THE FUTURE IS NOT OURS TO SEE

A crack hotel underneath the Broadway El in Brooklyn sported a TRUMP 2020 banner throughout last year's electoral process. No one sprayed grafitti over the walls and no one protested about the Orange-man's attempt to get votes in Bushwick. I was never able to find the Trump HQ in that neighborhood, but thankfully Trump lost, despite of the spectacular vote of the religious right of all colors and nationalities.

Now the poster is gone.

Trump has been investigated for treason about the January 6 seizure of the US Capitol Building by his followers. The Justice Department have most recently discovered that the cell phones of all the Secret Service have erased all data from the day in question.

ie - destruction of evidence.

Trump once said he could shoot someone on 5th Avenue and get away with it.

I never doubted that, since the rich are never guilty of anything.

Still it would be nice to see Trump wrestled to the ground in a chokehold.

We can only dream.

KILL THE RICH CHAPTER 2 By Peter Nolan Smith

Two NYPD homicide detectives stood in front of the Vent du Sol. Uniformed officers kept the curious behind the yellow tape. Dead men attract spectators. The rubberneckers weren't looking for the victim to come back to life, but waited to see if anything else out of the ordinary happened on this quiet Upper East Side street. An attractive blonde woman was crying at the restaurant doorway. An older man had his arm around her.

"Girlfriend and best friend," Lee Solent said, lifting his eyes from his notebook.

"No, girlfriend and maitre de. From what I heard the victim had no friends." Sam Chatham had been his partner for ten years. They had solved many murders. They hadn't solved many more.

"What we have so far?"

"The victim, Mark Bonsoul, came out to smoke a cigarette. He is one of the richest men in New York. The waiter who had been at the job since the end of the Co-vid closings came outside and for no reason came outside and pumped three shots. Twice in the chest and once in the head. He jumped into a car for parts unknown. License plate unseen. The bullet casings came from a .38. I questioned the maitre. He knows nothing and no one saw anything. I left the girlfriend for you. That's all so far."

"I'll talk to her now." He thought about the .38. No one used the revolver anymore, but it was a good gun to hit a target at close range and he bet himself that the rich guy had been shot from less than a distance from five feet.

Close.

"Try and be nice." Sam Chatham rarely got to play 'bad guy'.

I'm always nice."

"Yeah, right."

Detective Solent motioned for an patrolman to lift the tape. He walked over to the restaurant's entrance and introduced himself. The blonde woman had stopped crying and the detective put his notebook in inside his jacket, noting she wore no jewelry.

"Sorry about your friend. Miss...?"

"Kerry Mahony. This was our third date." Her eyes were as green as mowed grass.

"You're not leaving town, are you?"

"No, this is my home. Born and bred." Her accent said private West Side schools and an Ivy League college and her tone reveal her annoyance at this intrusion, as she said, "Why do you ask that?"

"I wanted to make sure I could question you tomorrow."

"I can't see why not, but I will have my lawyer there." A lawyer wasn't necessary, but people can say the wrong things after a murder and the police like fitting square blocks into round holes.

"My partner will take your information." He stared at the maitre de, as if he were hiding the murder weapon on his person and said, "He'll get yours too.

"Up to you." The maitre de was accustomed to big people and the police weren't big people in his mind. Detective Solent walked away. He knew all about people like the maitre de. Everyone was guilty of something.

Everyone.

KILL THE RICH CHAPTER 1 by Peter Nolan Smith

The Vent de Sol was booked solid. The clientele hailed from the upper echelons of New York's1%. Table # 4 sat eight people was dominated by a 54 year-old man in an impeccably British tailored suit. No one in the Upper East Side bistro had earned more than the wily investment banker. No one on Madison Avenue and no one in Manhattan either. No one even close.

The masked Latino waiter expertly refills Mark Bonsoul's glass of 2000 Château Lafite Rothschild - Pauillac and the host of the party of eight says, "This one sip of wine costs more than this man makes in a night. Well, it does have to be a big sip."

The banker guzzled a mouthful to the laughter of his friends.

The waiter bowed with dancer's grace and serves the other guests a lesser vintage.

Dinner is served like a ballet of tastes and textures.

Before dessert mark Bounsoul ordered a Remy-Martin Louis XIII cognac and stood, patting his chest for the pack of Treasurer Aluminum Gold.

"You'll have to forgive me, but old bad habits die hard and you usually die before the bad habit."

He exited from the restaurant onto Madison Avenue. The pandemic had emptied the streets. Mark had never caned more money than throughout Co-vids and lit his cigarette with a gold lighter. The windows of nearby high-rises were dark. No one he knew lived in those hovels. He inhaled on the Traveler. rich tobacco. A five-star restaurant. An extraordinary wine. A beautiful wife. Alone he basked in aloneness.

The waiter approached him on the sidewalk. Mark sighed thinking he might have to speak with him. He thought that until he saw the gun. It didn't look expensive and Mark took another huff like a dead man before a firing squad, because there was no running from this fate. A bullet hit his chest, then another, each strangely without any bang.. He dropped to the sidewalk on his left side. His vision was growing black and his lungs offered no help. He was a dead man and nothing was going to change that.

22 Rich Men In Africa

Twenty-two people have more wealth than 325 million women in Africa.

Their names are:

Phil Knight of Nike

Sheldon Adelson's fortune comes from gambling.

Charles Koch, right wing racist

Ma Huateng of Ten Cent

Jack Ma of Alibaba

S. Robson Walton of Walmart

Alice Walton of same shitty company

Jim Walton related to the above two billionaires

Michael Bloomberg, who during his three terms as Mayor of New York had almost a million young men of color searched for marijuana.

Francoise Bettencourt Meyers, the witch heiress of L'Oreal

Steve Ballmer, former CEO of Microsoft.

Mukesh Ambani, thief of the poor of India

Sergey Brin, Google czar

Larry Page, the co-founder of Google with a horrible haircut

Carlos Slim Helu, Mexican drug launderer

Larry Ellison, Oracle

Mark Zuckerberg, total scumbag of FaceBook, another bad haircut everyday of the week

Amancio Ortega, Zara Designs

Warren Buffett

Bill Gates, superstar scumbag dedicated to the depopulation of the world

Bernard Arnault, luxury brands

Jeff Bezos, the worst person on Earth besides Ole Orange Man

None of them are worth a poor woman's sandals in Africa.

$1 Billion For The Common Man

Karl Marx co-authored THE COMMUNNIST MANIFESTO with the son of capitalist owning a large English Textile factory owner. Frederich Engels was the funnier of the two and once said, "Money is the only thing that can make a beautiful woman think a bald man isn't bald."

The co-father of Communism was speaking about the rich.

Millionaires.

Not billionaires.

There are 2,208 billionaires from 72 countries and territories, which is the population of Lincolville, Maine.

This gang of thieves' collective wealth is $19 trillion.

None of them are worth a lobster at the Lincolnville Lobster Pound, but they rule the banks and the banks run the wealth cloud for the billionaires.

The rich only fear the loss of wealth and the nouveau-riche.

Revolution?

No one, but me and a few thousand people believe in revolution, but tonight all that will change..

The New York Megamillion lottery's payoff with be $1 billion.

After taxes the winner will get $400,000,000, which is $400,000,000 more than any billionaire paid in America.

$1 is more than most of them pay, but this week we all dropped $2 for a play at not fame, but fortune. I bought three chance at the dream and picked the numbers myself, because we all know that the final numbers will be decided by a computer designed by the billionaires' lackeys to rob the poor. It does matter, because this evening at 11pm one of us will join the two-thousand cocksuckers.

I can only hope it will be me.

As does my family.