Edgy Billionaires In Your Area

Edgy billionaires in your area, breaking all your paradigms.

Edgy billionaires inventing the future and changing the world.

Edgy billionaires throwing their weight around and overturning your industry and ruining your neighbourhood and your city and your country, destroying your infrastructure and your government institutions and causing the breakdown of civil society.

Edgy billionaires setting fire to all of your money and then demanding more of your money not to do it again and then doing it again anyway just because they can.

Edgy billionaires who can’t understand why no one understands them. No one except other edgy billionaires.

Edgy billionaires suffering from the burden of genius. The multiple burdens of genius. The endless burdens of genius.

Oh, we have no idea. We who are not – who will never be – billionaires.

Edgy billionaires summiting Mount Everest and standing at the South Pole and visiting the wreck of the Titanic and travelling to the edge of space and competing in round-the-world yacht races and buying formula one teams and global media companies, buying priceless works of art and hundreds of beautiful trophy wives and it not being enough, none of it being enough, nothing ever being enough.

Edgy billionaires unable be happy, to feel secure, to find contentment, to be fully present or mostly present or even just partially present in the moment.

Edgy billionaires trying to maintain their youth and sexual attractiveness, trying to hold on to their masculinity in the face of numerous threats. Edgy billionaires whose masculinity is threatened, daily, by taxes and regulation and red tape and worker’s rights, among other impositions.

Edgy billionaires who must be allowed to launch rockets over pristine tropical islands, whose rockets must be allowed to explode and rain down over pristine tropical islands. Edgy billionaires unable to come up with less obvious, less on the nose metaphors than that.

Edgy billionaires befriending other, more traditionally masculine men in the hope that this will make them appear – that this will make them become – more masculine themselves, as if by osmosis.

Edgy billionaires befriending men who are heavily involved in combat sports, men who have made a career out of being performatively angry on podcasts and in YouTube videos. Men who would like it to be known that they do not beat their wives – if they have wives – but also that they could beat their wives, in the unlikely event that this becomes necessary.

Edgy billionaires learning how to fight. Edgy billionaires getting into the ring and the octagon and the dojo between business meetings. Edgy billionaires learning to take a beating from people they’re paying to fight with them. Edgy billionaires turning up to business meetings in gym gear with towels around their necks, their sweat dripping onto everyone else’s screens and keyboards and paperwork, and everyone else pretending not to notice. And, afterwards, the assistants to the assistants to the assistants of the edgy billionaires going around and making sure that no drops of sweat are left behind to be collected and harvested and potentially used against the billionaires in paternity cases or tabloid newspaper stings or for the purposes of blackmail.

Edgy billionaires who can’t be too careful.

Edgy billionaires with everything to lose.

Edgy billionaires who know how lucky they are, even though they don’t believe in luck.

“You make your own luck,” they say, having, in fact, either bought or stolen the majority of their luck from other people. Or had it bought or stolen for them.

Edgy billionaires up before dawn, drinking protein shakes with their workout crew under fluorescent lights in gyms the size of underground carparks, already two hours ahead of the day, telling themselves: this is why we win.

This, and all the money.

Edgy billionaires getting new teeth and hair and pecs and blood plasma, never mind from where or whom.

Edgy billionaires taking melatonin and serotonin and testosterone and cortisol and metformin and rapamycin and quercetin and dexamethasone and hydrocortisone and prednisolone and everything else they can get their hands on, in the hope of being bigger and better than they already are.

Edgy billionaires meditating and microdosing and attempting to have revelatory hallucinogenic experiences. Edgy billionaires looking for answers from the universe. Edgy billionaires trying to have visions of the fabulous future, and how to get there from here.

Edgy billionaires spending hours on ketamine in floatation tanks, trying to come up with daring new algorithms, and getting distracted by the quality of the salt water, the consistency of the salt water, the provenance of the salt water. Edgy billionaires telling their assistants’ assistants’ assistants to get rid of their salt guy and find a new one, one who can source new salt – purer, finer, better salt – from ancient, only-recently-rediscovered Roman mines in Macedonia and Jordan and other, more exotic places that the billionaires have never heard of.

But it’s not the salt.

Edgy billionaires importing whole Italian lakes and alpine rivers, reconstructing glaciers in the desert, flooding entire towns to create vast, private reservoirs.

But it isn’t the water.

Edgy billionaires, conscious of their giant responsibilities, worrying about everything.

Edgy billionaires on the decks of their yachts at sunset, looking out at great banks of glorious pink and golden clouds, thinking: how much can I have? How much is mine? And: why isn’t it more?

Edgy billionaires concerned about the singularity, the coming inflection point in technological growth that will cause unpredictable and irreversible change to everything. Edgy billionaires worried that it won’t come soon enough, that they won’t live long enough to see it happen, that so much time is being wasted.

Edgy billionaires distracted by the possibility of artificial intelligence taking over the world and enslaving mankind, but more distracted by the possibility of artificial intelligence not taking over the world and enslaving mankind.

Edgy billionaires anxious about birth rates, and about resources, and breathing space, and living room. Edgy billionaires trying to start race wars.

Edgy billionaires preoccupied by the future of white people. Edgy billionaires doing their bit to try to ensure the future of white people by having as many white children as possible. Edgy billionaires sending out Christmas cards – getting their assistants’ assistants’ assistants to send out Christmas cards – featuring pictures of the majority of their beautiful white children, lined up as if for a class photo, in a class where all the children look the same.

No one knows, exactly, how many identical white children the edgy billionaires have. The edgy billionaires don’t even know, exactly. They only know that they need more.

Edgy billionaires wondering how many more white children they can have before their time runs out. Edgy billionaires demanding to know why their time should have to run out at all. Edgy billionaires spending billions looking into the possibility of cheating death, of beating time, of never growing old. Edgy billionaires pondering uploading their consciousness to machines, or into younger, fresher, fitter bodies.

Edgy billionaires terrified of accidents, of the irony of being this close to immortality and slipping on a banana skin and losing it all. Of falling over in the shower or falling down the stairs, of choking to death on food, of tripping over random obstacles; of knives, of domestic electricity, of wild animals.

Edgy billionaires aware of the very real possibility of being murdered by their bodyguards. Their hundreds of bodyguards, who have been trained by the secret services of the worst regimes in the world. Their heavily armed and brutally effective bodyguards, who have been hired specifically for their ability to act in the moment and without moral restraint. Edgy billionaires inventing explosive collars which their bodyguards are contractually obliged to wear, and which will be set off only in the event of the bodyguards making threatening actions toward the billionaires. Edgy billionaires trying to define what, exactly, constitutes a threatening action – and how far in advance it might be predicted. Edgy billionaires getting AI to analyse their bodyguards’ credit history and family background and social media posts and day-to-day gestures and tone of voice, to give a minute-by-minute score reflecting the likelihood of their choosing violence at any point in time.

And what about their pilots, and their personal trainers, and their personal chefs? What about their lawyers and their judo instructors and their masseurs? What about their gardeners and dog walkers and interior decorators and piano tuners, their groundskeepers and mechanics and tailors and architects, their children’s nannies and maths tutors and speech therapists?

Edgy billionaires surrounded, at all times, by the spectre of revolution. By the possibility of bloody retribution and vengeance.

Edgy billionaires educating themselves by listening to podcasts and abridged audiobooks on the history of class relations, and asymmetric warfare, and the fall of monarchies. The fall of empires and dictatorships and civilizations. Edgy billionaires asking for summaries and strategies. Edgy billionaires seeing the shadows of guillotines everywhere.

Edgy billionaires unable to sleep, in spite of all the melatonin and the meditation and the floatation tanks. Edgy billionaires on their balconies at four in the morning, looking out across their imported Italian lakes at distant thunderstorms they don’t yet own, thinking: how will this all by taken from me, and by who, and how soon?

Edgy billionaires buying bolt holes in New Zealand and Hawaii and The Seychelles and Svalbard, hundreds of emergency landing strips to be used in the event of revolution or the apocalypse. Edgy billionaires with jets on standby at the ends of runways around the world. Edgy billionaires knowing the exits of every building they enter before they enter it, the fastest route out of town, the door to the staircase to the landing pad on the roof, the helicopter flight path out of there.

Edgy billionaires making contingency plans for the emergency repatriation of their wives and children who are scattered among unstable populations all over the planet, all their hundreds of wives and children studying or shopping or going to parties or trying to find themselves. How many can be saved? How much loss could they bear?

Edgy billionaires asking themselves: why does attachment to people and things have to come with so much potential for pain? Edgy billionaires playing their therapists off one and other, trying to get the answers they need. Edgy billionaires dreaming of living on planets where the mathematics are different, where X no longer has to equal Y. Edgy billionaires demanding “yes, and?” and “yes, and?” and “yes, and?” again and again and again.

Edgy billionaires attempting to clone their wives and children, just in case. Edgy billionaires wondering whether they should or could do or could have done the same with their fathers, and whether this would make their fathers, finally, love them.

Their monstrous fathers who loom, alive or dead, eternally enraged at the failures of their useless sons. Their monstrous looming fathers, gigantic, endlessly crushing their useless sons’ every chance for happiness, or contentment, or freedom.

Edgy billionaires terrified of the rage of their monstrous fathers, of the disgust and disappointment of their monstrous fathers, of the terrible words and terrible fists and feet of their monstrous fathers. Edgy billionaires desperate for the love of their monstrous fathers, and of their poor, cold mothers.

Edgy billionaires offering their fleets of rockets and bought governments and laid-waste-to countries – their empty, broken hearts held in their hands – to their monstrous fathers and their poor, cold mothers.

And it never being enough.

Edgy billionaires hating their monstrous fathers and unable, still, to do anything about it. Edgy billionaires desiring their poor, cold mothers and unable to do anything about that either.

Edgy billionaires howling in their grief in midnight saunas, lost in midnight forests, in the backs of speedboats and the VIP rooms of Russian nightclubs, clinging on to each other for comfort because no one else can understand. Edgy billionaires no longer able to have any kind of relationships with people who aren’t also edgy billionaires. Their beautiful trophy wives and girlfriends and mistresses untouched, their trophy children unnoticed. Edgy billionaires, noses bleeding, slapping their own faces in gold-framed bathroom mirrors in Russian nightclubs, again and again, shouting at their reflections that they’re useless, that they’re losers, that they’re nothing.

Edgy billionaires going on week-long, month-long, year-long ketamine benders, appearing out of their minds on podcasts and at press conferences, behaving wildly inappropriately in board meetings and at government events. Edgy billionaires trashing their own share prices and having to make multi-million-dollar payouts to former employees and romantic partners and random people they’ve libelled on social media. Edgy billionaires unable to stop themselves acting out, unable to stop blaming the rest of the world for failing to accommodate them. Edgy billionaires unable to comprehend the vastness of their own obscene need.

Edgy billionaires deciding on revenge. Deciding to punish the world for not loving them enough. Telling themselves that they are destroying the planet in order to save it.

Edgy billionaires with their fingers on the trigger.

Edgy billionaires wired with explosives.

Edgy billionaires pulling the pin on hand grenades as they walk into crowded rooms.

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