The Great Balance
It was a bright December morning in the year 2085 when Mrs Hatch arrived at the opulent home of Vincent Trusk, the richest man on the planet. She had with her the stumbling figure of Mr Undungo, who was in turn, the poorest man on the planet.
They avoided the press by using a rear entrance and made their way through a series of servant areas before being finally received by Mr Trusk himself, a slender bald-headed man dressed in cream-coloured linen. He stood beside a long, curved white sofa in a minimalist styled room that served as his office. The southern wall of the room was ceiling to floor glass and looked out over a sweltering, partially flooded, city.
‘Minister Hatch,’ said Trusk as he motioned them to the sofa. ‘Some tea perhaps?’
While tea was served, Mrs Hatch, evidently nervous, began laying out some papers. With nowhere else to put them she resorted to the sofa beside her. With nowhere to put a cup of tea either, she motioned away the TruskCorp serving robot. The robot then went to serve Mr Undungo, who regarded it rather as a dog would regard a lawn mower.
Mr Undungo had recently been bathed, but was still leaving stains on the immaculate upholstery, a situation that everyone in the room was choosing to ignore. Mrs Hatch, a middle-aged lady in a traditional A-line skirt and frock jacket, with her thoughts finally in order, began the discussion of the purpose of their visit.
‘Ah’, she said, looking up. ‘Yes sorry, that is all your paperwork there. Well anyway, I’m sure I don’t need to tell you how much press interest there has been in this, which is why we are here in person. After we have concluded, I’ll be giving a short… ah… press conference I suppose, which you will be welcome to join…’
She trailed off as Trusk scowled and walked over to the window. ‘This whole thing is ridiculous!’ he exclaimed. He then turned and pointed at Undungo. ‘Who even is this man?’
‘This is Mr Undungo,’ replied Hatch as calmly as she could. ‘He is the poorest man from the poorest city in the poorest nation on Earth. He is the person you are to be balanced with. He is the man who will receive exactly half your wealth.’
‘I rent my legs!’ Undungo suddenly yelped.
‘Yes,’ agreed Hatch, patting him on one of his prosthetic thighs. ‘You certainly do. The richest to the poorest, as Madame President says. The greater the disparity, the greater the balance.’
‘Absurd,’ snarled Trusk. ‘And tell me Minister Hatch, are you to be balanced?’
'Everyone is. Even me.'
'How much do you lose then? You happy with that?'
'I am not rich. It’s a matter of public record. I am matched with a dog breeder in Hounslow, I gain 35,412 pounds exactly.'
'Lucky you,’ snorted Trusk. ‘But people will stop working, you know. They will just sit and wait for the Balance.'
'At this stage, Mr Trusk, it seems we have no other choice but to try. Chronic tax avoidance on the part of oligarchs and billionaires such as yourself has led us to this point.'
'It’s not fair. Who gave President Thunberg the authority, certainly not me!'
‘It is precisely fair,’ corrected Hatch. ‘It’s not money that rules any longer, Mr Trusk, its fairness. Don’t you agree Mr Undungo?’
'I can have my own legs?'
‘And more beside Mr Undungo! You'll be a billionaire!’
‘Spare legs for church days, then?’ mused Undungo, rubbing his chin.
‘Well, I’m sure you’ll get the idea Mr U…’
‘You see!’ cried Trusk. ‘He won’t know what to do with the money, what a waste!’
‘I suggest you read the legislation again Mr Trusk. Even if he does waste it, it is still seen to be a better option than letting people like you continue to sit on great piles of wealth or worse, shooting it off into space.’
‘This won’t stand!’ declared Trusk, ‘You shall be hearing from my lawyers!’
He had the robot usher them out. The interview was over.
That very next day Mr Trusk spoke to his account, Mr Cleavepenny, an expert in tax evasion, who had come up with an idea on how to bilk the Balance. They spoke over an encrypted online video call.
‘It’s a simple shell game at the end of the day,’ said Cleavepenny with a lupine smile. ‘If you have someone in mind, give them a call. If not, I can suggest a few names.’
‘No, I get the idea, I have the perfect person for this scam. Start drawing up the paperwork.’
Mr Trusk killed the call and then dialled up an old acquaintance, a failed movie produce called Edna Bag.
‘What do you want, Vincent?’ she groaned as she stubbed out a cigarette into an empty wine glass. ‘You already have everything. A pound of flesh perhaps?’
‘Nothing like that,’ he replied soothingly. ‘I just want to make a proposition. You never did get that film The Sands of Semeru off the ground, did you?’
‘As you well know, you bastard. You pulled the plug when you bought the studio.’
‘Yes, yes,’ he said with a dismissive hand gesture. ‘All water under the bridge, now just hear me out…’
After he had made his offer, Bag rolled her eyes and lit a cigarette with a pistol-shaped lighter. ‘So, let’s get this right then. To avoid giving this guy Undungo half a trillion dollars, you put it all into my film. This will force Hatch to rebalance you now that your cupboard is bare. When the music stops, I cancel Sands, give you the money back, but I get 50 billion off my debts to the studio.’
‘In a nutshell,’ agreed Trusk.
‘They will Balance me too you know; how will that work?’
‘Mr Cleavepenny will send over the details, but essentially the money will be in the film and not your bank account. We hide it there until the Balance is over and I save almost all of it.’
‘What stops me from keeping it all?’
‘I believe Mr Cleavepenny will also send over some papers for you to sign to make sure that you don’t.’
‘Fine, fine,’ she said reaching for the button to disconnect the call. ‘Not like I have any choice in the matter.’
***
Some months later, having lost everything in the end, Mr Trusk turned up at the semi-drowned city hall offices of Mrs Hatch, now a senior advisor to President Thunberg.
After some unpleasant pleasantries he pleaded his case.
‘Cleavepenny and Bag took it all, don’t you understand? They did the whole thing behind my back. I’m saddled with five hundred billion in debt that I can’t pay because my money is still tied up in that wretched film!’
‘I’m so very sorry to hear that Mr Trusk,’ said Hatch with apparently genuine concern. ‘If it’s any consolation, you’ll be pleased to know that Mr Undungo did fine. He was matched with the second richest person in the world after your...’
‘Any consolation? Why would you think I would care about him?’ said Trusk, prior to burying his head in his hands.
‘Well,’ sighed Hatch. ‘Take comfort from this then, if you are as deeply in debt as you say, then you should do pretty well out of next year’s Balance.’
He looked up in amazement. ‘There is going to be another one?’
'Oh, I’m breaking new here, but yes, the senate has decreed it. Every year from now on, there will be a Balance.'
***
A year later Vincent Trusk was in jail. He could not hold out until the next Balance and his debts buried him. With the vultures circling, going to jail was the best option out of several other terrible ones.
Tall, gaunt, and dressed in orange he was escorted to a VIP visitor’s room where his shackles were removed, and he was sat at a cheap plastic table. Minister Hatch entered and sat at the other side of the table.
‘I see your friend Mr Undungo is doing well,’ he admitted with a sigh. ‘I follow his progress on the news.’
‘Ah yes, yes,’ agreed the Minister. ‘Some shrewd investments. He seemed to get the hang of being a billionaire pretty quickly.’
‘Huh OK, so, are you just here to gloat?’
‘Not at all. You see, with your massive spiralling debts, you are now at the far side of the map for this year’s Balance. I felt that, given the circumstances, I should deliver the news to you personally.’
‘What?’
‘You are to be Balanced with Mr Undungo again, and now half of his fortune will come back to you.’
‘I’ll be rich again?’ stuttered Trusk.
‘Yes, but only half as rich as when we first met. Well done Mr Trusk,’ smiled Minister Hatch. ‘You took the long way around, but you got there in the end!'
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