The Supplication of the Male Pig

Chapter One

Chapter One

In an admirable ballet of driving prowess, the skillful hands of David Farnsworth Smythe direct steering wheel and gear shift to join rhythmic feet in working clutch and brakes of the sleek sports car. David’s driving conforms to his persona, enviable but obnoxious, and he considers it his prerogative to overdrive the traffic, accelerating to speeds exceeding eighty miles per hour in the slow lane, impetuously weaving through highway congestion that the working world patiently accepts every day.

In the unending stream of autos, the bright red Lamborghini becomes more and more distinctive as he nears New York City, leaving behind the idyllic estates and mansions of Canaan, Connecticut. He is not accustomed to driving in morning rush hour. The last time doing so he was accelerating in the opposite direction, returning home after an all night orgy with two models at the swank Pierre Hotel.

The speeding driver smiles whenever reminiscing about that rendezvous. The girls were expensive and the penthouse suite, unoccupied due to inclement weather and the late arrival of a foreign dignitary, was also costly, particularly after bribing the concierge. But for David, money is a fungible commodity to be liberally exchanged for pleasurable frivolity. With an annual trust income of ‘only’ one million dollars, interim periods of relative poverty following some of his costly escapades have required a degree of scrimping. But for the super rich like David, that has meant deferring a weekend of debauchery in France until the next trust distribution arrived... never more than weeks away... and always sizable.

Embarrassing... the temporary impoverishment? Yes. But knowing that eventually the relative discomfort would end with a wire transferred replenishment of his bank account served to mollify the few days of boredom.

For all his life, David has been heir to one of the largest fortunes in the United States. With million after million unfailingly offered for his conspicuous consumption, he has always considered his status as uncontrolled spendthrift to be proper training for learning how to squander billions. Generation upon generation of Farnsworth’s and Smythes built and augmented the current fortune. Yet, if there are genetic brain cells imbuing descendants with the penchant to be stewards of great wealth, such DNA code was not passed on to David. Instead, at age 31, single, tall, dark and found to be attractive even notwithstanding his unfathomable wealth, David is without ambition concerning fiduciary responsibility and without heirs for whom to be steward. And such a void dovetails with his desired lifestyle... a lifestyle which is about to attain its zenith.

The purpose of David’s choreograph of rushed motoring is to attend a meeting with the ‘white shoe’ law firm of Grayson, Boddington, and Snipes. Normally he would arrive with annoying tardiness, never wishing to appear to obsequiously react to someone else’s summons. But on this sunny morning in June, David is actually eager to meet with the frumpy Grace Boddington, accomplished estate attorney and daughter of the founding partner.

It should be noted that David has been the heir to vast wealth. By morning’s end that will cease. His last living relative, Uncle Whitmore, died months ago. Despite the complexity of his estate, Grace Boddington and her assistant have worked day and night to process the myriad of forms and filings in order to make the bulk of the assets, many billions, available to the sole heir, David Farnsworth Smythe. By morning’s end, David’s appellation of prospective wealth will end... he will no longer be an heir to wealth... he will have wealth.

In her toil, a circumspect Grace Boddington questioned the social and moral propriety of turning control of the billions over to the ostensibly well educated reprobate. But the legal propriety was not to be doubted. The firm of Grayson, Boddington, and Snipes had been instrumental over the many years in the planning, drafting almost every relevant document... wills... trust agreements... joint ventures... partnership agreements... all providing the mechanisms for the ultimate transfer of wealth. Thus her firm has all the requisite knowledge and the intent of David’s antecedents is unfortunately most clear. David gets everything. Compliance with the wishes of many generations of Farnworths and Smythes will be effectuated despite her concerns. Professionally, Grace has no choice but to oversee the final transfer of control over the billions.

Curiously, Grace Boddington’s social and moral reservations, well concealed and unspoken even amongst her peers, are not the only source of her veiled reluctance. Though contemptible, she always found David’s few visits to her firm to be refreshingly distracting. She reveled in listening to stories of his travels, even though bristling when he graphically described the beauty of his typical bimbo companion and her s****l vanquishment. She furtively imagined that it was her dowdy form lying on the beach of a ritzy resort, being propositioned and fondled by her spendthrift client while being served tropical cocktails.

Thus there is another element of remorse... she has been and would continue to be envious. Oddly enough she would miss David. She realized in handing over the ‘keys’ to the fortune that she probably would never see him again. Approaching forty and remaining unmarried, Grace had sadly come to the realization that the law would be her only husband and any ‘children’ would be born out of the word processor and be solely in the form of a Crummy trust or some other such arcane document... most likely to be signed, executed and forever stuffed in a file draw.

And so David’s dexterous eagerness brings the red Lamborghini to Park Avenue at a high rate of speed. Beginning today there would be no more constraints on his dalliances. And there would be no more condescending lectures from the bespeckled solicitor over the administration of money... David on occasion requesting advances on trust distributions... only to be summarily rejected by Grace Boddington.

“Funds wired in advance are not provided for in the trust agreement, David. You must learn to budget your money,” her stern voice lectured. “Your next distribution will be wired in a couple of days.”

How is one expected to properly swill, feast and fornicate on a paltry one million dollars per year?

Thankfully, with Uncle Whitmore’s death, those days are over.

Stepping from the elevator, David aloofly waves at Grace Boddington’s cute young assistant and proceeds to a small conference room. He cannot remember the girl’s name... Melissa or Michelle or Meredith. Months ago he promised the impressionable girl dinner at Four Seasons. She gushingly boasted to her office mates, then David tossed her phone number when, after a long and glib phone conversation, he learned that she also could not bend the rules and arrange to advance him funds... Good riddance, as far as he was concerned.

“Good morning, David. On time for a change,” Attorney Grace chides in knowing that despite annoying David he can have no effect on her firm’s fee and that the likelihood of being engaged to perform meaningful tax and estate planning for his newly acquired fortune is scant.

“How much?” David sits and brusquely inquires, ignoring Grace’s provocation.

“Four billion, three hundred and twenty one million, five hundred and ten thousand. But who’s counting.”

“Is that all?” David sarcastically queries.

Grace smiles with the temerity of the question.

“Of course not. That amount is only what we could turn to cash in six months... after paying taxes on the value of the entire estate, of course. The remainder is in liquid assets to be transferred free of future taxes. Oil wells, real estate, a modest railroad, all to be deeded to your name, if not already done. The legal system in some foreign countries doesn’t work with the alacrity to which you’re accustomed, David. But it will all come to you. Meanwhile you’ll just have to get by on a few billion,” Grace wryly chides again. “Sign here, and the funds will be legally transferred to your name then wired to be invested or expended as you instruct.”

“And the house in Canaan?” David inquires in eagerly grasping a pen.

Grace slides the title for the family homestead across the table as pen meets paper. Before Uncle Whitmore’s demise, David actually had to pay rent! Some complexity concerning an estate planning technique and subsequent gift tax consequence. Being a tenant, akin to being relegated as some kind of serf in David’s mind, was aggravating... thus providing another reason to weave at a high rate of speed on crowded highways. He has been eager to own his ancestral home. Grace Boddington had been stern in assuring David complied with all terms of the lease, taking the precaution of deducting rent from monthly distributions best used for Champagne and call girls.

“Any plans, David? Anything with which we can assist?” Grace knowing her offering to be in vain.

“I’m going to buy a house... an estate I suppose it would more appropriately be termed. Secluded... far off... huge and expensive. I’ll let you know when the time comes.”

Grace Boddington smiles wryly, understanding that her concerns are indeed with merit and picturing what debauchery a reprobate like David could conjure in parts of the world with limited and lax governance.

“Here’s a special code and procedures, David. Email us with instructions if you need something. We will know your request is authentic only if you follow the procedure and use those precise numbers and letters.”

“Kind of you to be so thoughtful, Grace,” David intones sardonically. “There may indeed be a need for immediate funds if I find the right place.”

“Funds? That you have David. Any particular place in mind?”

Grace’s imagination once again enviously pictures her pudgy form, with most remnants of youthfulness dissipated by the ravages of years of sedentary legal drudgery, lying with him on a beach.

“The Mediterranean, counselor. Perhaps an island.”

An abrupt and obscenely wealthy David Farnsworth Smythe arises. He does not shake hands nor does he politely thank the woman who slavishly marshaled the billions so he could more promptly begin his new life of profligacy. But he does cast another detached wave to her cute assistant as he strolls to the elevator. The faked attention afforded to her secretary Michelle frustrates Grace Boddington. And for the impressionable young girl, it is more of an insult than no recognition at all. But David understands the girl can no longer be of use, not that her assistance ever procured a dime of emergency party money when he was down to his last ten thousand dollars.

America’s newest billionaire returns to his car. David is invigorated. The drive home should be faster and with fewer impediments.