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  GREED

  Book One of

  The Death of Money

  By D. Thomas Jewett

  GREED

  Book One of

  The Death of Money

  Copyright (c) 2012, 2016, 2018 by David T. Jewett. All rights reserved.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission from the Author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews, or except where permitted by law.

  Certain public figures – both individuals and corporations – are represented herein. In representing these figures, the Author has, wherever possible, shown these figures according to information recorded in public records. Where the Author depicts private conversations and/or behavior by public figures, the Author hereby states that these depictions are fiction, and are derived solely from the Author’s imagination. Aside from those public figures depicted herein, all other characters and corporations are fiction, and are a figment of the Author’s imagination – and any resemblance to real people or corporations is coincidental.

  DISCLAIMER: The Author hereby declares that he is not an investment adviser; and that nothing contained herein should be construed as investment advice. For investment advice, the reader is encouraged to seek a competent investment adviser.

  This book previously published under the title: Edge of Darkness; Book One of the Bankster Chronicles, by David Jewett and Dave Jewett.

  www.davidjewettauthor.com

  www.jtmediapublishing.com

  www.whenmoneydies.com

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  “History is written by the winners.”

  -- Napoleon

  GREED – Book 1 of The Death of Money

  Prologue

  Banking was conceived in iniquity and born in sin. The Bankers own the earth. Take it away from them, but leave them the power to create deposits, and with the flick of the pen they will create enough deposits to buy it back again. However, take away that power, and all the great fortunes like mine will disappear — as they ought to in order to make this a happier and better world to live in. But, if you wish to remain the slaves of Bankers and pay the cost of your own slavery, then let them continue to create deposits.

  - - - - - Sir Joshua Stamp (1880-1941), one time governor of the Bank of England, in his Commencement Address at the University of Texas in 1927. Reportedly he was the second wealthiest individual in Britain.

  THE FULL MOON cast eerie shadows and a pale light upon the urban landscape. Yet it was in the windy, cold shadows that the shivering, disheveled couple strode quickly along the sidewalk, passing store after store. Their faces nestled down into their warm woolens, they wrapped their arms tightly around their coats, holding them close to their bodies. With teeth chattering, they deftly stepped over and around the trash, the garbage, the carcasses; all strewn along the pavement.

  The stores were lined up in a neat row, like cookie-cutter pastries in a bakery. And yet the security bars had been ripped from their mounts and thrown along the street. Stores were vandalized, if not demolished, and shattered display windows left a blanket of broken glass. Open to the elements, the damage from snow, wind, rain all accumulated until the structures around the windows rotted and sagged.

  And the carcasses. Mostly people. Dead from starvation or violence or sickness; they littered the sidewalk and the streets. Unhuman mangled forms – with chunks of flesh chewed out. Dogs – packs of dogs. No longer man’s best friend!

  And the cars – the dead cars. Sat like hulks in the streets, the windows smashed and the insides gutted. They were left wherever the gasoline ran out – gasoline was now too hard to come by, and too expensive.

  The couple made their way along the street ...

  ... food, he thought. All we need is food!

  But they maintained a quick vigilant stride. The man, Tim, found his thoughts flashing back a few months, to a time when pandemonium ruled the streets, when gangs broke into stores and hauled out televisions, electronics – anything they thought of value. The gangs were dehumanized – thoughtless and mindless – like drones around a hive. For if they were more than drones, they'd have taken food and water, not televisions and stereos.

  But they were thoughtless. And so, Tim and his partner Squirt seized what the drones had overlooked – food.

  The couple continued on their way ...

  Were Tim to have his wits about him, he would have thanked God for the cold weather; for that, at least, kept the rotting carcasses from stinking. But he was not thinking, for he – actually, both of them – were nearly crazed with hunger.

  Squirt, the woman, strode slightly behind. Her legs moved quickly to keep up with the long strides of a much taller Tim; while she constantly glanced over her shoulder, too afraid that she would see what she feared. But Tim was alert and focused, always looking forward; seeking the prize of their desire.

  “Tim? Do you think we'll find food today?” she asked.

  “We've got to! We've got to ...” he replied. “I don't know that I can go much further without it.” He stopped and looked at the skinny young woman; her red hair not so fiery anymore. But her green eyes still held the fire of a toughness he knew burned deep inside her. “How're you doing, Squirt?”

  “I'll make it,” she shivered. “Let's get going – find us some food.”

  They crossed a street – the mangled sign read 175th St. They continued on, passing one storefront after another, one alley after another.

  And then Tim's acute hearing picked up a slight noise; maybe a groan. It was coming out of the darkness.

  They froze in their tracks. Both cocked their heads, seeking the direction of the sound. Tim listened; sensing it was coming from the nearby alley. His gaze sliced into the alley; trying to separate the movement of shadows from the shifting darkness.

  And then he heard it again. Louder, but still a whisper. Help ...

  “Did you hear that?”

  “Yeah,” she whispered. “What is it?”

  “Down there!” He gestured toward the alley.

  “It's a trap. I know it!” She paused. “It's like every other damn alley sound we've passed. Traps! But no food! No help!”

  “Still, I think we need to check it out,” he whispered. “Follow me; but back me up!”

  “Okay.”

  Tim pulled a pistol out of his pocket. He held it down by his side as they edged slowly into the alley. His senses scanning outward, he held his reflexes on a hair trigger – ready to bolt at the first sign of danger. Listening, watching, feeling. Squirt followed him down the alley; watching their backs.

  Tim could make out a shadowy form stretched out on the ground. They approached, slowly; coming upon an old man. He laid face up on the pavement, still breathing. Tim studied the man, observing his unkempt gray beard and his gray locks, seemingly cut at random. His tattered clothing hung from his form in strips and strings, even on the ground.

  Tim pocketed his pistol. He stooped and touched the old man; feeling his chest move, feeling for a pulse. The old man shuddered and then opened his eyes.

  “Wha? – What!” The old man blinked. “Who the hell are ya? Where am I?”

  “That's okay, mister,” Tim said in a soothing voice. “We found you lying here. You’re here in an alley.”

  “Alley? What alley?” The man lifted his head and looked around. “Get your damn hands off me!”

  The old man picked himself off the pavement. Wobbling, he grabbed Tim's shoulder. He coughed. And then he gagged, tightening his mouth shut to hold down his stomach. But to no avail, he stretched his neck forward and heaved onto the pavement. He gasped, twice, and then hea
ved again.

  He wiped his mouth on his coat sleeve. “Shit!” He spat. “God, I don't feel so good!”

  “You just hang on for a bit, old man.”

  The old man held onto Tim’s shoulder while his dizziness faded. He let go and attempted to stand unaided, wincing as he put weight on his left foot. “Damn. That hurts,” he spat. “I must’ve sprained my ankle.”

  “You okay, sir?” the girl asked.

  “What the hell do you want?” The old man spat through his nearly toothless mouth. He straightened up and glared at the couple, his eyes narrowing to slits. “Who the hell are you?”

  “No one,” Tim said. “I guess we'll be on our way.”

  The couple turned and began to retrace their steps.

  “Wait a minute.” The old man’s voice was forceful. “Maybe we can trade!”

  Tim and Squirt stopped in their tracks. They turned to look back at the old man.

  “Maybe we can trade,” the old man said again, quietly this time.

  “Have you got food?” Tim asked.

  “That depends,” said the old man. “I'm lookin' for silver – got any?”

  “If you've got food, I've got silver,” Tim replied.

  “Follow me,” the old man said. He turned and limped further down the alley, further into the shadows. The couple followed, Tim keeping his hand in his pocket, grasping his pistol.

  “Damn it hurts,” he growled as he limped up to a metal door. He pulled out a key and inserted it into the padlock. Click! He pulled the door open, turned his head and looked at the couple with a toothless grin. “C'mon,” he cackled. He limped through the door and a light quickly came on from inside.

  The couple followed him through the door. Tim's hand was still in his pocket, grasping his pistol.

  Tim and Squirt were a bit dazed at finding themselves in a lighted, heated living space. Tim looked around and could see that the light came from a kerosene lantern. He scanned the room, noting a bed and a kerosene space heater – and a kitchen. “You live pretty well!” Tim said. The heat was already beginning to warm them.

  The old man limped over to a cupboard, opened a cabinet, and revealed a stack of canned food. He grabbed two cans and held them up next to his nearly toothless grin. “How's chili sound?”

  Tim looked at the cans dubiously. “How much?”

  The grizzled old man's toothless smile appeared once again. “A dime a piece.”

  “A dime a piece!” Squirt exclaimed. “Why, that's highway robbery!”

  The old man shrugged. “Take it or leave it.”

  “We'll take it,” Tim replied. He pulled two silver dimes from his pocket.

  The man took the dimes and dropped them into his pocket. “I've got a fire. I can heat it up. Or you can eat it cold,” he offered.

  “Cold,” the couple said at once, too hungry to wait.

  The old man opened the cans, handing one and a spoon to each of his ‘guests’; and then he took one for himself.

  Tim and Squirt wolfed down the food, scraping the inside of the can clean.

  “Water?” the old man offered.

  The couple nodded, and each took a glass of water. They gulped as though it were air.

  “Well,” the old man said, “I’ve got to sit. Let’s get acquainted.”

  “More food?” Tim asked.

  “Not yet,” the old man snorted. He wiped his nose with his hand. “It's best to let that sit for a while before you eat anymore.” He paused and studied the couple shrewdly. “You two haven't eaten in a while.”

  They each found a chair and looked curiously at their host. The young woman opened the conversation. “So, who are you?”

  “Me? I'm Jim. Just Jim,” he shrugged. “My friends call me Jim. You can call me Jim.” He paused and took in the couple, his mouth forming the shape of a crooked moon. “And who are you? How long have you been on the streets?”

  “I'm Tim, and this here is 'Squirt',” he nodded over to the young woman. “Or at least, that's what everyone calls her.”

  “Everyone?” the old man asked. “Who's everyone?”

  “Well, just me, I guess now. Everyone else we knew is dead.”

  “Yep,” replied the old man as he scratched the stubble on his cheek. “That's truth everywhere now.”

  “What do you mean?” Squirt asked.

  The old man gestured over to a radio on the far desk. “That’s a ham transceiver rig. With it, I can pick up a lot of traffic from the rest of the country. Even from around the world.” He leaned forward earnestly, “I gotta tell ya, the world has really changed! That’s truth.”

  “How so?” Squirt asked.

  The old man eyed her. “I don’t think you wanna know.”

  Squirt hesitated. “Sure, I want to know.”

  “No. You don’t.” He looked down a long while. Then his voice took on a grim tone. “The once-great United States of America is dead! It's balkanized; reduced to city states and guarded areas. It split into a bunch of regions. Let’s see.” He began counting on his fingers as he listed the regions. “The New England states, the Atlantic Coast states, the Southern states, the Midwest states, the Central states, the Southwest territories, the North and Northwest territories, and the Far West region. And most of it is in anarchy, from within and without.”

  Even though Tim and Squirt were still hungry, they were becoming engrossed in the old man's tale...

  “Technology is gone,” he snorted. “Hell! Electrical appliances are just about useless, ‘cause there's no grid anymore – and no way to power them. Unless ...” he gestured toward a back room, “unless you have batteries like me.”

  “And gasoline? Hell, it’s just about dried up. That's why all those cars on the street are just standin' there – there's no damn gas to drive 'em.” Again, he wiped his nose on his sleeve. “The population of North America is down to about 40 million. The world population is way down. No food, sickness and death everywhere, and marauding bands of slime preying on people in the big cities. Hell, just look at what happened to me! Just look at all the dead bodies out there!”

  The old man looked down again a while longer, lifted his eyes, and gazed into Tim’s.

  “The entire world has changed, guys. Truth! Oh sure ... if you're lookin' down from space, the geography is the same. But look closer, and you'll see massive chaos and upheaval around the globe. Russia and China have gone back to the 18th century. Most of Europe is in the clutches of rioting mindless Islam. South America – hell, maybe back to the 17th century. And Australia – it's burning up in the sun's rays. Everywhere, people – people like you – prowl the streets scrounging for food and fuel.”

  The old man's voice broke with a grim quiet laugh. “Mad Max and the four horsemen have come to pass!”

  Tim’s mouth contorted into a gnash. And then he spat. “Why’re you tellin’ us this?”

  The old man looked into the young man’s eyes. “Because you asked,” he finally said. “And because I thought I was doing you a favor. Hell, how else are we gonna avoid this in the future if people close their eyes to it?”

  The room became silent. And then the old man continued. “Hell. What about your kids? Your grandkids?”

  “We don’t have any kids,” Tim replied.

  “But you will. At least, if you live through this shit you will.” The old man paused and then spoke with passion. “And I gotta tell ya – this is a tale that needs to be passed down to our children. And our grandchildren. Or else we’re gonna do it all over again!”

  The room became silent. Tim and Squirt were on the edge of their seats.

  “So,” Tim finally chimed in, “How'd it happen? How'd we get to this place?”

  The old man smirked as he looked at the couple.

  “It's a long story. You sure you wanna hear it?”

  “Yeah. Go on.” Both Tim and Squirt nodded.

  “Well, we'd have to go back thousands of years to start at the beginning. But it's just as good if we go back to th
e seventeenth century. Let's say, about 1650 A.D.” The old man took a deep breath. “It was in that year that ...”

  * * * * *

  Episode 1 – The Chespik Incident

  Paper is poverty, … it is only the ghost of money, and not money itself.

  – Thomas Jefferson to Edward Carrington, 1788.

  Chapter 1 – Circa 1650 A.D.

  A HIGH CLOUD COVER nonetheless imbued a day of lightness, a day of serenity, on the people of southeast England. For it was not raining, nor was it drizzling, nor was it even damp! And the view from the Chespik village centre was of a dirt road passing through the village, the road lined with merchants' shoppes built of white or stucco covered wood frame and brick; and their thatched roofs almost touching in their orderly formation.

  Running north and south, the road had a character all its own – a coarse layer of decomposed granite, combined with finely sifted dirt – and with a soft, almost furry texture that distinguished it from its gravel cousin. Were one to hold the dirt in one's hand, it would disappear in a cloud of dust!

  And beyond the village, one could see the rolling green hills of endless countryside, tapering off in the distance, expansive and plush in their form and with a palpably soft texture, they stretched out to some place of origin – somewhere beyond the horizon.

  It was late afternoon on a summer day. And breathing all of this in, William Martin strode easily along the road. The lightness, the serenity, held him firmly in its grasp; imbuing his body – his soul – with the pleasure of life. With a bounce in his gait, he soon came upon a popular village location. A sign hung from a protruding overhead member: Olde Skippers Pub.

  William stood outside and listened. The raucous sounds of male voices – laughing, shouting, swearing, talking – penetrated the walls, spilling out onto the road. He set himself facing the entrance as he stole a deliberately large breath into his smallish frame. He pushed open the door, feeling its fluid movement give way under his hand, and affording him an easy entrance. Inside, he was greeted by raucous voices, noise, shouting, and festive chaos – all carrying through the haze of tobacco and the smell of ale and unwashed bodies.