Richie Rich Vaults of Mystery
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It had been a few years since you made the fateful decision to drop out of University. You were done sitting behind a desk, crunching numbers and working towards a meaningless piece of paper. A change of pace was necessary, or so you felt like at the time. In the years since you had managed to go through as many as fifteen different jobs: bartender, bouncer, busboy in a restaurant, gym instructor, basic maintenance worker, and once you even had a gig as a male dancer at a private party of wealthy 50-somethings who needed some spice in their life. While it was far from a lucrative or stable lifestyle, it had been exactly what you had sought after upon leaving University.
It was on one bright autumn morning whilst preparing some quick breakfast that this changed for you. As you were just about to rush to work with a toast halfway in your mouth, your cellphone rang. The vibration and buzzing sound combined sent it travelling around on the counter while the screen blinked on and off, a large green icon begging you to answer the call. Above the button was a number you could not recognise and which was showing no name associated with it.
"David Allen," you answered quizzically, not used to getting calls from strange numbers.
A female voice, rough and gravelly in that way that develops after years of smoking and whiskey, picked up on the other line only to tell you to hold for a moment. With a click you hear the voice switch to a bit of music that you'd heard in an elevator at the local mall at least once. With a quick flick of your finger you set the phone on speaker and continued cooking while waiting. A sudden loud click brought your attention back to the call and you picked it up, turning off the speaker and bringing it back to your ear.
"David Allen! Good morning. My name is William Howard Scott, a senior partner at the legal firm Howse, Jones and Scott. I am calling you today on behalf of your aunt on a matter of a trust fund," the deep voice of a man told you from the other end of the call, the light echo on the line making it obvious he was probably on speaker phone while doing something else.
"A trust fund? My aunt has set up a trust fund for me?" You asked and took a step back from the stove, leaning back against a counter and furrowing your brows, of half a mind to end the call and dismiss this as a prank call.
"Yes. According to our records the fund was set up on the year of your birth by your aunt. It was created in your name with roughly $30,000 as a starting fund, although transfer of control was limited to the following circumstances: Mr. Allen obtains a bachelor's degree, or if he decides not to pursue a degree that he proves over a three-year period that he is able to provide from himself by other means. I am happy to tell you that we have recently been made aware that one of these release clauses has been triggered," the man continues for a moment while you hear papers shuffling around on the other end. "Now, obviously you no longer have a $30,000 trust fund at your disposal. The starting funds have gone through regular rotations of investment and liquidation, a routine process that in this case has been managed quite wisely. Currently your fund stands at a worth of $1,185,268 and three cents. Congratulations."
Your jaw hit the floor. In the following weeks everything went by very quickly. You went to the office of the lawyer to finalise all of the necessary paperwork with a representative from the bank also present. Your aunt decided to also attended the meeting although it was not necessary, and conducted herself by phone from her private jet. She had done very well for herself, having created her own small online business during the 90's and then promptly sold it to a large corporation just before the IT bubble burst. The conditions of the sale included enough stocks in it that allowed her to slowly climb into the board of directors of the growing multinational corporation, helped by gains from other innovative investments and businesses that she slowly rotated through. After hearing the details of the trust fund's credentials and current balance, she promptly hung up without so much as a word aimed at you. Once the signatures were on paper, everything had been properly ratified and witnessed, you walked out of the high-rise building that the lawyer's office was. For a brief moment you simply stood there on the sidewalk wondering what to do.
For the winter months you continued your life much as before, working hard and enjoying life as best you could. Yet you kept a little notebook for all the ideas you had for putting that money to work for you. Despite the fact that your aunt was stand-offish and remote most of the time, you wanted to experience the jetsetter lifestyle that she had. You wanted to be able to hop on a private jet and fly halfway across the world to watch a Formula One race in the most opulent possible place that you might find trackside, then hop on the same jet and take it to Ibiza just in time for the next big party. Of course it wouldn't be as simple as that, but the image in your mind drove you to spend wisely for now. It was during one night out when you were bar hopping with some friends that you got an idea about starting up a night club of your own. While your friends laughed it off quickly as a fool's errand, after suffering through the hangover next morning you began browsing for a suitable place. Your home city had a decent nightlife, but one mainly composed of small bars. There was only one large nightclub in town and even that was unfriendly and mismanaged. You set your mind to it. You were going to blow them out of the water.
Madison
- 27.09.2020
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