The Rich Man

Alex Fahey

There was a rich man, an inventor, a VIP power investor. More interested in rocketships and space, than making his planet a better place. With his money, he could not buy virtue. Merely countries, wives, and companies to sue. He dressed in clothes that were drab in color, to paint himself harmless, a benign baller. He was told the world was his to hold, and hold it he did, choke it, tenfold . Worrying not about the limit of the heights he reaches, the image of the modern male he preaches. Though one could not spot one more adept in tact, and in the art of technology, business, and fact, intellect abundant, but he was not wise. Unburdened by affection, free from true allies. He golfed with the President on Sundays, Mondays he drove winged chariots down runways. On Tuesday he played with billions from bed, whilst others assembled the visions in his head. His smile was a shark’s, eyes watery and small. His conceit Herculean, though he was not tall. A Narcissus with a greed that was utterly obscene. He saw only black and white, but his existence was green. There were never more cryptic connections between man and his loyal inventions. A king in the age of technology.

A nonconformist without apology.