That clinking clanking sound
Gelt. Harry, like any other businessman, was drawn to money. In London it had been what everything circled, the centre of what mattered; money. Making money, to be more specific, and having money to make more money. He had lived in the Consumer Age, and no matter how the world changed, spending money never again did. Money to the common man. That was why his long firms worked. That was why all his scams worked. Consumerism. And despite what his line of work had brought him, and despite where it brought it him in the end, he loved it. Money and not just money, no; gelt.
And now he was here.
He walked along the marketplace; the island's economic centre. It was naive and little, but no one seemed to mind. They seemed content as they were with what they had, and what they didn't have they did without, or built with great sense of collectiveness. The island seemed to provide for the rest. It was dissapointing, in a way.
He walked along, looking at the items on display, and wondering if there was a way to nudge this place into the right direction.
And now he was here.
He walked along the marketplace; the island's economic centre. It was naive and little, but no one seemed to mind. They seemed content as they were with what they had, and what they didn't have they did without, or built with great sense of collectiveness. The island seemed to provide for the rest. It was dissapointing, in a way.
He walked along, looking at the items on display, and wondering if there was a way to nudge this place into the right direction.