A leader is a dealer in hope - Napoleon Bonaparte

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  “You’re not buying a program here, ladies and gentlemen—you’re buying your future,” Marcus Dain spoke into the microphone, standing atop a small stage. Behind him, a projector displayed a picture of himself lying on a sunlounger on the deck of a three million pound yacht. Before him sat a small crowd of hungry hustlers. Young and old, students and salarymen, men and women, black, white, and brown.

  This odd, average assortment of people, who by no means looked special themselves, had two things in common: one, they were all poor; two, they all wanted to be rich.

  Bringing them here, in the hall of the Marriott Hotel that he had rented out for three days, helped wetten that appetite for opulence they had. A lavish room with a high, white ceiling and crimson carpets peppered with golden fleur de lis patterns. The chairs had red cushions and were rimmed with some gold painted metal. It all looked very luxurious. It gave them a taste of wealth. It made them feel important. All by design…

  “Now be warned,” Marcus said, flicking his attention back to the picture of the yacht. He pointed at it. “This is well within your grasp, and not everyone will be able to handle it once they have it. You may not have the money now, but you have the mindset.” He smiled, looking straight in the eyes at a few members of the hypnotized, hungry crowd. “The 99% are out there partying or watching TV. But you? You choose to be here. That is a difference of mindset, and wealth starts in the mind.”

  He tapped his temple a couple of times, hammering the message in. Marcus never shouted or yelled like some preachers do. He was far too laid back for that. Instead he spoke with a quiet, authoritative tone, always letting them wonder what he might say next.

  “You are the 1%. By being here right now, you have shown that. The money, the yachts, the cars…” A sly grin twisted at the corner of his lips. “Well… That’s just a matter of time.”

  Such images did wonders for his sales at the end of these lectures. Marcus looked at it once more. That yacht… his smoking hot wife lying next to him. They looked like something out of a poster. Marcus, with his well groomed blonde hair, faded at the sides. Ice blue eyes, and a gleaming white smile. The sunlight in the picture shone on his toned body perfectly, highlighting the defined muscles he’d been working so hard on. It didn’t matter that the yacht was a rental. The audience didn’t need to know that, they just needed to believe it was his. Most ate it up without question.

  And his wife, Anna Pankova (now Dain), sitting next to him in a black Gucci bikini that showed off her exquisite, sunkissed figure and fake tits that he paid for. Jet black hair, strong legs, and a plump, round ass toned to perfection from hours in the gym. She was in that picture on purpose to help sell the dream to all the desperate, poor men in the audience. He knew they were sitting there, dreaming to fuck his wife or a woman that looked just like her.

  Marcus was perfectly willing to whore his wife out if it meant more people would buy his overpriced property investment courses. And he did it with her blessing, for she reaped the fruits of his labour as well. They did everything together, and shared everything. That’s a woman truly worthy to be my wife, he thought cheekily. Not just for her looks but because she understands the game and plays to win, no matter the cost. In that, she’s every bit my equal.

  “And how do I know this?” Marcus said triumphantly, walking back and forth across the stage. His brown leather Jimmy Choo shoes clattering with each step. “Because I, like you, have sat where you sat. With nothing but a dream and a willingness to invest in myself. And here I am, at twenty five years old, with a bank account that would let me retire tomorrow if I wanted to when many people my age have another forty years in the rat race ahead of them.

  “And that, ladies and gentlemen, concludes this three-day basic property training course,” Marcus said, sighing with relief after. “If you want to sign up for the advanced courses, Lydia will take your orders at the desk below. Bronze starts at five thousand pounds.”

  And the crowd began ruffling. Most walked out, with no intention to place another order, but that didn’t matter when selling high ticket items like these courses. His highest course, the Platinum course, went for thirty thousand pounds, so he only ever needed a few really desperate types to sign up in order to make more than what most working people pulled in a month.

  Some would call it a scam, and Marcus a scammer. They wouldn’t be entirely wrong but not entirely right either. Marcus did invest in property, and his courses told people how to do it. The only deception was making them believe that they all could do it. That and the fact that Marcus made most of his money from these seminars rather than the property he invested in. But few people rarely ever clicked onto that.

  What he sold, really, was a dream. The people gathered here wanted to dream, and they wanted to believe in Marcus to help them achieve their dreams. He just gave them something to believe in. The world is built on the backs of dreamers. I’m just the one selling them the ladder, he thought while watching them all queue up at Lydia’s desk with their credit cards out.

  You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.

  It reminded him of a saying he’d heard about the gold rush in America. The only people who got rich in the gold rush were those who sold the pick axes. There was a lesson to be learned in that. A lesson about dreamers and how to take advantage of them.

  He took a seat toward the back of the stage whilst the orders rolled in, thinking about his next holiday. Popping his phone out of his pocket, Marcus opened a chess app to do some puzzles. He liked doing chess puzzles. They pulled him out of the real world for a moment and kept his mind sharp in a productive manner. Strategy games were the best of all games, Marcus always thought, and chess was the most superior game of them all. They involved critical thinking, fast decision making, predicting your opponents moves… And chess… It was the one game where no one got lucky, where RNG couldn’t beat you if you did everything right, no cheesy tactics. Everything depended on the skill of each player, and when one player won, it was because he was better. Simple as that.

  “Marcus?” A woman called, snapping him out of the puzzle he was in the middle of figuring out. He closed the app and looked up to see a brunette, middle aged, big glasses, and quite chubby, with an anxious smile on her face. She held her hands together as though she were pleading for something.

  “Hello, darling. How can I help?” he said, putting the mask of the salesman back on again, hopefully for the last time today.

  “I was just wondering… I would like to sign up for the advanced courses, but I’m in too much debt to pay for them on my credit card.” She picked at her nails, stealing glances toward Lydia’s desk, where the queue was quickly shrinking. “Do you do discounts or payment plans? I could probably pay monthly.”

  “Hmmm,” Marcus brooded, tapping the armrest on his chair. “We could do a payment plan, provided your credit score checks out.”

  “Oh, that’s great!” She gleamed, almost jumping on the spot. “My kids could really use the extra money if I can buy some properties. I just won’t eat for a few months.”

  Marcus nearly choked. “Pardon?”

  “Oh, it’s fine,” she waved the comment off as though it were like skipping breakfast or something. “I can go without food. It's like fasting, and I can lose weight too.”

  She went to turn around, but Marcus stopped her. “Miss, stop. What is your name?”

  “Jessica,” she said.

  “Jessica, I…” he sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. Am I a bastard? Probably. Am I ruthlessly pragmatic? Yes. Some may even call me evil. But I’m not that evil… She has kids for Christ’s sake. “Stop. I can’t have that on my conscience.”

  “It’s fine, really—”

  “No,” Marcus snapped. “Wait at the back of the room till everyone clears out. I’ll tell Lydia to give you a discount.”

  A wide smile stretched across Jessica’s face. “Oh, thank you, thank you! You’re so kind.”

  “Just don’t tell anyone else.” He winked at her and let her wait at the back of the hall until most of the room was empty.

  He sent a text to Lydia, telling her not to let that woman pay for any courses and to make up some bullshit about a credit check or something. He only told Jessica about the discount to make her go away, and by the time she realised his deception, Marcus would be long gone. Some people just couldn’t afford it, and he would not milk them dry. But he wasn’t giving out discounts either. It was his knowledge that he worked hard to attain, after all.

  With the day’s events concluded, Marcus left the Marriott Hotel after another triumphant sales pitch. I’ll have to outsource this, too, if I can find a salesman charismatic enough. Maybe I can gather some acolytes around me to train… He couldn’t be bothered doing this all his life. He wanted to really kick back and enjoy the fruits of his business. But for now, he was very much the helmsman.

  He opened the door to his racing green Aston Martin DB11, a work of art in automotive form, and sunk into the supple leather seat. The faint smell of polish and money breached his nostrils. He ran his fingers over the steering wheel and sighed, allowing himself a moment of pride. “Another day, another fortune.” He started the engine, and the car growled to life like some kind of primordial predator.

  The engine’s purr vibrated through his chest as he pulled out of the hotel car park and rushed onto the main road, slipping through the lines of slower cars with ease. The lights illuminating the carriage way shimmered on the glossy paintwork like radiant silky strands as he cruised along, picking up speed quickly as he put his foot down.

  His mind drifted back to the image of Jessica, likely being told now that she wouldn’t be accepted onto the course. She’ll be fine, Marcus thought. People like her always find a way to move forward. In the end she’ll thank me for not preying on her desperation.

  The world felt quieter on the road, locked up in his car going over 100 miles per hour. It was like a safe space, a moment of time locked up just for Marcus Dain to enjoy. He never imagined it was in such a moment that he would perish.

  He hadn’t seen the lorry in the adjacent lane until it was too late. Fucker was trying to overtake another truck and clearly hadn’t checked his mirrors before pulling out. Marcus didn’t even have time to blare his horn, so he just yanked the steering wheel hard to the right. The car veered sharply, the tires squealing against the road, kicking up a cloud of pungent smoke in their wake as the car lost control.

  It all happened so fast then. A quick, blurry death. The world had spun around him so fast that he couldn’t see anything. The car likely did some somersaults after it collided with the central divider before a deafening crunch of metal knocked the last of his senses out of him.

  No last thoughts, no last words.

  Only darkness and a sickening sensation of being pulled through a long, silent void.