Post by Cross Recoba on Jun 3, 2019 8:59:08 GMT -5
Christian Lancaster took a deep gulp from the pewter crystal tumbler of whiskey and immediately reached for the decanter to top himself back up. The familiar burn was felt in his throat as he took in what had happened over the last few months.
His gaze fell on the steel artwork that detailed the microprocessor that made his family and their fortune, it was a pattern he’d seen all of his life. That design had sparked interest when he was just a baby, it took cell phones from being a brick to actually being portable. The upfront payment for the patent wasn’t where the money was made; it was in the shares, the positions and the residuals. His father had parlayed them into an empire, he served as a major force in the Clinton initiative to allow GPS to the masses and then profited from the resulting commercial opportunities. There was a reason a picture of Joseph Kennedy in his father’s office.
Whatever wealth the family had accrued since was directly attributed to that microchip. It had allowed Christian everything he knew in life; from the public and prep schools, the Ivy League education and everything that came in between terms. At prep school, it was de rigueur to spend the summer in Europe. What made Christian stand out amongst his peers was that he spent the summer learning to sail around Europe. Whilst some in his year saw it as a sign of the nouveau riche overstepping their mark the reality was far starker, it wasn’t his choice.
With graduation from Dartmouth assured he entered into what the least generous would consider a Faustian pact; a lump sum of money released from the family trust to accompany a generous stipend based on the lump sum accruing value each year - again, this wasn’t his choice.
He looked back to the laptop that sat atop the nineteenth century bagatelle table and saw the depressing reality that he faced. The spreadsheet projected that, maintaining current spending habits, he was on course to be cut off from the trust allowance by the time that Ryan Seacrest had signed off for the first time in 2020.
His phone went off and he saw it was a notification from PokerStarz. There was a high-stakes game taking place later that afternoon online. He considered it for his options as he saw them were limited.
He could sell shares but that would only rectify the problem short-term and Blythe, his wife, would surely notice the income shortfall. He couldn’t offset the losses through a company, he also couldn’t quite pinpoint when this all became so dark.
An addict will always tell you they’re ahead of it, they’ll also look nothing like the stereotype. He wasn’t down at the track every day, he was down through cards. Cross had yet to let him know how he wanted to settle the debt and as much as he tried to play it down the mere thought would set off a tremor in his hand.
The debt now stood at six figures, low six figures but still it was enough to make him sweat. Five figures would be austerity cuts over the months, but six figures became a saleable asset. He felt the anxiety rise into his shoulders and hands, he picked up a deck of cards from the table and began to shuffle them as a way to concentrate his mind.
His phone shot into life once more. This time it was a WhatsApp message.
“Poker at mine, Wednesday night, don’t bother with food - my mom is visiting and insisting on cooking us a ‘proper Italian’ meal. Cross”
His gaze fell on the steel artwork that detailed the microprocessor that made his family and their fortune, it was a pattern he’d seen all of his life. That design had sparked interest when he was just a baby, it took cell phones from being a brick to actually being portable. The upfront payment for the patent wasn’t where the money was made; it was in the shares, the positions and the residuals. His father had parlayed them into an empire, he served as a major force in the Clinton initiative to allow GPS to the masses and then profited from the resulting commercial opportunities. There was a reason a picture of Joseph Kennedy in his father’s office.
Whatever wealth the family had accrued since was directly attributed to that microchip. It had allowed Christian everything he knew in life; from the public and prep schools, the Ivy League education and everything that came in between terms. At prep school, it was de rigueur to spend the summer in Europe. What made Christian stand out amongst his peers was that he spent the summer learning to sail around Europe. Whilst some in his year saw it as a sign of the nouveau riche overstepping their mark the reality was far starker, it wasn’t his choice.
With graduation from Dartmouth assured he entered into what the least generous would consider a Faustian pact; a lump sum of money released from the family trust to accompany a generous stipend based on the lump sum accruing value each year - again, this wasn’t his choice.
He looked back to the laptop that sat atop the nineteenth century bagatelle table and saw the depressing reality that he faced. The spreadsheet projected that, maintaining current spending habits, he was on course to be cut off from the trust allowance by the time that Ryan Seacrest had signed off for the first time in 2020.
His phone went off and he saw it was a notification from PokerStarz. There was a high-stakes game taking place later that afternoon online. He considered it for his options as he saw them were limited.
He could sell shares but that would only rectify the problem short-term and Blythe, his wife, would surely notice the income shortfall. He couldn’t offset the losses through a company, he also couldn’t quite pinpoint when this all became so dark.
An addict will always tell you they’re ahead of it, they’ll also look nothing like the stereotype. He wasn’t down at the track every day, he was down through cards. Cross had yet to let him know how he wanted to settle the debt and as much as he tried to play it down the mere thought would set off a tremor in his hand.
The debt now stood at six figures, low six figures but still it was enough to make him sweat. Five figures would be austerity cuts over the months, but six figures became a saleable asset. He felt the anxiety rise into his shoulders and hands, he picked up a deck of cards from the table and began to shuffle them as a way to concentrate his mind.
His phone shot into life once more. This time it was a WhatsApp message.
“Poker at mine, Wednesday night, don’t bother with food - my mom is visiting and insisting on cooking us a ‘proper Italian’ meal. Cross”