Short Story: “Round” May 3, 2008Posted by gznork26 in Business, Fiction, Humor, Short Stories.
Tags: business fiction, common good, fiat money, financial meltdown, rescue
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(Part 5 of a series)
by P. Orin Zack
Norwyn Rosset squinted into the painfully bright desert sky. “I wonder where they all ended up?”
He stood in the road for a long moment, trying to recall exactly where the contrails from the two planes that crossed paths overhead every morning would have met. But the skies weren’t so friendly anymore. Ever since the big meltdown, people couldn’t afford to fly for pleasure. They didn’t visit distant relatives, either. The one local TV station’s farewell newscast noted that the end of business travel had sealed the fate of the two remaining passenger airlines. Soon after that, the ancient air cargo planes that lumbered low over Lingman every morning had vanished, and with them, Norwyn’s lifeline to what used to be called the American Dream. It had been weeks since he’d seen a plane in the sky, and he could only imagine where they’d all been mothballed. (more…)
Short Story: “The Tallysheet Bankers” December 7, 2007Posted by gznork26 in Bank Shot Blogger, Business, Fiction, Politics, Short Stories.
Tags: blogger, boardroom, business fiction, corporate incarceration, corporate rights, fiat money, Frank Capra, Fremont-Wayfarer, FW Diner, George Bailey, Henry Potter, international bankers, SEC, stocks and bonds, union
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Unexamined assumptions can illuminate old stories in new ways. (This sequence started in the story, “Logical Conclusion“)
“The Tallysheet Bankers”
Part 9 of a series
by P. Orin Zack
John Frachetti stood in the hallway, contemplating a door. Not the one he’d just shrunk from opening, the formidable walnut-stained entrance to the executive conference room on the top floor of Fremont-Wayfarer’s corporate headquarters, nor the figurative ingress of a chamber that might serve as his access to the world stage, but rather, a more private one, the door to the inner sanctum of his soul.
Happenstance had tangled the thin cry of his blogger’s rant against the tallysheet bankers with the anti-corporate rage being husbanded in the prison-bedecked dining rooms of the company’s restaurants. Persons unknown had murdered Edward Reese, its Chief Executive, and left him, a message still to be read, in the motel room where he’d turned down the chance to avert the trial that had ultimately imprisoned the corporation itself. And now, John had been summoned to speak before what remained of its Board, to defend the call to action which had so galvanized the chain’s employees and patrons alike, and which had driven the talking heads to demand the shuttering of thousands of doors, and the diners behind them.
He closed his eyes and took a calming breath. The hot flame that warmed his soul and illuminated his world seemed to crackle, casting an otherworldly blue glow through the insubstantial aural cloak that surrounded his inner self, protecting him from the destructive impulses of those nearby. At peace with himself, he opened his eyes, reached out and opened the door.
“There he is,” a grating voice boomed, “the sorry little cretin responsible for trashing this business.” (more…)