The EGP: Derived Wealth
Written By Jeff Phillips
June 24th, 2010
The EGP: The Economic Ghost Post is a weekly article examining economic theories through the invention of ghost stories…a wicked blend of essay & fiction – phantoms as the allegorical Vanna White of ‘Econ.’
George rolled up the Wall Street Journal and threw it at his cat. “Don’t scratch my leather!” George had just moved in to his new lavish house on the hills. The cat was now hiding behind the leather chair. “Don’t think I feel sorry for you little critter. We’ve only had this chair a day and you’re tearing it up.” George kicked the cat out from beneath the chair. “Get out of there!” George calmed and sat. His chest felt heavy, and his body suddenly chilly. Something pulled at his hair! He stood! George Downs turned and shuddered when he realized no one was actually there.
George didn’t get scared often. And when he did it was usually over dire financial mistakes made by his firm but those worries were washed away when bailout money arrived. When a media man hounded George once on his way out of the office on why did these mega institutions get bail outs instead of the American people, George snapped back “they already do, it’s called welfare.” George was fearless when he plunged into all night poker games during college, betting stipend money to the max. His habits didn’t change much when he found himself knee deep in derivatives, engaging in agreements contingent on future prices. He told his mom at the time that he was no longer entering in risk. He was now just selling risk. He masterminded hedge funds to protect the future price of oil, assuming there would always be some. Again, George didn’t get scared often. When the economy took a turn for the worst, he knew his bets against the future price of gold would hold strong. And no one but his dumb cat knew where he had buried his physical stash of gold in the new backyard.
George turned and shuddered when he realized no one was actually there. Still, his mind was convinced of the presence of something, something dark and unable to be sensed by naked senses. He hissed for its departure. The presence retaliated, and manifested itself as a raucous vibration, ripping apart at the framework of the house, splitting wood, and inducing the roof to collapse and bring the whole down as a pile of useless lumber.
It was when George pulled himself from the pile of wood and continued to be badgered by the angry spirit that George felt the deepest fear possible…no bet nor fund could protect him from some strange force he couldn’t comprehend. Through gut instinct, George unleashed another bet. “You can move a house but I bet you can’t move gold!” With his own hands George dug away in the dirt of his yard, with the intent to grab his stash and high tail it. Aghast, he found nothing in the expected spot! He looked around…yes it lined up with the three sycamores…the marker. Near a panic attack George leaned up against one of the sycamores…he looked up when he heard something fall through the trees. A gold bar descended with high velocity and slipped through his gaped mouth, perfect shot. Something chuckled as George choked. The rest then took a plunge in suite and struck George in not so nice places.
George’s own brother did quite well with his bet against George’s life insurance policy, and didn’t quite mean what he said to himself in the shower, when he muttered that he would cease such devil worship to win his silly bets. He was only processing an idea that he later thought on as not very beneficial to his self interest.
Jeff’s books are available at WhiskeyPike.com & TurbanTan.com. His shorter works have appeared in Thirteen Pocket’s Seeding Meat series, Bellows, and will appear in an upcoming publication by Trifecta Publishing in NYC.
