First Round at the Market Tavern

Tailor Made Suits

Ri C

Final copy: 8:57 PM July 20, 2022 edits and additions in email to the Mail magazine: yay! denied...oh well, August 17, with some updates...specific to my....story!

Richard Gordon Thompson:

Richards@53881191 div Dunelm Realty Ltd

PO BOX 212 10926 Hoppe Ave

Grande Cache Ca T0E0Y0

SEC 57 TWP 056 RNG 08 MER 06 LOT 15

+1 7805011217

richardthompson@themarkettavern.ca

dunelmr@live.com

dunelmr@live.ca

wrabbitt72@gmail.com

https://themarkettavern.ca

https://whiterabbitt.picfair.com

Tailor Made;

July 12, 2020;

53.53.5-119.8.1

Municipal District of Greenview No.16

Roll # 742000

Customer #186847

Tax Year 2008

An Introduction;

Of sorts:

     "Sir, we have a problem," the voice came along with a nervous clearing of the throat.

     CEO Dan Davidson growled his morning ritual interrupted. "Talk to me in twenty minutes, wait outside with the secretary. I am busy," his face invisible bent down over the screen of his laptop while his visible left hand was clutching his smart phone in a claw like grasp.

     His interruption mercifully unpunished, Director of operations Mr. Justin White mercifully retired to the waiting room outside of the great cavern of an office that the CEO justified under expenses and appropriations as needful for his staff interactive meetings, of which he had never had a one. Mr white settled down in a chair some thirteen removed from the administrative head who was sneering at him over the brow of her glasses. It was Monday morning. It was 8:30 am and the time that this company declared that all hands were productively managing their tasks ahead of the weekly staff meeting that would begin at 9:30 amongst the many directors and managers of the company. Mr. white had come

over from a multinational banking consortium, his bonuses had been in the millions and yet here he was 3 months into the job, and he was, treated like an unruly child by his only answerable too entity in the entire corporation, shareholders included. If it were not for the money, he thought with a sigh, he would quit this high stress position and retire to his mansion in a banana republic They still existed, tax havens for those who were far to wealthy to pay taxes. But then again, the richer he got the poorer he felt. Sometimes he thought about running away from it all and starting fresh with only a few million in start up in a place where no one recognized the avarice in his eyes. Corporate life sure was about selling your soul.

     Davidson looked over the edge of his screen as what is his name, the new guy, beat a hasty retreat out of his office. It felt warm suddenly, so Dan cranked the air conditioning from his desk with a wireless connection and looked down at the "news," scrawling across his screen. He hit max bet and spun again. It was not about the money for him gambling, it was about wasting time. He was rich. No one was taking that from him. He could be retired and surrounded by scantily clad women, but something drove his need to come to this place every Monday through Thursday 8:30 til 10 (5 to the shareholders) and pretend to run the company. If anyone ever bothered to read the data they collected, he cackled silently, they would see that his production was nonexistent and that if truth were told they could simply eliminate his position and be so astronomically in the Black, that investment dollars would pour in for the return. Instead, he was about to suffer an insufferable meeting of four that would multiply itself, without him thankfully, throughout the day until every single one of the departments heads got to create enough spin to get through the weeks financial markets with their heads held high. It was a masterpiece of information dissemination. Crawley reckoned his entire company had not done a days worth of legitimate work in years. But their place as top data collection dog spoke otherwise as to their work and tenacity in the face of constantly intrusive members of the press and government. The people? They did not matter in the slightest apart from being sheep sheared. It was a wonderful set up. Complete freedom to operate, with complete immunity from all sources and participatory groups shovelled out hundreds of billions of dollars to get the product they offered. The invisible made visible. It would not be long before they had trillion-dollar corporations screaming for their services as control and spending became the provenance of his little data algorithm.