WHIRLING F2 ORB Ultraliberal Quest Initiation - 371
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Savoir Faire: Hey, money-mouth. Eendracht. The impeccable hustler-provider of the seventh generation. It's showtime with Savvy!
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Logic: It's day four if we're counting days since the *event*.
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Savoir Faire: Listen, if you really want to make it in the big leagues, you need to *re-conceptualize* your entire portfolio. Collecting tare and moaning about taxes is not going to cut it.
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Savoir Faire: *One* coin. The first of many. Imagine so many coins you're going to need to hire someone to help you manage all your wealth.
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how millionaire
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Savoir Faire: By all accounts this place should be *swarming* with artist-types. It's just a matter of time until you meet one. Look for squats and cheap rentals, we might even chance upon a *political artivist* here.
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Savoir Faire: Go and support them like the state never could. Everyone must know that you're a big fucking shark around here!
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Jump to: [post-decision hub]
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post-decision hub
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Savoir Faire: Go and support her like the state never could. Everyone must know that you're a big fucking shark around here!
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You: Not today, thanks. [Discard thought.]
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Savoir Faire: It should be the other way around. Old mitred money showing up at your doorstep, begging for a slice of cake.
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Savoir Faire: And then what? Join the ranks of blue-collar criminals?
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Savoir Faire: Don't listen to this fool. It's not about the artists, it's about the *buyers*. You can't hang 'vapour-porn' in the foyer of your chalet.
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Jump to: [post-decision hub]
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Savoir Faire: What's up? I'm worried about what's *down*, broke boy. I'm talking about your severe lack of money.
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moneyhub1
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Savoir Faire: No, you don't! You just keep muttering about your 'economic self-interest' and not doing anything about it. Yeah, I heard you back there. What the hell was that?!
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You: I could pitch another project to this Mega Rich Light-Bending Guy in the container?
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You: I could sell Kim's motorcar, like I sold his spinners?
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You: I assume begging rich ladies on boats is not the correct answer.
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You: Really, that's it? That's all I have to say? Why aren't *you guys* helping me out?
Really, no ideas? Why aren't *you guys* helping me out?
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You: Alright, I give up -- I have no idea how to make millions.
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You: Does this giant check that Evrart gave me help?
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You: Mañana flicked me a coin.
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Jump to: [how millionaire]
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Savoir Faire: No, you need something *real*, something you can hold on to with all your claws and teeth.
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You: I know all about money.
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You: Wait, win *whom* back?
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Savoir Faire: The spirit of ultraliberalism. Your charm, your spin, your winning hand.
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You: Something about this doesn't sit right...
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Savoir Faire: Stop grumbling, it's time to move. Are you in or are you out?
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You: Cindy seems the type.
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Savoir Faire: You're right. She has the poise of a struggling artist. Very *tangible*. You can *feel* the poverty on her. Plus, she has paint.
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Savoir Faire: What? No, screw that shit-show. You're at the centre of this one. Come on down, contestant, you're about to make some *money*.
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You: Actually I'm good on the money front. [Opt out.]
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You: Alright, then. Show me the millions. (Opt in.)
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Savoir Faire: No, don't you ever be sorry. You think the Salzneben Report's Top 500 has 'sorry' in their vocabulary? Think again. That's a loser's mindset.
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Authority: Take heed of these wise words. *You're* in charge. 'Sorry' is a beggar's plea reserved for those beneath you.
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You: Oh, so now it's Savvy? What's up, buddy?
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Savoir Faire: Suit yourself and your middle-class ways -- Savvy doesn't need you, Savvy's got his own *entourage*.
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Savoir Faire: Music is a pet project, not a viable business scheme. Let's return to it once you've set up your estate.
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You: Do I know you?
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Savoir Faire: You will. I'm here to make your life better. They call me the Man-About-Town. Gilded Heart-Throb. Master of Money.
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Savoir Faire: Oh, it can. But first you need to *enter* the market. Right now you're as good as Samir Loisir eating dirt in Gurdi's immense network of mines.
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Encyclopedia: Samir Loisir was a Gurdi businessman who made his first millions selling kilograms of the ultra-rare mineral phasium to luxury jeweller Zachaël et Cie. He made the rest of his many millions through wise investments and the invention of pleochroic lights.
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Suggestion: Perfect, all you have to do is *pretend* to have taste. This will be your weapon when swindling artists for their overpriced 'work'.
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Conceptualization: Interesting. Are we speaking of visual art or something more *conceptual*?
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Savoir Faire: Once we've brought in the millions you can be a tree log for all I care, but first we've got to work on increasing your net worth.
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Savoir Faire: Exactly. Not making money when you're asleep, are you? If you wanna be rich you better work until your fingers bleed. You can sleep when you die.
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Endurance: (Your pecs dance.) No more sleep it is. A frazzled ride through eternity without pause. Hissing pistons pushed to the extreme.
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Half Light: Just take my money and leave me alone!
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You: Are we finally going to solve the lynching?
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You: Eendracht? The hustler-provider? The *seventh* generation?!
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Savoir Faire: But Savvy's got your back. Savvy's going to book you a charter flight with eighty birds of prey on board, to a land where the streets are paved with krugerrands and fixed-income securities. You'll try again, but this time with *money*. You'll win her back.
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Savoir Faire: Are you in?
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You: Artists, artists... I'm an artist myself.
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You: I was asleep.
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Savoir Faire: That's right! It's time to stop muttering about your 'economic self-interest' and actually do something about it. Yeah, I heard you back there. What the hell was that?!
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Conceptualization: What is this, the turn of the century? The world's moved beyond paintings. You want something *experimental* -- intramuscular puppetry, hyperrealistic vapour-porn, meditation opera...
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Authority: That child's a common delinquent, not an artist. He probably can't even hold a paint brush.
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Savoir Faire: Good, good, gotta spread the gospel. But talk alone doesn't bring in the cash. It's time for step two.
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Logic: Fifty-five billion reál is a gross overestimation and we're pretty sure eating dirt is going to send any kid to a hospital, even Samir Loisir.
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Endurance: You could force a coin *inside* you? Any hole will do. Not many more definitive tests of a man's mettle than the fortune yawn.
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You: Money?!
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Savoir Faire: We're getting somewhere. But what project? And what's the ROI?
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Savoir Faire: Not unless you have thousands of them stuffed away in secret.
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Conceptualization: He does have potential... defying authority, thinking outside the box...
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You: What do you expect? I'm an ultraliberal. I speak ultraliberal-ese.
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Savoir Faire: You need to become a MILLIONAIRE. Now, how do you become a MILLIONAIRE?
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are you in decision
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You: I've hustled, I've *grinded*. Show me the millions. (Opt in.)
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Empathy: Money is only one form of capital, *human relations* are another. You're focusing on the wrong things.
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You: Hold on, I thought we'd be getting into the stock market?
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Savoir Faire: Do you see any stock markets in Martinaise? No? That's because for those living in the outskirts, the market is *nothing*. Just ghost numbers flicking through time. A spectral sport they're not invited to play.
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You: Good thing I've been preparing for this with my Actual Art Degree.
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Savoir Faire: Don't be silly, the art market isn't about art, it's about gate-keeping, speculative bidding, and showboating.
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Savoir Faire: Attaboy, welcome to the final grind! Here we operate with money on a *much* higher level than the ordinary citizen, we feed it back into the machine. Stop saving, start spending -- become a *patron*...
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Savoir Faire: Those guys? They're all financially illiterate. Only Savvy here knows how to *dazzle* and *embezzle* money out of investors' pockets with the acrobatic prowess of a four-time gold medallist in the Samaran Gymnastic Summer Games.
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Encyclopedia: The ancient Samaran tribes used carved rhodochrosite to represent their wealth. The bigger the boulder, the more money they had. In case you needed to know.
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You: Wait, so we're looking for a painting?
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You: What about the speedfreaks' anodic dance music?
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You: Cuno? Cuno is an artist.
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You: No one comes to mind.
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Savoir Faire: Stop thinking of it that way. It's not a 'painting', it's a 'highly collectible and irreproducible asset'. So, know any local artists with assets to sell?
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Variable["whirling.concept_art_patron"]
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Savoir Faire: He's also twelve. We don't want to attract the attention of tax collectors by dabbling in unnecessary child-labour.
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You: Superstar talk. Don't try to keep up with me and my vast dreams.
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Savoir Faire: Superstar talk? Good one, hustler, gotta keep the dream alive. But it's not really showing up in your net worth yet, is it? And it's what -- day two, three, four?
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Savoir Faire: Let's start by getting you into the lucrative art market to diversify your assets and increase your ROI. Speaking of which, know any artists?
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You: It is but a symptom of the rapacious catastrophe that will devour us all.
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Savoir Faire: Brilliant, catastrophes are *prime time* for money-makers. But you're not really reaping any benefits yet, are you? No shorting, no shameless speculation...
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You: I'm just tired of being a low-net-worth-individual. It must be *the curse*.
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You: You said before that playing the market could get me *rich*.
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You: It's pathetic -- I know. Sorry you have to hang around with me. I'll do better.
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Shivers: Somewhere in La Delta, numbers flip and whirl on the giant split-flap boards of the stock exchange, marking gains the size of Kemi SR's entire economy. Radiocomputers hum below to the tune of gambling.
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Savoir Faire: Of course you don't. You've never even been *close* to a sum with more than three zeros. Let's face it, you've been on a years-long losing streak...
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Savoir Faire: Yeah, swindle-father. Papa-preneur. Look, this is serious. No time for distractions. It's time to make *money*. Lots of it.
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Savoir Faire: Did Ilona Wihuri-Vilakone blame ghosts? How about Admiral Gustav Lestock? Samir Loisir grew up in the coal mines of Gurdi eating dirt, and he still managed to make FIFTY-FIVE BILLION REÁL in his lifetime. So stop with the excuses.
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