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From the author of: The Survival Guide For The One Percent


The Bank For International Settlements



The downloadable version of the novel does not have a dark background color, and the font is Georgia. I have presented these excerpts in this color, and font to match those of the website.

These are excerpts from my novel, and they revolve around a character similar to William Andrews Clark. I present chapters that show his entry into this novel, and continued involvement in later chapters. This does not include portions of his involvement in any later episodes.

I provide these portions so that the reader may note the novel's intent to show how men of minimal capabilities were provided critical knowledge, from external sources. These external sources created a deliberate path for a limited few to enormous wealth.

This novel suggests history's Industrial Titans were little more than useful idiots. In this case, the reader should take a look at William Andrews Clark's file, within Wikipedia, and, in particular, what was said of his political career, by Mark Twain.

If that part catches your interest as much as it did mine, read Wikipedia's full file on this guy. You will start to understand, due to his actions, and the Copper Kings, how currencies, and banking started to change.






Clarke looked out over the team of mules struggling, once again, to haul a wagon load of food stuffs, dry goods, and hardware over the muddy trails, north of Salt Lake City. His business as a trader had struggled during the Winter months, while these same trails were impassible. Now Spring, he was short on cash to pay a driver to take his place.

He examined the trail ahead of him, and the placement of all lines stabilizing his load. Pausing to step down from the wagon, and adjust harnesses, and rigging on the mules, his mind became occupied by a bitter thought. "A law degree from Iowa Wesleyan College, a family, and I am out here thinking that this life, and this business are going to be enough."

Clarke had left Iowa, to work in the Colorado quartz mines. He then, as were hundreds of others from many states, was lured by the new discoveries of gold, in Montana. He tried his hand at gold mining, but had spent far too much of his available money on the equipment required, for the mining technique he had chosen. Placer mining required large volumes of varying lengths, and diameters of pipe. He had chosen this technique, because it could reap the highest potential reward. He knew he wasn't going to be a hard rock miner. He didn't picture himself as one of the many poorly educated, down, and out laborer types he had met, while on his way from Iowa, to Montana. He considered himself a speculator, and intended to get in, make his money, and exit a wealthy man, in very short order.

With one exception, his education had not provided him the required skills for the venture ahead of him. His choice of mining technique also produced a liability. As any placer miner knew, it produced a mining waste, in quantities magnitudes greater than any beneficial ores that might be obtained. All of the waste gravels, and mud were sent downstream, and that waste covered the streams beds being worked by other miners. He assumed his legal background would save him from the lawsuits commonly filed upon placer miners. He also cared little about the complaints over the fouling of drinking water supplies, and certainly not about those that expected to catch a meal, from streams previously abundant in fish.

His character, and law degree had assisted him, but only for a short while. He had failed to anticipate something his education could not solve. Iowa hadn't been frontier territory for many decades, and the rule of law had become established. Montana citizens suffered few delusions about how an issue could be solved, if the territorial courts failed to protect them.

Clarke began his migration to Salt Lake City, during the middle of the night, after a rapid exit from a saloon. He had drifted into that particular saloon, because it was the closest to the offices of a small banking firm that had lent him money. His placer mining had not paid off, and he could not afford to repay them. His choice of saloons could not have been worse. Several armed miners were also there to drown their sorrows, and Clarke was the cause of their troubles. His placer mining waste had deposited several feet of non-bearing gravel, and mud sediments, throughout the streams they had been working successfully with pans, and sluice boxes.

They had been drowning their sorrows for better than three hours, before Clarke walked in. He spotted them only seconds before they saw him. Those were the seconds that had saved his life, and allowed him to escape. All the miners went immediately for their sidearms, and moved towards him. Still close to the door, Clarke was able to escape around the corner of the saloon; run down the adjacent alley, and back to where he had tied up his team, and wagon.

After escaping Montana, Clarke had felt it was reasonably safe to return. He had learned the bankers had become satisfied. They had taken over his claims, recovered title to all his piping, nozzles, wagons, teams, and all else he had possessed. They then turned his claim over to other mining clients, who knew far more about placer mining. They all reaped the rewards that Clarke had failed to find. Clarke did, however, make it a point to stay out of saloons, whenever he was in Montana. He hoped that his new appearance would save him, when he traveled between Salt Lake, and the Montana mining towns.

Back on his wagon, he returned to the task of his team, and his new form of making a living. After the remaining one-hundred fifty miles, he would offload his cargo, collect his earnings, and look for a load going back to Salt Lake. His present load was heavy, and he looked forward to getting premium prices. The boomtowns had suffered through their own long winter, and he had hoped he had chosen his goods properly, and would find anxious buyers.

Clarke was rounding a familiar knoll, and knew that it hid a sharp bend, and steep downward slope just beyond. The knoll was only the beginning of a change in the topography he would have to endure, throughout the remainder of his trip. He concentrated on his mule team, and began to slow them, so they could handle the slope. His concentration on his team left him surprised by the presence of a loan rider sitting calmly, at the base of the slope.

The rider watched intently, as Clarke passed him by, without a look, a gesture, or even a glare. Clarke had become concerned over his safety on these trips, and still worried about the men, from the Montana saloon. It would be easy for any of them to ambush him out on one of his trips, and take revenge.

The rider had expected Clarke to stop, and speak with him, but he was new to the era, the lawless west, and had never actually met Clarke. The rider, still learning to ride a horse, clumsily turned towards Clarke's retreating wagon, and tried to catch up. He chose the right hand side of the wagon, as he began to approach, but Clarke had been keeping an eye on him. As the rider came even with Clarke, he was met with a long barreled revolver. This time Clarke was glaring at him. The rider over reacted, and with poor skills on horseback, he soon hit the muddy ground beneath it.

The horse continued on without his rider, for more than a dozen yards, before stopping. Clarke pulled his team to a stop, and peered over his right shoulder to see what had happened to the rider. It took several seconds, before the rider caught his breath, and began to return to his feet. By then, Clarke was off the wagon; standing over him, and still brandishing the revolver.

"Whoa, please hold on, will you? I meant no harm, and I still don't." the rider pleaded.

"What the hell do you want?" Clarke replied.

"I was hoping to speak with you. I mean you no harm. Look... I am not even armed".

"What? You're out here, and you don't have any guns?

"No. As I said, I am not armed."

"Stay right here, and I will try to get your horse."

Clarke walked towards the rider's horse, and tried to make some soothing sounds, so it wouldn't run off. As he gathered up the horse's reins, and walked back with it, he noticed there were no saddle bags, no rifle, and not even a bed roll. The saddle was not like anything he had seen before. It also appeared brand new.

As he returned to the rider, he hung back several yards, and stopped. He watched the rider continue to wipe the mud off his clothing. The clothes then caught his eye. "What kind of boots are those?"

"Tell me, mister. Where are you from? I don't think it's from anywhere around here. What are you doing way out here, and without food, clothing, or even a bed roll? It's two days to anything, or anywhere. Is there some spread, or even a cabin around here, I don't know about?"

"No. I am not from here. In fact, I live in New York. Can we leave all that for some other time? I will be on my way, in only a few minutes."

"Mister, New York would explain the way you can't ride a horse, but it makes believing how you come to be here damn difficult."

"For me, this embarrassing method of meeting actually makes things easier. All I wanted to do was to be sure you would recognize me, again. I think we have accomplished that part. The next is that I need you to meet me in Dear Lodge, Montana. I understand you were planning to go there, or even if you don't yet know, you will decide to go there."

"I don't plan to go to Deer Lodge, and you ain't likely to make me want to."

"All that will work out. You will want to go before long. I may have arrived just a few days too early. Anyway... There is a bank there, and I will be sitting outside of it, just as soon as I get some time to do more riding, and find better clothes. I can't make any of these mistakes, again, but you will want to go.

I need you to take this coin, and put it in your pocket. You might decide later that this never happened, and you need some evidence that it did. DO NOT LOSE THIS!"

The rider stopped cleaning his clothes; looked directly at Clarke, and asked, "Are you happy with your mules, wagon, and this stupid business of yours? How long do you intend to keep screwing up? We have information for you. If you have any brains, it will assist you in becoming quite wealthy. Now, I have to leave. May I have my horse?"

Clarke said nothing as he handed the rider the reins of his horse. The rider clumsily mounted it, and swung it about to ride up, and over the knoll. Clarke watched him, until he disappeared from sight.

Clarke was more than a mile away, before he stopped letting his imagination confuse him, and decided to try to put some clarity to what he had just experienced. He wrapped the reins for the mules around the hand brake lever, and let them move on their own. He then reached into his pocket, and pulled out the coin.

"It's from the United States. A quarter dollar. Skull of a steer. No... I think it's a buffalo, and a date of 1889. That's many years from now! But the other side has what also might be a date." he mumbled.

"2007..." That can't be a date. It's has to be something else. Who's face is that? I think it's Washington. Big Sky Country... What the hell does that mean?" He slid it back in his pocket, and started thinking about the experience.

"Big City said he was from New York. That makes some sense. He couldn't ride a horse? But who, even if they're from New York, can't ride? How else are you going to...? He's rich! He has to be! He has other people take him where he needs to go, and in some fancy coach. That's it! He's rich! That's good! Is that good? He said it would make me wealthy! But, how could he be way the hell out here, by himself, and where was he going, when he rode off?"

Clarke decided that he couldn't do anything about what had just happened. "I'm not going way the hell over to Deer Lodge. A bank? Why a bank?"











Clarke's wagon, and team rolled slowly into Bannock, Montana. He wasn't sure he should be here taking any chances. His departure had been forced, and there were numerous people willing to confront him, over unpaid debts, and the loss of their lively hood. Still he had little choice. Bannock had been one of the first of the boomtowns he would encounter, as he entered Montana.

As he stepped off the wagon, he felt the strain of the ride. He was hot, and uncomfortable, and that caused him to make the mistake of removing his hat to wipe the sweat, from his forehead. His hat had become part of the attire he had come to wear, in hopes of disguising his appearance. Without it he could be recognized with some ease.

"Willard..." rang out a loud call, from about thirty yards away. Hearing his first name called out so loudly made him stiffen. He considered pulling his shotgun, from under the wagon's bench seat.

"We heard you were in some strange business. I have to tell you that I am surprised not only to see you, but to see you, without thinking of immediately calling for the Sheriff."

Hearing the reasonably friendly tone to the man's voice, Clarke decided to look more closely at the man approaching him. He quickly realized it was one of the men he had hoped to avoid completely. He was one of the men that owned the bank, from which he had borrowed money, and could not repay. He also noted that the man still had a form of a smile on his face.

"Willard, one of the best pieces of luck I have ever had was you forcing me to foreclose on your mining properties, and equipment. It got me into mining, at the ideal time, and for only pennies on the dollar. We, at the bank, have made mine foreclosures one of our primary activities. You actions made me, and my partners very wealthy men.

My goodness, look at you now. You look pathetic, and ten years older."

The banker continued to walk right past Clarke, and to add to the insult, he started to laugh loudly, after he had passed.

Clarke's anger was nearly beyond his ability to control. Over the last months, he had felt badly about himself, his present business, and his knowledge that his wife felt even more contempt for him than he did for himself.

"What could be worse? Next I will run into one of the miners looking to put a bullet in me. He put his hat back on, and glanced around the town. He soon spotted the same saloon, from which he had been forced to flee, several years before.

"To hell with it. The chances are slim. I am hot as hell, and a drink is precisely what I need." Clarke muttered.

He started walking towards the saloon, but thought better of leaving his wagon, and team. Now moving further down the street towards the saloon, he began to notice more of the town. "This place looks like hell." he thought. There are shops that used to be doing well, and are now boarded up."

After pulling his wagon, and team into the same alley he had used as his escape route from the saloon, he returned to the front street entrance, and carefully walked in. This time it was full daylight, so he paused even longer to let his eyes adjust to the dim light of the interior. There wasn't a single person in it. He could see only the bartender, and he was cleaning classes classically with a towel, from behind a long empty bar.

Clarke took a seat, and then noted that the seats had not been installed the last time he was there. It used to be standing room only, and no one was induced to take up more space than required.

"Whisky." he called out. He turned in his chair to examine the interior more closely, but returned to the front when he heard the glass, and bottle hit the bar top, behind him.

"So what goes here?" he asked the bartender. "I remember this place as being full all hours of the day."

"Yep. That's the way it was. It stayed that way for only about two months, after I was stupid enough to buy this place, from the previous owners. Everything started to dry up, just about then, and it has been getting worse by the day. I tried changing the place so I might attract a different sort of crowd. Even that crowd started to move on. The mining is far different now. Most of the small guys are gone, and the only mining left here is owned by a few large companies, or by a small number of greedy bastards.

They chose to set up here, because it was the capital. The records buildings is just up the street. Once they pushed someone out, they only needed to head up the street to change the title papers."

"I think I know one of them, and I just ran into him a few minutes ago." Clarke responded.

Clarke reached into his pocket to pay for the whiskey; placed a few coins on top of the bar, and then slid some of them towards the bartender. As the bartender picked some of them up, he slid one back to Clarke, and said. "It's already bad enough, mister. I don't take money from Canada, or where ever else this one might come from."

Clarke realized he had given the bartender the coin from the stranger he had met on the trail, many miles, and weeks ago.

The bartender returned to their conversation, and asked, "Tell me about this guy you say you know, and just ran into. How is it that you might know him, since I've never seen you before? Does your visit here mean there are some new strangers coming into town?"

"No. I used to mine here myself, but had lots of trouble. The guy I just saw outside is a banker here. With what you say about the new mining methods around here, I just thought he might be part of it."

"What's his name? I'm sure I will know him."

"I can't recall his first name, but his last was Rodgers."

"You bet he is. He may have started all the trouble around here, when he foreclosed on the first mine. As time passed, he started doing more of it, until every small miner around here that had borrowed from him, was afraid of his voice. He's the guy! Thankfully, he is heading out of town, too. I hear he is heading for Butte."

"Isn't this town still the capital of the Montana Territory?"

"Nope. It moved south to Virginia City, and I hear soon back further north to Helena. At least, that makes some sense, but I suppose more to the bankers, than to people like me."

Clarke retrieved the coin, and sat silently rubbing it between his fingers. He finished his whisky, stood up, and asked, "Are there any grocers, or hardware stores left in town?"

"Sure, and if you're looking for tools, or anything that a miner needs, you can probably find them at real good prices. I hear they are looking to get out, and are dumping whatever stocks they have left."

"Nope. I wasn't looking to buy. I was looking to sell."

"Well then, I guess all I can say is Good Luck. Everyone is selling."

Clarke slowly got off the bar stool, and headed for the door.

"Big City said, 'You will want to go.' Well, he was sure as hell right about that. It appears the only type of mining business to be in is mining miners. Now I think I know why his bank comment makes sense.

I'm gonna find that banker that took me down, and be sure to repay the favor. He thought I was a simple miner, and maybe I was. Now, however, he gets to meet the attorney."


Clarke walked back into the alley, climbed aboard the wagon still fully loaded with the supplies he had hoped to sell, and headed north towards Butte.

"After some payback is started, I'm likely heading beyond to Deer Lodge."











Clarke had pulled into Butte, nearly two months earlier. He had successfully sold all the supplies from his wagons. He immediately drove his mule team, and wagon to the largest commercial blacksmith, and sold both. He knew he was done with that business, and had begun using the proceeds to invest in his new future in the mining of miners.

He had also identified where Rodgers had set up his new offices in the banking business, and noted that he had already begun more mine foreclosures.

Clarke had spent over a month in a small hotel located only three blocks from Rodgers banking business. He had been watching him carefully, for two reasons. Clarke had decided that he would move on to Deer Lodge to see if the stranger he had met on the trail, from Salt Lake City, was real. If he was, and came through on telling him more about banks, he decided that he should identify the methods Rodgers had used on him; set up a method for pay back, and once he had, he would then utilize those same methods in Deer Lodge to build his own banking business.

He couldn't chance Rodgers seeing him, while he followed him, so instead, he hired a couple of younger men to keep an eye on him. They were required to report back to him, each night.

He had learned that Rodgers had been frequently visiting the mining records office, and soon after, he would visit various banks.

Clarke would retrace Rodgers steps the following day, and try to learn why.

Rodgers was learning who had mining claims, and then who had the largest loans out on their operations. If they were not keeping up with their loans, he would pay particular attention to them.

One of the young men informed Clarke that their evening meetings would have to be changed, because Rodgers had changed his habits.

Clarke was surprised to find that Rodgers was now out in the evenings carefully sipping on glasses of beer. He would not have more than one, or two. He would frequent the bars of the lowest quality, but spent even more time in the most expensive, and highest quality.

He hadn't found the clue to why, until he decided to get closer himself. Standing outside Butte's most expensive dinner house, had watched him, through its front windows. He had left his chair at the bar, and headed for the men's room. When he returned, and was walking back to his seat at the bar, he stopped abruptly, and started quickly looking around the restaurant. He then moved towards the exit, without even paying for his new beer.

Clarke started to take cover, but Rodgers then quickly turned back towards the bar. Clarke noticed that he had been watching a man, and woman who were having dinner, but they had just left the restaurant. He had noticed them, as well, but only because of what he had seen, when they entered. The man owned what may have been the finest, and most expensive coach he had ever seen.

When they told their waiter of their intentions to leave, the coach was being brought to the front of the restaurant. Rodgers had reversed direction, because they had not actually left, but were just outside the restaurant doors, waiting for their coach.

Clarke was watching from just around the corner, as their coach was driven off. Seconds later, Rodgers was outside, and was smiling widely. He pulled a small notebook, from his coat, and began writing rapidly. He then headed for his own offices.

As soon as he was far enough away, Clarke approached the man escorting restaurant patrons in, and out of their coaches, and held out a silver coin of adequate value to obtain his full attention.

"Will you please tell me what you know about the man in the large, and expensive coach that just left here?" he asked.

"They say he owns some large silver mine around here. He is in here lot's of times, and with different gals. He spends up big, and then he gives me little, or nothing. If the gal is watching, I get lucky, if she isn't, he doesn't give me anything." replied the man.

Clarke suddenly realized that Rodgers had been watching the habits of the mine owners. If they were slow with their banks, and were spending loosely, he would move in.

As Clarke expected, Rodgers left his offices the following morning, as soon as the other banks were open. He entered what he speculated was the bank that the coach, and silver mine owner used for financing. About an hour later, Rodgers emerged from the bank, with a grin nearly as big, as he had the evening before.

"That's how he learns. If Rodgers didn't just buy the loans for that guy's silver mine, from this bank, I will eat my hat." Clarke thought.

Clarke was at no risk, with digesting his hat. This day of banking business for Rodgers was swift, and brutal. He had rapidly completed, and filed papers to foreclose on the mine, from the owner. He also sent two of his employees to seize the coach.

The following day, Clarke was riding out of Butte. He was enduring the slow pace of a walking horse, by occupying his mind on what would have been the value of the assets he invested in the mining operation Rodgers had seized from him.

"That man didn't just seize horses, mules, piping, pumps, and wagons." Clarke calculated. "He took the entire mining claim. The mining claim, on that portion of the river, soon provided him with all the capital he needed to buy the non-performing mining loans, from more than a dozen banks.

All of that would have been mine. I'm not going after him for any simple figure of money, that I know is beyond what I can calculate. I am after a repayment for lifestyle of what would have been mine."

The ride from Butte to Deer Lodge was not, in comparison to his trip, from Salt Lake City, either long, nor dangerous. Even in western Montana, where Grizzly Bear populations had been higher than most locations in north America, they were now seldom a problem. They had been hunted to near extinction by this time, and wolves were even more rare. Mountain Lions could still be a problem, especially if there had been a change in the ranking on the region's dominant Tom. Since Clarke was not leading a spare horse, he was at fairly low risk. Regardless, Clarke had routinely placed the holster, for his long barreled revolver, so that he could draw it rapidly, even while atop his horse.

Clarke had never been in Deer Lodge before, but had heard he should not expect too much, but as he approached town, he began to wonder how this one horse town could possibly be of any value.

He had not expected having much trouble finding which bank might be the one with the stranger sitting out front, but, again, as he approached town, he wondered if there might be any banks there.

After all this riding, he now sat on his horse in front of the only bank. No one was sitting out front. He stood for a few seconds longer, and decided to go, and try to get some coffee, as well as look for a decent place to stay for the night. He wanted a real bed, before heading back.

He looked forward of his horse, and saw nothing, so he pulled the reins to the right to reverse direction. As he turned only half way around, he noticed a small cafe directly across the dirt, and mud street.

He tied up his horse, and made sure his saddle bags were secure, and strapped closed. He threw one of them over his right shoulder to keep with him. It contained the remaining cash, from selling the stock of his previous business.

He entered the cafe, but looked only for how to get coffee. He moved towards the counter where an old cash register was sitting. Not seeing any waitresses, or any older proprietor, he thought standing near the register might get the best reaction, from whomever could get him the coffee. Instead of either of the two types he had expected, up walked a rather young, and clean shaven male.

"I need some coffee." he said.

"I would bet you do, after taking better than two months more time to get here than I had expected."

Clarke looked up, and took a better look at the man speaking to him. "You said you would be sitting out front of the bank." he replied.

"Two additional months of sitting on an old shitty bench would have imprinted the grain of the wooden planks permanently on my ass, not to mention the attention I would have gotten from the folks of a tiny town. I had to buy this stupid cafe, and I have been sleeping in a dusty, drafty tent, while trying to avoid losing my fucking mind."

"I had things to do, and if you want the truth, I don't really give a damn what you've had to tolerate."

"Yes, you have been busy. I think uselessly busy, but I wasn't asked for my opinion."

Clarke looked around, and replied. "I have yet to decide if I would have, or will worry about your opinion. I can tell you that I didn't worry about it. It doesn't look like you have been busy. The place is empty."

"I prefer it that way. After all, what do I care about how much money this place makes. It isn't here for making money, coffee, breakfast, or for that matter, anything."

"What, so I don't get a coffee?"

"Yeah, you will in a minute, or so. I put some on, when I saw you ride up. Now take a seat. We have plenty to discuss."

Clarke asked the stranger his first question, as he put a cup of coffee, in front of him.

"So what is your name, or what do I call you?"

"Call me Michael."

"Is that your real name, and do you have a last name?"

"No, on both counts."

"Why, in God's name, did you pick this tiny town to suggest for a bank? Right now, I wonder why I don't just get back on my horse, and head South. I can't imagine what you have to offer me, or if you have some form of mental troubles. Tell me... What do you think you know that I don't."

"I picked the town because of where it is, what it will become, and for what is the far more important reason of money. More accurately, I picked it, because of the present day nature of currency. Open your saddle bag, and pull out a few bills. Pick some that are different from the majority, as well as ones that are part of the majority of commonly used bills."

Clarke failed to pick up his saddle bag, and had no intention of complying. He simply stared at Michael.

"If I was going to rob you... Oh, shit. Do you actually think I suggested you come all this way to rob you of what I consider totally worthless old paper money?"

Clarke reached down for the saddle bag, and began to examine the paper bills it contained. He chose a few, and put them on the table.

"You worked your ass off on a wagon, and over those miserable roads, if you can call them roads, and you took these in payment?"

"Gold is not something people are prepared to part with, these days. It all gets shipped to the federal government."

"Great point, actually. That's why the banks are getting away with what is in front of us. Take a look at all the different bills. There isn't a federally issued, or federally printed bill among them. All of them are printed by individual banks. Set up a bank these days, and its a license to print money. Look at ‘em. You're even allowed to put your bank's name on them.

These bills are backed only by the bullshit word of the banks. People had little choice, but to use these forms of currency, but they are reluctant to accept them, unless they think a bank possesses real assets. The mining industry has been providing adequate commerce, and the adequate illusion for people, within these parts of the country, to accept the bills, from banks involved in the industry.

Before this practice nearly brings down the country, we need to get in on it. We will turn these printed bullshit notes into real assets. That's why you're here, and that's why I am here. Before this town becomes the next mining boomtown, you need to set up a bank. Actually, we need you to takeover the bank across the street from us.

You're going into the banking business, and you're also going to start opening branches of this bank, within active mining regions, and where mine owners are in need of cash. You print it; lend all you can of it, to whomever you can in the mining business, and then, when we have made them insolvent, you start foreclosing on properties.

One of the first things to get done is to know who is winning at mining, and who is losing at it."

Clarke interrupted him. "That's what I have been doing during the last two months. I think I have an excellent method to determine that."

"You may think you do, but we... I have a far better method, regardless of what you think may be a good one. Your two month delay in reaching here almost cost us the ability to take over a tiny failing bank. This plan needed a no name, and nothing bank to get started."

Michael didn't know it, but with that remark he had just turned Clarke into an antagonist to any of his goals.

"To learn who is winning or losing, we need to be in the chain of the movement of gold. We are going to find you a smelter to buy, or a place to build one. If you don't have enough of the right kind of money to buy, or build it, I will get it for you. Everyone in the gold mining business needs their gold processed, and refined. We offer to process, and even buy it. We pay them in this bank's funny money, for as long as their willing to take it. What choice do they actually have, but this kind of money. We then sell the gold to whatever market pays the most, and in whatever form of currency we will decide is the most sound.

As we go along, you keep an eye on who is winning, and offer them as much money as possible. Winners, as well as losers, think the mother-load could be in the next shovel full of dirt, pan of sands, or cart full of rock. The more they believe they are close, the more money they will ask to borrow.

We get them in so deep with our money, the other banks will lose confidence in their ability to pay us, or them back. You will also use the rumor mill to make the other banks afraid of the stability of our clients.

The mine owners will use the excessive quantities of money we've lent them too quickly, and foolishly. They will come back for even more. We express our concerns about their ability to pay us back, and raise their interest rates on every dollar we ever lent them. We keep doing that, until they can't pay us. Then you move in, and foreclose. We will have paid no more for a winning mining operation, than the cost of ink, and paper.

"What do you expect to get out of this?"

"What does money eventually buy? What do people with great wealth want next? They want influence, and power to guide things their way.

I am going to make you enormously wealthy, and after you are, you will begin to understand. When you do, we're going to make you a United States Senator.

When you're a United States Senator, I will start to get what I need. You will be voting for the changes we need made, before it becomes very difficult to get them accomplished.

We want these bank backed notes to remain in use long enough to cause their value to simultaneously collapse completely, and dramatically.

We want the practice of a privately held source of currencies to continue to exist, but we want to own that source. If we make all the small banks look incompetent, people will agree to a single big one. We'll make it appear that this new large bank will be answerable to the people, but it surely will not be.

Ever since Andrew Jackson fought to prevent the formation, and existence of the federally chartered Second Bank of the United States to exist, we have had to fight an antagonism toward one. Jackson wanted to maintain easy access to credit, and literally hated those involved with the bank's management. He apparently got hurt, when the management of the first central bank tightened credit. He thought that any national bank's purpose was to help the citizens of the United States.

What a naive fool. Money created for the masses can't be allowed to be cheap.

Money is the single most important unit of energy. People think it's oil, or coal, of even a unit of electrical power. It's not. It's money. More importantly, it's a unit of currency - the printed reflection of energy, and power.

It must be owned, and we will."









My novels' website front page displays an image of William Andrews Clark, and it may need attributions:

Image credits for photograph of CLARK, W.A. SENATOR:
Harris & Ewing, photographer,
donated to Library of Congress
by: Harris & Ewing, Inc. 1955





I am now offering Episode One for free.

Over 96% of buyers of Episode One have continued on to purchase all subsequent episodes. It is my impression that if I provide new potential readers an easy path to the series of episodes, I will likely develop, and keep new readers.






Novel title image




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