PRESIDENT
High above the city, in the sky, the
town's demons cry of foul deeds.
The master in the backroom is
arranging his threads. 'We make
money from any deal we can, you
understand. There's nothing to it,
just add to the number. Buy low,
sell high(er). Sort of like that.'
-
It's a ten-year sentence, waiting
all this out. I've nothing to show
for it but lethargy now. A few
piles of money in some very
nondescript banking city.
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