There is one, simple rule of nature and business, and that is; survival of the fittest. I don't care if you’re Mark Zuckerberg or Elon Musk -the two biggest philanthropic hypocrites this side of the fortune five hundred. They lived by this same rules I did. They burned bridges and stepped on the heads of those less capable all in the name of climbing their way up the ladder. And you know why? Because there is no such thing as down.
They will try to tell you different by donating exorbitant amounts of money to charities. They will make claims that their work is in the best interest of mankind and the planet. They will make it seem like their money makes the world a better place.
In the end, though, in the end it’s all a big stinkin’ pile of bullshit.
You know who was awesome? Steve Jobs. He was a fucking ape-shit crazy bastard, a ruthless mercenary looking out for nobody but himself, and now no one in the civilized world can live without one of his little devices in their pockets.
He was able to turn millions of people into addicts with one fell swoop of his genius and damn the consequences all the way to hell.
I don't have heroes, but Steve comes close. Taking his lead, I molded myself into a ruthless son of a bitch who commanded respect, got the job done, then moved on to the next, bigger, better job.
Conquest after conquest.
Crushing one enemy after the other.
I named myself the largest fish in the pond. And if the pond got too small, I had no qualms about moving on to an ocean.
Petersen & Stiller was my sea, I was the captain, and our vessel had the reputation as the most merciless machine on the corporate waters. We ate little tugboat start-ups, small businesses, and promising entrepreneurs for breakfast. Don't get me started on lunch and dinner. So, yes, a great deal of people didn't like me. And I’d be a liar if I said all those people didn’t have a reason.
To the best of my knowledge, however, nobody has ever wanted me dead. Oh, there were more than a dozen women or so that wanted me castrated – but to be the target in the crosshairs?
I'm sure people had thought about it, fantasized about it, but to go through the trouble of actually trying to pull it off? Rather admirable.
Whoever Maria was, she had balls as big as coconuts.
I bit off a smile as I watched her image on my screen. I wondered what was going through her mind right now, nearly naked and trussed up like a turkey in my private chambers.
Her chest was heaving, slowly. And truth be told, she had a magnificent set of tits. A pair like that would be most memorable. Very ethnic. Dark areolas on tanned skin, her nipples like mocha, save for the very, very tips. Pink and luscious. Like desserts.
But the most striking thing about those amazing breasts was that they didn’t ring even a single bell.
I tapped the screen. Another minute watching the lovely Maria, and my escalating erection would bust through my zipper.
I tucked my Samsung into my slacks, and pulled the material away from my crotch. Crossed my legs, and narrowed my gaze out the window.
Who the fuck was she?
“Not the time for porn, partner,” Martin chirped from across the limo. He took a sip of his dry martini, and winked at me over the rim of the glass.
“It's always time, and fuck you.”
Martin choked a tad on his dainty little swallow. “What's the matter? Blue balls?” He took a napkin from the holder, and dabbed the corner of his mouth.
I leaned back against the seat, and stared at him. Wondered if I should tell him. Gay men are supposed to be great confidants. Too bad Martin wasn't gay.
“First off, I've never had a case of blue balls in my life. Second, it's always time for porn, like I said, and third...”
Martin set his glass in the holder, his olive untouched and bloated. Martin Stiller drank three martinis a day in precise six hour intervals, and not once did he ever eat the olive. I never asked him why. I'd known him for over ten years, and not once did I ever give a shit about his olive. I was thinking about it now, though, and that bothered me.
He waved his fingers together and cocked his head. “Third…?”
“We need a new security company.”
“Yeah? Why?”
Because a crazy Latina broke into my office and waved a gun in my face. Not to worry because she's tied up on my bed right now, but those two goons…. Peter and Robert, I think… never even saw her come in. I had to call them, can you fucking believe that. I had to call my own security team to tell them about a breach in security when they weren’t meant to be manning the fucking cameras.
“Maddox..? We need a new security company because..?”
I reached for a mineral water from the fridge. Lemon flavored. I hated lemon flavored. I unscrewed the top, took a huge swig, and began pulling the label off the bottle.
“Because I'm unsatisfied with their service,” I said, which was a good enough reason, if you ask me. “Why don't you ever eat the olive?”
Martin took a quick glance at his glass, specifically the olive, then back to me. “You off your game, Petersen? Because now is a really fucked up time for you to be in some sort of state.”
“I'm good, man. Seriously. Just some stupid shit back at the office. But I’m not off my game.” I pondered on those last words for a minute. Then another minute. I dug my phone out again and tapped on my camera feed.
“Maddox?”
“Just a god damn minute, okay?” I growled, setting the crop square around Maria's face and zooming in. For a moment, I couldn’t decide who was
