In Pursuit Of The American Dream

In the North Sound section of the British Virgin Islands, in the East Caribbean Sea, lies a small group of islands known as Billionaires Row. One more or less permanent resident of the area is none other than the enormously wealthy Sir Richard Branson, whose Necker Island retreat is but a stone's throw from one slightly smaller island called, The American's Paradise. The island is owned by one deeply mysterious American citizen called Charles Brunton, otherwise known in some circles as Charley Bubbles.

It is not known exactly how much Brunton is worth. Some say that his net worth is so astronomical that it makes Branson's 2.9 billion dollars look like small change. Even more mysterious is how exactly Brunton came to be worth so much. Some people have speculated that Brunton is perhaps the real brains behind Bitcoin, the real Satoshi Nakamoto. Others have claimed that he is an ex-CIA operative who spent time in the region of the Asian Pacific, with excellent connections among the super-rich Chinese Triads, or the Japanese Yakuza. The fact is, nobody really knew for sure, hence the abundance of highly imaginative speculation.

The American Paradise, otherwise known as simply, The Haven, is a very private island where nobody except Bruton and whoever he invites can go. It has been said that even Branson cannot wrangle himself a personal invite. Clearly, Brunton chooses his friends very carefully indeed. And although it is perfectly normal for the ultra-wealthy to be prudent about their private lives, Brunton takes it to an entirely new level.

There aren't any known photographs of the man, nor even so much as an artist's hastily drawn sketch with a sharp pencil. Neither are there any business records to be found anywhere. And he most certainly doesn't appear on any Forbes list of the rich and famous. Given the level of secrecy around Brunton, it is no surprise that people are wary of him. Nobody would want to get close only to discover that Brunton is some Mafia Godfather's private hitman. And yet, there are some who swear that they have been to the island and found Brunton to be a very genial host. Of course, since Brunton does not allow cameras, let alone guns, onto The American Paradise, nobody is in any position to prove what they claim is true. The only other thing people who have been to the island will tell you is that Brunton does not suffer fools gladly and that he is not a man to meddle with.

Local suppliers of food, drink, and normal daily household products, such as floor cleaning detergents, have to sign an agreement that they will not discuss nor disclose anything of a confidential nature, not even about lowly employees such as chambermaids or property maintenance workers. It is very much a case of observing the mission statement of three wise monkeys in all matters to do with The Haven.

Above all, Brunton was the epitome of the great American Dream personified. The concept of the American Dream can be traced all the way back to the Founding Fathers of the United States of America. Those men believed that all people, regardless of background or social and economic status, inherently possessed the right to life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness.

In time, the American Dream came to signify something more akin to a story of rags to riches, economic and political upward mobility, and the accumulation of great wealth and power. In a phrase, the American Dream enables a relative, insignificant nobody to be a significant somebody, even if it was somebody who, like Brunton, preferred to continue to wear the garb of a nobody. Brunton believed that it was far more prudent to be rich and anonymous than rich and famous. Sooner or later some lowlife is going to try to knock you off your perch.

One person who for quite some time has been trying very hard to get the low down on Brunton is a guy called Greg Tollerton, or GT for short. Greg is an ex-investigative journalist who lost his career due to over-stepping the mark with certain rich and famous people by hacking their cell phones. That led to a series of class action, multi-million dollar lawsuits that cost Greg's employer dearly. From that point on Greg's journalistic career was toast. However, over many years Greg had heard all about the legendary Brunton and felt that if he could get anything at all on the man, that could prove to be his way back into being among the upper echelons of the super-successful, international paparazzi. All Greg needed to do was to find a way onto The Haven and he was as good as a made man. And with the able help and assistance of his very attractive blond girlfriend, Mindy, it would only be a matter of time before Greg got exactly what he wanted.

Yet another person who wanted to investigate Brunton was the disgruntled ex-husband of Brunton's latest trophy wife, Mark Scully. This was a man who had lost everything because of Brunton's turning of his ex-wife, Tessa's head. One day Mark and Tess had been happily running their very own thriving speedboat hire business, then suddenly Brunton turned up and turned their whole world upside down. Brunton came on the scene and bought the island, for which he needed a speedboat and driver, and Tess fit the bill to a T. The problem was that for Mark, Tess played a very significant role in their speedboat hire business, and without her, he was lost.

***

Over on an area of the sea that was called The Grand Banks, not too far off The Haven island, the local combined Customs and Excise and Coast Guard patrol was doing a routine circle of the island. It was not that the patrol boat Captain was in any way suspicious about the island. If anything, it had to do with the fact that The Grand Banks was an area of very shallow water, and it was not unusual for tourists out in a hired motor boat to get themselves into trouble by bottoming out on the sandy bank. Today was all clear. However, just as the patrol boat was about to turn and head back to base, something a little unusual caught the Captain's eye.

A large yacht was getting far too close to the Grand Banks for its enormous size. A boat, or ship more like, of that size did not normally come that close to such shallow water. Even more intriguing was that the Captain could clearly see what looked like a small submersible being readied for launch from a side opening. The Captain decided to stand off a little and observe from a safe distance through his binoculars. There was no point ruffling Brunton's feathers unnecessarily.

On the island itself, Brunton's perimeter security detail had already seen the yacht and were acting like they were fully expecting it to arrive. A small speed boat was being made ready to leave the island pier and was being operated by a young woman called Tessa, Mark Scully's ex-wife. She was accompanied by a youthful, well-tanned, square-jawed guy called Miguel.

Miguel was one of those guys who pursued the American Dream with a certain style, and very little substance. Fake it until you make it was Miguel's motto. And to be fair, so far he hadn't done too badly. He'd managed to blag himself a none-job working for Brunton as some kind of man-servant. With a bit of luck, he could make himself indispensable and then subtly increase his demands for a better position, and who knows, he told himself, maybe one day he would be as rich as Brunton.

Some older guy down at the beach once tried to educate Miguel about what the American Dream was all about over a nice cool beer.

"That concept is not just about the psyche of American individuals trying to escape from nowhere with nothing, and becoming the king of the hill, it's also about the nation trying to do exactly the same thing.

America is a young country, born 250 years ago. It is a country that came from nowhere with nothing. And on an international stage, America wants to be the king of the hill. It's who and what we are, it is our individual and national identity.

It doesn't matter if the hill you want to be king of is a small island in the Caribbean, a neighborhood, city, political party, or a multinational conglomerate. Or if you want to be the President of the United States of America, to be the bull goose loony running the entire planet, executing imperialist campaigns the world over, snapping up one country or continent after another. And it goes on, next to the Moon, Mars, infinity, and beyond Buzz.

Maybe, as a world of ambitious human beings, we are secretly hoping that one day, long before our inevitable extinction, in reaching for the stars we can sit at the top table with God himself, ruling over the entire universe! However, we should be mindful that the pursuit of The Great American Dream, or the dream of all of humankind, all too often, ends in tears. It is part and parcel of the human condition, the over-reaching, outlandish ambition destined to fail amidst a tragic trail of mournful tears.

Oh, and if you're wondering where it all came from, look at the history of British Imperialist expansionism and the creation of the British Empire and the Commonwealth. The Romans tried it, the French, Germans, Portugese, Dutch, Spanish, and now, even the Chinese are on the move. At a recent G7 Summit, the United States was telling China to ease off from its current expansionist policies, especially in Europe and Africa. Their answer was, back off America, it's our turn! Seems like the whole darn world wants a big slice of the American Dream.

Russia is a once powerful country, in many ways, trading off old Cold War fears of the Big Grizzly Bear. Even so, they are still a very dangerous, nuclear-weaponized nation, flexing their muscles in the Ukraine.

It's the way of the world, Migay. And us? We are just minor players hoping to sit with the king at the top table and live a life we could otherwise only dream of. But hey, what do I know? I'm just some bum on the beach who's been around too long and knows a little too much for his own good."

What dreamers like Miguel didn't fully comprehend was that people like Brunton didn't reach that level of great wealth by being some bronzed beach bum looking to hitch a free ride on the back of somebody as smart as Brunton. The man was in fact very highly educated in the best European and American universities, Oxford and Havard, in the arts and the sciences. He had doctorates in both spheres, as well as all manner of honorary doctorates in areas such as astronomy and aeronautical engineering.

Brunton was extremely knowledgeable about the arts and had a collection of twentieth-century European and American paintings by artists such as Van Gogh, Monet, and Degas as well as by Hopper, Pollock, and Rothko. He also held a car collection the envy of people like Jay Leno and Visachi. In time, Miguel would come to learn what it really took to reach the top of the top. In the meantime, he had a job to do.

The crew of the yacht lowered the submersible into the water, just as the speedboat sped away from the pier that served the island. The coastguard patrol boat Captain decided to edge a little closer to see better exactly what was going on.

Slowly the submersible submerged below the water and started to head out to sea. The speedboat seemed to be going in the same direction. Fortunately, none of the participants in the sub or speedboat had seen the patrol boat. Chances were that they were too engrossed in whatever it was they were up to, even to see beyond their own noses.

Within about five minutes the speedboat slowed down and eventually stopped and just floated aimlessly in the water. Suddenly, a number of packages appeared on the surface of the water a few yards away from the speedboat and were quickly picked up with a large pole by Miguel. Then the speedboat turned and set off back to the old wooden island pier.

The sub also re-emerged from the deep and was retrieved by an onboard crane and stored in the side garage of the yacht. Over the course of the next five minutes, the yacht set sail once again, only two minutes after the speedboat had arrived at the pier and was being tied up by Miguel.

The patrol boat Captain presumed what he had seen was a drop of narcotics, which would no doubt soon find their way to the mainland. The Captain had made notes about what he had seen and who was involved. Now he would consult his chief before doing anything rash, especially against somebody like Brunton. In this job, you never knew who was in the pay of whom. The Captain had a wife and children to support and there was no point in risking his job for something that was none of his business. Something that might well even get him killed!

Unbeknownst to the Captain was the fact that he was not the only one with an interest in the afternoon's action at sea. A long way off a certain Greg Tollerton was perched high on a rock on a neighboring island with a telescopic camera, and he had seen everything.

Meanwhile, Mark Scully was back at base making plans for mounting his very own vengeful campaign against Brunton. For such a private man, Brunton sure had a lot of enemies. It goes with the territory of being stinking rich. Whether or not he would survive such a multi-faceted onslaught as he was about to suffer was anybody's guess. For sure, Miguel was soon to find out, that all that glitters isn't gold, and that includes so-called Golden Opportunities. Or just maybe, Miguel would get lucky in his own sweet way.

***

Tess strode into the main house and went to the lounge to fix herself a nice cold Martini. Or maybe some pink champagne on ice would be more fitting, given the value of the goods she had just recovered from the sea. At a conservative estimate, the goods were worth quite a few million. Perhaps Daddio would treat her to a million if she treated him right between those new white satin sheets.

What Tess didn't realize was that people like Brunton used people like her no better than a used Kleenex. Just blow all your crap over them then drop them in the ocean with an anchor for a necklace.

Brunton was upstairs on the phone to somebody in Columbia, speaking with the head of one of the biggest drug cartels in the world. Yes, the drugs had arrived and the money would be wired within the hour. Yes, it was understood that if the money did not arrive heads would roll, literally roll, all the way to the bottom of the Ocean.

Brunton put down the phone and went downstairs. Just as he walked down the spiral staircase, Brunton stopped dead in his tracks. He was sure he had caught sight of a suspicious male figure making his way to the main house. The guy looked like he was holding something that looked like a gun. Suddenly Brunton heard what sounded like shots coming from the back of the house. It was time to take emergency measures.

***

The one thing that separated Charles Brunton from all of those who sought to bring him down was not so much his enormous wealth, it was what it stood for. They all wanted the American dream, and Brunton had it in spades. The others secretly desired what Brunton had, with a passion. Forget being rich and famous, think of the seductive power of being connected, as Brunton was, to the major players all around the world. It was said that Brunton had direct contact with Fidel Castro, Vladimir Putin, The Pope, all of the European Royal families, and even the President of the United States. This allowed him to wield a level of power unprecedented by anybody in the entire history of the modern world. And yet, here Brunton was on the very edge of losing it all on the whim of a nobody with a grudge, a score to settle by a disgruntled ex-husband, or an ex-journalist looking to make his mark again. A heavily tanned beach bum with ideas above his lowly station of man-servant. Even the Captain of the customs patrol boat secretly wanted what Brunton had. Who wouldn't? And if any of those people could not get what they wanted, they could at least take down somebody else who had what they didn't. This then, is the distinguishing fatal downside of acquiring the American Dream, as Brunton was about to find out.