His mansion sprawled in the sunny uplands; his larder bulged with premium ancillary protein; the flower of lab produce was carted daily to his kitchens; his chef staff conjured shakshukas and bibimbaps for him at the drop of a hat; his thés dansants were legendary among the Four Hundred; he stroked a mean putt on the Mar-a-Go-Golf pastures; he rubbed classy elbows at The Gentleman’s Club.
What more could Siddhartha Huff want that wasn’t proffered in spades by accident of birth? The answer was pow. Sidd craved it in the worst way. He and his Rhipidistian cronies had all the pose in the world, but they lacked pow. The terms of the co-griftership handed down by the Better Monday Agreement — the magna carta of Isthmia — were crystal: pose to the Rhips, pow to the Mamas, fifty-fifty skim divvy, nominy dominy amen.
The Montmorencys’ clench on the precedency had relieved Rhips of the burden of figurehead choice. They had capitalized on lack of purpose to play, eat, drink, bet and hang at Mar-a-Gogo. The obesity thing crept up on them. When they realized they had a problem, it dawned that the Mamasutras held all the patents on SlenderTech ™. Siddhartha Huff was the sole one of their number to perceive how this would alter the delicate balance of greed in the land.
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