The Death Of The Dollar

When money stops, who does the counting?

The beach was filled with the hot distemper of a far away storm. The waves flickered up hard to the thick sands, fizzing before breaking back to the black deep. Aside from the fire of the torches and white glow of the muslin gazebo, everything was plunged into the indigo gloom of nightfall. “Sir,” Jesune tried again, his mouth dry. “Sir I really must ask you to return to the villa.”

Driftwood snapped underfoot as Jack Anselm shoved his phone into his pocket, turning with a cold beady stare to the host. He was a fat, short, unremarkable sort of man, although his heavy layered tan and expensive cotton shirt warned those who knew not to cross him. “How much am I paying you, Jesune?” He snapped, his face a little too close, his breath a little too hot. “How much are you being paid to stand here, on this beach, right now.”

“A day sir?” Jesune stammered, wondering if this was how the euphoria of a real wage came to an end.

“An hour, Jesune. So that’s $8,000 a month. $2,000 a week: $288 a day. $32 an hour. To stand…