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Goldsmiths' Official Student Magazine

Mr God Money: a satire of limited imagination – Read part 2 here

November 20, 2012
Writer__William Coxon   Part 1 ‘Ah Jane, step into my office.’ A smaller man than I, arms and legs withered in obsolescence, ushers me into his white office. His crude eyes drip all over my rippling assets. I am diversely-structured in a tight dress that constricts blood flow to my extremities and, least importantly, my…

Writer__William Coxon

 

Part 1

‘Ah Jane, step into my office.’

A smaller man than I, arms and legs withered in obsolescence, ushers me into his white office. His crude eyes drip all over my rippling assets. I am diversely-structured in a tight dress that constricts blood flow to my extremities and, least importantly, my brain. Selected by him in a B.C.C. email to himself, given reason being ‘to monitor movement of capital and ensure malleability in event of resistance’.

‘We need to talk, sit down on that chair’

‘Yes sir.’

‘Oh don’t call me sir, call me Mr. God Money, or just Mr. God Money, for short.’

‘OK, Mr. God Money, what do you want to talk to me about?’

I say this anticipating his pants around his ankles, his plain black business socks cutting into foam-thick calves. I cross my legs to avoid toxic speculation. Mr. God Money sits in a chair 3.34m above the floor, ascending via human pyramid of congealed vice-presidents and emaciated ex-wives (who number in the thousands and flutter across the floor like obsolete currency).

‘I’m talking about your redundancy package, Jane.’

My heart sub-prime-mortgage-lends in my mouth.

‘My, my redundancy package?’

‘That’s right Jane, I’m going to make you redundant so hard. I’m going to stick my redundancy package all the way up your hedge-fund. I’m going to outsource all over your face.’

He unzips his fly and produces a boneless thumb that quivers in the breeze of the air-conditioner. His sweat patches are visible through his three piece suit; a P.R. man pops out of the pyramid assuaging me that the size of Mr. God Money’s profit margin is congruent with Grecian ideals. All I can think of is rubbing it between my thumb and forefinger until total liquidation of all assets.

‘I’m going to lay you off without any lump sum, convert your payoff scheme into company shares and drive it all into the ground, leaving you with nothing.’

My commodities engorge with the promise of financial ruin. He descends via human pyramid, testicles jingling with loose change. His withered arms tremble when stuffing fifty pound notes into my mouth. The notes taste of strangers’ hands. He tries to stand me up but his foetal arms bend and lock from decades of disuse. He urges two vice-presidents to pick me up and haul me over the chair, pulling my skirt down.

‘I’ll make you so destitute you’ll never fucking ski in the Alps again, or buy Innocent Smoothies on a semi-regular basis.’

Mr. God Money has trouble getting hard. Barack Obama jump-jacks up and plunges a stimulus package up his shrivelling profit margin while vice-presidents divulge his net-worth in choral chanting to the nearest decimal place. His redundancy package is now bulging with fiscal conservatism and the fury of untapped markets. He rams his redundancy package up my unexploited market, hairless from austerity, and my hymen rips like notes being torn with practised abandon and then passed around the hands of many men. Virgins are a primary market. Fifteen seconds pass and his face melts like plastic. Ticker tape readouts of emerging markets spurt wildly from his profit margin. A sharp ring issues from his Bluetooth headset. Mid-economic meltdown his face reforms and he puts his finger to his ear, accepting the call, ticker tape still falling all over my face

‘Hey, Putin, what’s up? Right now? Sure, and lunch with the family tomorrow.’

Part 2

A bulldozer knocks the wall down. A horde of ex-wives mumbling vowels (tongues taken as part of the divorce settlement) hold me down to the floor and spread my legs apart as underpaid foreign labourers strip-mine my exploited market with pick-axes and make hamburger sounds, diagonally diversifying my reproductive potential. My jaw starts clicking, or rather unclicking as the relentless cash flow is shoved into my mouth and down my throat.

‘Jane, it appears that redundancy was a bit premature, we do have a place for you here after all.’

Contractors observe the excavation, upbraid the workers in a language they do not understand and make broad gestures at the windows. A crane swinging an oil pipe breaks through the floor-to-ceiling windows and my excavated cunt sucks it up seamlessly with the scrape of an excellently greased handshake. The oil starts pumping, liquidating my internal assets. My cheeks start tearing; my jaw is now obsolete machinery as more cash is shoved into my mouth. Mr. God Money stands over me, proud, and I stare yearningly as my vision blacks out, losing oxygen in my useless brain. Mr. God Money makes efficient use of my capital, my stupid head which cannot comprehend the genius of his dull indulgences and exquisite exploitation

As Mr. God Money forecloses on my existence I see architects in hardhats measuring the dimensions of my unmouth and laying the foundations for a new shopping mall, filling my throat with cement.