loves me, but I know he doesn’t. Not really.  

No one loves a whore.  

 I’m just different: foreigner, commoner, woman of color. New and different have expiration dates. Once the unknown becomes the familiar, he’ll move on to someone else. 

He thinks I don’t care that he’s royal, but I do. How can I not? The trick is to make him think I don’t. The less I ask for, the more he offers. I have cars, properties, jewels, and wealth beyond anyone’s imagination, but it wasn’t freely given.  

Even marriage is quid pro quo.  

Liam moans my name as his hand slides along his length.  

He’s quid. 

He rises and settles his palms firmly on my hips as his hardness invades my sex.  

I’m quo. 

His thrusts are slow, deliberate; his fingers twirl and tweak my nipples. I stay silent as I undulate my hips against his groin. Cries of delight and moans of pleasure choke in my throat.  

Rule #2: Don’t allow yourself to enjoy the experience. Men pay to get their rocks off, not yours.  

I watch it all in the mirror as I count backwards from 100.  

I smile an acknowledgement to the worker before turning to leave; I bump into Drake Walker who has sidled up next to me. I arch a brow to hide my dismay at the unexpected meeting. I don’t like Drake Walker.  

I find him to be a hypocrite.  A whiny hypocrite, constantly complaining about nobility and their ways, yet he makes sure to surround himself with them.  

His only forms of rebellion are to wear denim to their functions, drink their liquor, and silently judge them from back walls and dark corners.  

He says he stays for Liam ... to shield the King from the den of vipers that is Court, but I don’t see what protection he offers. He’s not present at meetings, he isn’t standing guard outside doors … hell, he’s rarely with Liam. 

He says Court owes him for the death of his father.  

My question is: Why?  

He was offered every advantage after his father’s death: growing up in a Palace, the best education possible for free. He was clothed, fed, and had a roof over his head. AND all he had to do was wake up every morning.  

Unlike me, who grew up in a roach and rat infested two-room tenement with a mother who worked three jobs at minimum wage and was brutally robbed, raped, and murdered for the grand sum of $67 when I was fourteen. 

I never knew my father; I doubt my mother did either. I’m a street urchin who survived on street smarts and … attributes, guided by a greasy-haired, gold-toothed Puerto Rican pimp named Luis.  

I had no family, no one to catch my abrupt fall from the semblance of stability I had grown up with. Rather than get lost in a broken system, I chose to get swallowed by the mean streets.  

I don’t even have a high school diploma.  

But I follow the rules. 

Drake had the chance for a college education, which he squandered. He says he gave up his life for Liam’s, but Liam insists he begged Drake to return to America. I guess being the Cordonian Commoner was an easier option than actually making something of himself in America.  

He isn’t even an opportunist. Drake Walker is a complete slacker. I don’t respect that. I respect the hustle, the drive, the ambition.  

I work every day including holidays and weekends, and perhaps harder now that I’m in Cordonia. The only difference is it doesn’t always involve being on my back or my knees.  

No, he isn’t my favorite person in this Godforsaken place, but damn, can Drake Walker fuck.  

Court is back in Applewood the evening of the symbolic foxhunt. Despite a hot bath liberally doused with liniment, my entire body aches. I am wearing a dressing gown over a peach satin camisole as I sit before my vanity, running a brush through my thick tresses. Despite the earliness of the hour, my bed is already turned down. 

Music from one of my many playlists drifts from my phone’s speakers, and I am humming along when I hear the doorknob rattle before my room door swings open. I am on my feet, a vase filled with fresh flowers and water hefted above my head, when Drake Walker crosses the doorway.  

Rule #3: Know how to protect yourself and expect the unexpected.  

He stops his steps, hands held up in a gesture of capitulation and his eyes wide. “What the FUCK, Brooks?” he yells.  

“What are you doing in here?” I question angrily, still holding onto the makeshift weapon threateningly.  

He slowly lowers his hands as the back of his shoe kicks the door shut. “Why isn’t your door locked?” he counters.  

“I lock it before I get in bed,” I grumble as I set the vase back on the table.  

“I check all the doors before I retire to my room for the evening. Applewood is old and maintenance isn’t what it used to be. Some of these locks are faulty, so I check them all.” 

He sits on the edge of my bed; I don’t like it but say nothing. The less I say, the sooner he’ll leave.  

“I do earn my keep around here, y’know.” 

“Oh, turning doorknobs definitely screams ‘useful member of society’.” 

His jaw clenches as his brown eyes narrow. “Look, I don’t know what you have against me …” 

I throw the brush down harshly against the vanity’s top. “It isn’t ME! It’s YOU! Since the day we met, you have done nothing but belittle, demean, and distrust me! And I have done absolutely NOTHING to warrant your opinion and judgement of me!” 

He stares at me moodily. I return his gaze, my chest heaving from emotion and exertion. His eyes travel from my face to my bosom, and I know why.  

I’m not wearing makeup. I’m ordinary.  

My breasts, however, are extraordinary: perky and firm with large areolas, elongated nipples. They don’t need rouge and kohl and lipstick. 

Drake has always been one to go for pretty.  

That night at the dive bar in Brooklyn, he alternated between ignoring me or outright dismissing me when I was the waitress; yet, when I was the tour guide wearing my tight dress and heels and painted face … he couldn’t keep his eyes off me.  

Drake needs visual stimulation, something to catch both his eye and attention.  

“I’m protecting you,” he mumbled, his gaze now trained on the floor.  

I rise from my chair; fuck my hair, I’ll do it in the morning. I stomp loudly across the floor until I’m standing directly in front of Drake and holler, “FROM WHAT?”  

He looks up quickly, and I see the brown in his eyes has deepened. His arms abruptly wrap around my waist, his palms sliding down the robe’s slippery fabric as he pulls me onto his lap.  

“This,” he whispers as his mouth covers mine and his tongue enters my mouth. 

It isn’t unpleasant. In fact, I could get used to this.  

His fingertips tiptoe along my spine as our heads turn and tongues intertwine; I feel myself slipping under, giving in to the feelings of want and lust; I quickly pull myself back.  

He has nothing of value to offer. He isn’t an opportunity.  

Rule #4: Men don’t respect women who give it up for free. 

I can’t be the next notch on Drake Walker’s bedpost with nothing to show for it but a wet ass. 

But … if he has nothing of value, and I remove mine … I’d be free.  

To enjoy. To experience. To scream.  

To orgasm.  

I deepen the kiss as I tell myself Drake is a treat to myself. An indulgence.  

A one-time indulgence with a big dick and nimble fingers. 

We both still hate me for rejecting his subsequent advances.  

“Where’re you headed, Your Majesty?” he drawls in a snarky tone. He doesn’t bother to hide his disdain at me becoming one of them.  

I ignore the way his eyes rake over my body, the way my center responds to his appraisal. I step around him primly, my drink clutched in my curled hand.  

“To get some air,” I reply curtly.  

I feel his eyes on my ass as I walk away. “You’re showing a lot of skin. Don’t catch cold,” he advises.  

I don’t make it very far before I am accosted by the Brothers Beaumont. My eyes roll heavenward as they greet me, each with free glasses of my expensive liquor in their hands. They both owe me BIG TIME, and I am still debating what I wish to collect as payment.  

Except everything they now have is due to me. And my attributes.  

Maxwell, who lied to me about the entire social season. It wasn’t an adventure; it was an ordeal. He neglected to tell me he and his house were as poor as church mice, and that I would have to come out of pocket for nearly every expense. He promised to repay me when the social season was over. 

When, against all odds, I did accept Liam’s proposal, Maxwell then proceeded to make a small Hollywood fortune on MY story … and has yet to offer me one fucking dime.  

On top of that, he got brand new on not only me, but Liam as well.  

I admire the hustle, but not when it’s at my expense.  

Bertrand, who talked nothing but shit about me from Day One, paraded me about and pimped me out to bring finance and fame upon HIS house, then begged me to help him win over the love of his life, Savannah Walker.  

Drake’s sister.  

A commoner.  

The irony is not lost on me.  

I wonder if they knew my … differences would be the advantage they needed to get back in Court’s good graces, and that is why Maxwell was so insistent I return with him.  

But I don’t have time for them; I need to escape this room, these people. I give them a false smile and tenuous promises that we’ll talk over dinner and continue along my path. From the corner of my eye, I see Penelope, Olivia, Madeleine, and Neville huddled together, sipping champagne as their eyes flit about the room and their lips move.  

I catch Madeleine’s eye and deliberately slow my gait to ensure they all get a good look at me.  

Pretentious bitches. 

Olivia holds my gaze the longest but is the first to break our staring contest. The Duchess of Lythikos, wrapped in insecurity and shrouded in infamy, is perplexed at what anyone could possibly see in me when Penelope had lineage, Madeleine held pedigrees and titles in two countries, and Olivia herself was RIGHT THERE … drops her gaze like the coward she is.  

Who’s the commoner now? 

There’s a sneer on Neville’s lips, but his eyes are curious as he studies my body poured into the red dress. He doesn’t bother to hide neither his disdain nor his desire.  

None of these Cordonians do.  

Sometimes, when the night is quietest, I wonder if I’m simply too full of myself; maybe, just maybe these people do find me interesting and funny and my blunt observations of how the world works refreshing.  

And then I come back to reality.  

I have nothing to offer but my body and Maybelline-enhanced looks. While I closely follow politics and international news, and am a voracious reader at times, all I have is a 10th grade education, a body count that would make most folks faint, and know how to serve food.  

They wonder what the King sees in me. They assume to know what I see in him.  

I don’t belong here, and we all know it. But they need me.  

I hold the advantage, the advancement they seek. And it’s between my legs. The Promised Land rests upon my shoulders, and the entrance lies between my thighs. It both confuses and infuriates them that if they could just touch, sniff, taste it … they would be even more exalted than they already were.  

I hate this place.  

Even if I deigned to help them climb one more rung up the social ladder, what can they offer me of value? 

I married the King.  

Which is why they want me.  

To use me even further.  

I mask my insecurity with a curt nod to the small group as I pass them. They reluctantly bow their heads in acknowledgement of their Queen.  

Rule #6: Don’t ever let them see your weaknesses.  

My steps become brisker, quicker as the terrace doors come into view; protocol dictates I keep my head up, but my eyes stare straight ahead. The less people I make eye contact with, the fewer I have to deal with.  

Rule # 7: Mind your business, not everyone else’s.  

The air is stiff and cool against my back as I stare up at the full moon; I breathe contentedly as it bathes my body in its pale light. I enjoy the stolen moments alone; they’re a rarity in my new life. It’s not that I mind crowds; what I don’t like is being the center of attention.  

Unwanted attention.  

I slowly nurse my drink as I look out over the garden maze. I wonder about Liam’s mother, what type of woman she was. She had vision if the magnificent garden is any indication.  

I wonder about Daniel, my one true friend in all the world; is he okay? Would he recognize me now? I don’t look the same, I don’t even smell the same.  

I’m an imposter, playing a role I’m ill-suited for.  

I don’t hear Liam approach me, but I feel his nearness. He emanates an energy that ignites a heat within me.  

“I’ve been looking for you,” he says softly as he sets his glass of scotch on the stone ledge.  

“I needed air before dinner,” I explain.  

He nods, his eyes trained on the lush rosebushes below. “Riley, are you unhappy?” 

I look over at him; his profile is in shadow, and I cannot read his expression. I quickly swallow a gulp of alcohol before answering. “No.”  

It isn’t a complete lie.  

“Why do you ask?” 

“I realize nobility is … different and can be difficult for an outsider to navigate. I have spoken to the most senior members of both Court and Council, and you should find them to be more … helpful going forward. And with our courtship being an unorthodox whirlwind, I just …” 

He breaks off as he lifts his glass to his lips. He studies the amber liquid for a moment before setting the tumbler back down. “We don’t talk. Not about matters of substance.” 

I stare at him. The rules dictate that I don’t speak on matters of importance; men want my body, not my brains. I sit prettily, make noncommittal comments, and nod my head in agreement while I wait to part my lips or spread my legs.  

I know coitus, not communication.  

“What … what do you want to talk about?” I ask as my stomach twists nervously.  

I’m certain that he’s ending the marriage.  

New and different have expiration dates.  

I feel an inexplicable disappointment at the thought. 

He turns his head so I can see fully into his face. His expression is almost tormented, his eyes inscrutable.  

“I am your husband. You are my wife. I’m in love with you but know hardly anything about you! When I touch you, you tremble as if afraid or … repulsed.”  

I hear the crack in his voice as his head drops. 

“If you know nothing about me, how can you be in love with me?” I ask quietly. “Sex isn’t love.” 

His head lifts quickly, and his words tumble from his lips. “With you, I feel alive! I feel possibility! Your touch both soothes and calms me. When I see your face, I feel as if I can take on the world. The courage it must have taken to give up your life to take a chance on a stranger; the strength you must have to endure Court day in and day out … it’s an inspiration. My inspiration!” 

His fingers comb through his hair as he worries his lower lip. “Maybe … maybe that isn’t love at all, but I’m willing to find out. But I need you to give me … give us ... a chance.” 

I hold his gaze, my lower lip trembling. I set my tumbler carefully on the balustrade before wrapping my arms around myself as I desperately think of an acceptable answer.  

“You’re chilled,” he incorrectly surmises as he steps closer to me to pull into an embrace.  

“Riley,” his breath whispers through my tresses, “how do you feel about me? Truly.” 

My eyes close briefly; I feel a tear make its way down my powdered cheek.  

If only Court weren’t such a shitshow.  

If only I were worthy.  

If only there were no rules.  

I press my cheek into the crook of his neck; my arms tighten about his waist.   

“You make me want to break the rules.” 

Tagging:  @jared2612 @ao719  @marietrinmimi @merridithsmiscellany-blog @queenjilian @indiacater @kingliam2019 @bebepac @liamxs-world @mom2000aggie  @liamrhysstalker2020​  @neotericthemis​ @twinkleallnight​ @umccall71​ @superharriet​  @busywoman​ @gabesmommie1130​ @tessa-liam​ @phoenixrising0308​ @beezm​ @gardeningourmet​ @lovingchoices14​ @foreverethereal123​ @mainstreetreader​ @angelasscribbles​ @lady-calypso​ @emkay512​ @jovialyouthmusic​ @21-wishes​ @princessleac1​ @charlotteg234​ @queenrileyrose​ @alj4890​ @yourfavaquarius111​ @motorcitymademadame​ @bbrandy2002​ @queenmiarys​  @choicesficwriterscreations​

[eqtmonline03-blog]

Did We Underestimate Trump?

Time will prove that the US eventually makes a fool of itself. - People's Daily, official newspaper of the Chinese Communist Party

POITOU, FRANCE - We've made two bold, perhaps reckless, predictions.

As to one of them, we're beginning to have doubts

Peculiar Rates

Our first prediction was that the Fed will never normalize interest rates. It claims to have begun the normalization process more than three years ago, in June 2015, taking tiny steps toward higher rates - increasing them by 25 basis points each quarter.

But consumer price inflation is walking faster... and now - 10 years after its emergency rate cuts - the Fed's key lending rate is only 2%, nearly 100 basis points below the rate of inflation.

In other words, the Fed is still lending money at a very abnormal rate.

The Fed will never normalize its rates because it has created an economy that depends on peculiar ones. Normal rates, discovered by cooperating parties in a free market, would now sink both the economy and the stock market.

Most likely, stocks will fall and the economy will go into a vicious recession long before the Fed gets anywhere close to normal.

Then, it will repeat Mistake #3, dropping rates again in a panic. We have high confidence that that is what will happen - especially with the self-described "king of debt," Donald J. Trump, egging it on.

It's our second prediction that we're beginning to wonder about. We predicted that the president would back off from his trade war. But after his latest tweets, we're not so sure.

Local Update

Let us get to that in a moment. First, a local update:

Europe has been suffering from a heat wave - a canicule, as they call it here in France. Lawns dry up. Retirees drop dead. The young and old stay indoors during the heat of the day.

Few people have air conditioning. It is rarely needed. And even today, with temperatures in the 90s, it isn't as uncomfortable as you might think. Humidity is low.

The old houses - with their thick, stone walls - never heat up completely. Windows are thrown open at night to cool the houses down. In the morning, outside shutters, windows, indoor shutters, and curtains are closed to keep the heat out.

And in the evening, we enjoy a long, slow dinner outside... as the light and heat fade away.

Oh... and we have a new project!

Big doors - 14 feet high - are meant to block the passageway to the inner farmyard. Alas, they have been falling down ever since we got here 23 years ago.

Now, it's time to do something about them. But what? How?

Stay tuned.

Bill's newest project: A set of old doors at his home in the French countryside

Buck Stops

Meanwhile, we leave the real world of real things, real problems, and real solutions... and return to the make-believe world of Donald J. Trump.

Not that we have anything against America's chief executive... But he sits at the desk where the buck stops and bravely takes responsibility for all that happens during his watch. And he seems like the perfect person for the job.

Thrown up by malicious fate... carefully chosen by the mischievous gods... and groomed for catastrophe, like Custer for the Battle of the Little Bighorn... or Edward John Smith for the Titanic...

...Mr. Trump is a phenomenon; generations will sing his praises or curse his name, depending on how it turns out.

How it will turn out is, of course, beyond our ken. We can only try to understand what is going on and guess about how it ought to turn out.

And our guess is that China's People's Daily is right... The U.S. will make a fool of itself.

Mr. Trump has nothing to be ashamed of. At least, insofar as macroeconomics is concerned; Barack Obama didn't know anything about it, either. It's not a job requirement.

And few politicians have the time or motivation to think very deeply about it. Instead, they bring on advisors who inevitably come with their own bad ideas and hidden agendas.

Readers remind us that Donald Trump is a rich guy - a seasoned businessman who was trained at Wharton, the prestigious business school of the University of Pennsylvania.

But this only makes us suspicious of Wharton; what do they teach there?

Do they mention that, as a general rule, as trade expands, people grow richer? More trade means more transactions, more competition, more choices, more learning, and more specialization.

That's how an economy moves ahead. It's also why some groups are rich and others are poor. A poor economy is one in which everyone has about the same knowledge.

It's a bit like the life we see up in the mountains of Argentina. All the locals know the same things - how to plant corn, how to cure hides, how to protect the sheep from the pumas, and how to build mud roofs.

In a rich society, people know very different things. One knows how to program a computer... another knows how to fix the toilet... and still another knows how to bake bread.

The rich guy is not the jack-of-all-trades, but the one who figures out one metier better than others. Then, this dispersed, specialized knowledge is brought together through trade.

Usually, the larger the free-trade area, the richer the people in it. As the trade zone shrinks, so does its wealth.

Fight to the End

But along comes the Wharton graduate, Donald J. Trump, building walls with razor wire on top... between the U.S. and China, Europe, Iran, Mexico, and Canada.

The press reports that some Canadians have begun boycotting U.S. products.

According to People's Daily, China vows it will "never surrender to blackmail." Instead, it will "fight to the end." China also stepped up its purchases of Iranian oil... in defiance of Trump's new sanctions.

Europe passed a law making it illegal to comply with Trump's sanctions against Iran.

And that's just today's news!

As the walls go up, Mr. Trump thinks he is "winning" because China's stock market is down.

POTUS tweeted:

Tariffs are working big time. Every country on earth wants to take wealth out of the U.S., always to our detriment. I say, as they come,Tax them. If they don’t want to be taxed, let them make or build the product in the U.S. In either event, it means jobs and great wealth.....

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So if you have faith in Mr. Trump, getting rich is a piece of cake. Just buy stocks. The market will go up "dramatically," he says, as he puts the world economy in order.

If you lack faith, on the other hand, you may want to sell short. Walls surely increase the risk of a crash on Wall Street and a global depression.

Which brings us back to our second prediction: Since the Deep State depends on the survival of the present, EZ-money financial regime, and since the system heavily depends on China to provide low-priced goods (keeping inflation at bay in the U.S.) and to recycle its Main Street earnings into Wall Street assets (mostly U.S. Treasuries), we forecast that The Donald would never follow through on his trade threats... especially with China.

The Deep State itself would be the biggest loser.

We assumed that someone would explain the risk... and he would back down.

But as of last weekend, it still appeared that he had slept through his key Wharton classes and wasn't taking calls from Deep State insiders.

Instead, he may be serious about disrupting the world economy and stifling world trade. If foreigners want to do business in the U.S., he says, they can damned well pay a tax... or make stuff in the USA.

Presidents say dumb things all the time. Most mumble and hedge... on this hand, this... on that hand, that...

One of Mr. Trump's charms is that he says what he thinks and does what he wants, no matter how ignorant, mendacious, or moronic.

The walls go up... and the ground beneath them trembles.

Regards,

Bill Bonner, Bonner & Partners Vivek Kaul's Diary

PS: When the markets nosedive, that's the best time to put wealth building in motion. Small caps are crashing - that only means there is more opportunity than ever to buy them up - get our market-beating small caps recommendations here.

Bill Bonner is the President & Founder of Agora Inc, an international publisher of financial and special interest books and newsletters.

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