PERFECT CREDIT BY LUCAS VERSTEGEN

PART I LEGACY

PART II VALUE INVESTING

My beautiful empire ants

The purple of women, the exotic fruit. Typical usage is arbitrary human need, arbitrary male need for without the evil thoughts gain creativity. He’d gained a flavor, a taste for the exotic purple flesh hidden. Lined up and taken. Manacled by the neck, fourteen in order of heighth. Unsure if this was a life acceptable to the natives, but it was at least life. Pritchard’s own personal purgatory for his fourteen beauties. Close you eyes and you’ll burst into flames. Princess and peasant gatherer chained together alike, casting internal dispersions of class, whose future existence is to obtain my pleasure and be my beautiful ants. After weeks manacled there was no longer a need to detach for his appetite. Ringing of chains being brought in, the small servant being rough on these poor wretches. A life of being fucked he could never fathom, his servitude was superior in the house. No longer named, they were merely positions in a chain his exotic bunched fruit. All from a whim who goes with breakfast today. Yellowed eyes on blackened skin, he liked to be rough. Pritchard settled on fourteen as enough time for the marks to heal on one end before moving to the other. Distance was also an issue, but rhythm was achieved and this morning he took his pick in the middle of the line. All five four turned over, buttocks up, each left and right bathed her in preparation. Eyes from the servants, concubine upon the floor looking anywhere but in, Pritchard mounted handling her throat. Chains moved on the end and he saw the servant clubbing one on the end. This disruption would be handled before lunch, for both, but mission was underway. For what reason did He create these majestic beasts, did he bless me with these temptresses and bliss my never-ending water, all mine. New ones still give back presuming voice and action will obtain reward. Pritchard saw only the glow of God’s light in the shine of their ant bodies and the wonder of their pink and purple vaginas. He always got rough before the end, this was his penance. Forgive her Father for she is sin. The servant was pulled before lunch and given five lashes from the chicotte for his disruption. Welcome home.

NOTE SOME POINT SOMEWHERE A FOUR DOOR PORSCHE CAYENNE IS AN ABOMINATION.

Haunting by the nkondi - what if its a deal with the devil type relationship? Meaning f. does something bad, cheating at school etc, maybe worse. Definitely worse, killing the bird. And the nkondi acts as a monolithic voice guiding the death of the bird. nkondi acts out of release of pain to and for the bird, but is perceived then as a providing assistance. Continues to haunt.

Somewhere between a barn and a shed, the backhouse kept cars of a semi-premium caliber. A collection, but not worth the expense of continued maintenance. A collection, but not an active investment. A spiritous want of the obscure beauty that others seem not to have yet noticed and may never pick up on. Exhaust fans hum, the light stays dim mid day. f. was out for the afternoon walking the property with his Daisy 95 Woodstock air-pump bb gun. Pumping in between steps, until all diminishing returns were rote he continued pumping. Like everything in the family’s lineage the backhouse contained intention and order, a history preserved. Triumphs lined the end, TR2’s TR3’s GT6’s Spitfires and TR4’s. Everything pre-bumper laws, the rubber blocks blemished the entire silhouette. Reds were his father’s favorite followed by steely blues and British racing greens. Canary yellow old wealth trimmed and covered. Wood grain finish surrounded wood grain steering. MG roadsters from the 60’s, his father’s joy ride not stalled and held timeless. Breathed upon semi-annually by staff and maybe half that by father. MGB’s, Midgets. Midgets made for tight London roads, tighter Manchester allies. Overcast summers with convertible tops, polythene and polyester new world rubber use cohabitating woolen shorts and woolen vests. A summertime vest of deep marino and calico stripes. Midgets with houndstooth seats, his father was always partial to two doors two seats. Inclusion was special, experience limited. Their purpose was never four doors and barely four seats, but the whores need a place to sit as well as the luggage. Austin Healy’s, Jags, Aston Martins, even a few beamers slipped in. Each there own nuanced perversion. Austin Healy’s love my frog eyes. Real frog eyes, real amicable tits on the face of a colored blur flying past. Houndstooth seats upper left sloped negative one with antithetic headlight grills pitching back right. Jags built horrendously, consistently failing, but gorgeous the animal leaping off the hood. Exotica, he always chased exotica in the dark. The Jaguar presented its own set of untouchables, dilution of the bloodline for a taste of the devil. A BMW was the opposite. Germanic, pummeled into the ground, and still pristine. His father’s collection of ugly cousins was a fun exercise in capturing beauty, taming oddity, and blowing a dusted stained glass pane for your troubles. Reside inside. f. was on the hunt, entirely theoretically, for bad robbers and thieves in black. Even at eleven he knew he was destined for reverence, not his eventual mediocrity, complacency. A pedestalled life without challenge creates the complacency that is death. Here now, he knew on the hunt he was to become a man, pumping, walking, traveling the property with a raygun from God hisself. Another pump and he would be a saint, a hit target and he begot aim of an Apostle. f. was a disciple, and disciples spread the Word. And the Word smote those who didn’t listen. Ever-dimly lit the upper rafters housed a fresh nest for the space was all but abandoned bi-annually. A stranger in the sky, a sparrow one of thousands became the wrath of God and the wrath in f. Became, or met? What is a real man? At eleven, a real man kills. Dissuasion from hunting and an aftermath of provision, this is killing. Taking forth, proclaiming what is yours. f. had pumped all he could, and now simply needed a target for his aversions. Muddy, dusty, ambiguous and a lost face in the rain this sparrow would understand my Word of the Lord in an unholy act. Or possibly he just wanted to see what would happen. Do children of eleven touch a hot stove or high five a stop sign in passing. What could possibly happen but the result. And could f. ever expect to actually hit it? Questions in moments while aim is still held and pellet released. A snap, a suffocating vacuum in an empty room. Skeletons and remnants of a british empire’s modsquad grandchildren burst into inaction. Movement and fluttering, the sparrow did a rain dance upon the floor and f. watched. Remorse drained out his pallet of emotion post-adolescence, yet today he still felt a tinge. A grip of what have I done, followed by acceptance of the result. The result was rain, slowing down the spasms while fighting for escape. f. found the dance floor, ceremony astir, the sparrow seizing and writhing. Today was the day. Results are action, and the nkondi figurine spoke. Some two and a half feet tall, mahogany, deeply stained and pierced a thousand times over. Here is your enemy here is your wrath, accept it. The figurine appeared, simply was, and was talking. F. didn’t need to look to know it was there, it was as if it had always been. A spirit captured, entombed in wood, whipped to death mercilessly by dried hippo hide curled and gnarled to get the proper snap, the proper result. Lashed and nailed, shrunk and entombed. Here is your result destoyer of beauty, finish the gig and remove the pest, the intruder to what is to become yours. Your collection, your family seal. F. had to split the Daisy 95, he wasn’t strong enough to open it for reload independent of his knee. No time to fiddle about you made the kill, finish it child. Nkondi watching every move, standing next to f. but in no way guiding. Judging every move. The mushroom pellet fit into its home, snapped back to barrel fit into its place, the lever popped and glided back into its position. How many pumps is enough? Did he ask or did it. How many? Still dancing, now with just one wing. Maybe he could wait, but that was a cheater’s victory. Finish the result. F. had been pumping in contemplation so surely he possessed the power needed. One shot, one clip, this time too close underfoot for contemplation or remorse. He killed today like his fathers before him. Today was a win.

Generation Six:

Every personal ambition starts with a wanton dream, a dream of escalation. Escalation of self, status, stature, image. Selfish to its core. G6’s dream was the antithesis, the most selfless of all. His dream was heightened legacy for his lineage, a dream of entry through the ivory gates. How better to achieve enlightenment than to send the next generation through to a new echelon via a sacrificial lamb or two along the way. A world beyond his meager butcher’s life. From early on his son took precedence in their home, naturally of the time and also out of hope for growth above his delicate stature. Our fathers’ transgressions live on tenfold each generation hence. They lived in a triplex

Was he a butcher? Did he own a grocery or proprieter of the market? Middle class to upper but not well off enough to not see the daughters.

G6 has a faceless wife who maintained utmost obedience as required by the times. A backbone had no place in their home, and though g6 maintained his general optimism for his family name he could be cutting and cold. Cold was the way of the world and so he adjusted. He was hoping for a son when he had Henrietta. When she was three she was joined by a second disappointment, her sister Louise. At each turn g6 was prepared for a baby boy and at each birth he transmogrified their names to female counters. Never a man to give up hope, the birth of g6’s first son, his third child, was the proudest day of his life. A meek child, g5 came in at 8 pounds even. Every want and ambition swelled with g6 to build up a strong son, ingratiate him the world.

—somewhat bleakness to the city. cholera outbreaks and changes to the sewerway of the Senne. Expansion of the mind being looking out and beyond, diplomacy by way of missions off to Africa for g5. a want to be included. —- I need to assign names and I need to describe the home and life of G6. At no point here have I established they are in Brussels. Would an outline make this easier to digest???

HERE THE PLOT IS DRIVEN BY THE WANT OF THE FUTURE. FUTURE IS PRESENTED IN SCHOOLING FOR THE SON, ACADEMY TURNING INTO LIFE INSIDE THE ROYAL WORLD. ROYALS GO TO THE SCHOOL AND THIS IS THE G5 ENTRY INTO THAT WORLD. FOCUSING AND STRESSING ON BETTER DOWN THE LINE, GOING INTO BROTHEL, SEEING THE WHORES PITTED AND OLD. CLANDESTINE ENTRY, INTO ANOTHER ROOM INTO ANOTHER ROOM, MAYBE G6 IS DRUNK AND STUMBLES IN AND WITNESSES THE TRANSACTION. THE SALE INTO THE OCCULT. HE OWNS THE LAMB. (DO SOME RESEARCH REALLY ON BIBLE REFERENCE TO LAMB AND DRAW THE CORRECT PARALLEL). THIS IS HOW HE COMES TO SELL THE DAUGHTERS, AND PROMOTE SON INTO THE ECHELON. Father has tied his happiness to his legacy. Indelibly to his accomplishments. His worth is tied and he has missed the mark. In his view his most selfless act is selling his daughter to pay for son’s education.  “The birth of his first son, his third child, was the proudest day of g6’s life. 

***Could have two generations with same name and reader would need to pick up who is who.