Actually, I think I'll post everything I have so far so there aren't only snippets of it accessible. Thanks mizal for the advice, although the M.C. wasn't the main focus of the story I tried to reveal his character a bit more.
He was late. He knew that. But he didn't mind. A middle-aged man, slightly balding, strolled down a deserted street whilst the sun set. The sullen sky was a mattress of grey, broken only by sporadic patches of a more tired grey. The buildings looming over the footpath were a similar shade, and battled futilely against perpetually blaring neon sights and lights. As he walked, Martin's gimlet eyes, hardened by his many years, swept upwards, and he observed birds forlornly parade across a dreary sky. Passing several large billboards advertising the latest and greatest, and noting that the Money-Changers club had already closed, he turned the corner and joined the city at The Place of Worship.
Martin passed a smorgasbord of images, golden dollar signs, globes ensconced in disembodied hands, all icons of the World Bank. He briefly joined the mass of people genuflecting before a large statue engraved with the words "His Eminence, Adam Smith" then bustled upwards, past the Have-nots, who were fervently worshipping various effigies of Smith, and joined the rest of the Haves. Martin watched with resigned interest as an elderly man made his way onto a raised platform, clutching a book everyone recognised as "The Wealth of Nations: The 105th Edition". Following the usual orisons, the luxuriously grey-robed figure proceeded to enlighten his listeners of the World Bank's divine compassion and its protection of their desires. He added, causing a ripple of delight, that a decision had been made to generously lower interest rates. He urged the people to further invest. But today Martin wasn't listening. He was distracted by his inner thoughts.
Having inherited the genes of wealthy business people, Martin was always destined for a comfortable life as a 'have', and had inherited the vocation of merchant-trader. His life had been spent travelling endlessly, buying and selling. Recently, while passing through a rather insignificant town, he had stumbled upon a rarity. A printed book. Although deciding it possessed no real market value, Martin, after prolonged internal debate, still purchased the oddity. Printed words had long been obsolete; the world's entire book catalogue had been collected and digitised before his lifetime. The book, strangely titled 'The Holy Bible', had ever since intermittently occupied his mind.
"And remember", the preacher's voice pierced his thoughts, "Whether you are a Have or a Have-not, the selfish pursuit of wealth..."
"Benefits society as a whole," the mass chanted in unison. All, including the speaker, then diverted their eyes, brimming with religious awe, to the large electronic board behind the platform. The highest point of this hallowed ground. The many flashing numbers stopped flickering, silencing the chorale of the street. It marked the closure of the stock market for another day.
As Martin entered his temporary residence, he removed his worn, crumpled coat and headed for his usual pile of work. The road that had led him back snaked for miles through the concrete jungle, letting him traverse the feverish nightlife of downtown Springfield before returning him home. Without conscious thought, he sat down at his desk and automatically pulled out his ledger. Briefly pausing, something caught his bleary eyes, It was that book again. He had almost forgotten about it - originally reading to merely distract himself. Of course, it should have been dismissed as a preposterous work of fiction, a remnant of ancient times. But his curiosity betrayed him.
He supposed that even the usage of words was dictated by The Invisible Hand, as the natural progression of language rendered archaic and unnecessary words obsolete. For instance, the word 'God' was frequently repeated. Consulting his dictionary, he found it too was ignorant of that word. In the past few days, he discovered that 'God' was a being who seemed almost as powerful as Adam Smith. Almost. It's difficult to think about these things. While he sometimes envied the cushy lifestyle of the 'Academics' - like his father, he had studied business and finance at twelve years of age - he preferred the simplicity of numbers and was glad to relegate ancient, esoteric musings to those specialised to entertain them. Martin paused to remove his clouded spectacles and attempted to rub the tiredness from his eyes. He sighed and allowed himself a sardonic smile. If his productivity slowed any further, he was certain that the market would be squirrelled away by sunrise. With an exhausted yawn, he picked up his glasses, cleaned them carefully, and resumed his calculations, but found himself still distracted by the book.
Earlier, he had flipped to the second half of the book, as it was curiously titled 'The New Testament'. For something that presumed to be the authority on reality, he was shocked by the countless stories of people aiding others without the promise of reciprocity. In the effort to progress humanity, the greatest virtue was to be rich - closely followed by an adherence to the government's rules and regulations. As an American prophet, Calvin Coolidge, once said: "The man who builds a factory builds a temple, that the man who works there worships there". Perhaps he was reading a Greek tragedy, and he had been blind to the irony. The grave naivete of Jesus and the chaos of primitive society led everyone, even the divine, to miss the point entirely.
Martin leaned back wearily in his chair. He had spent the night ploughing through his work and would be ready for the nine-thirty start to the trading day. He reached over and picked up the worn book, frayed at the edges, the flimsy cardboard innards exposed. It had become a disturbing habit to read more of the book before retiring to bed. His tired fumbling dislodged something tucked firmly between two pages. Gently, he picked up the piece of paper and discovered a faded photograph of what appeared to be a nuclear family - complete with a mother, father and children. They were dressed in rags and looked rather unkempt. Despite being crammed into a small room, their thin, wiry frames were dwarfed by the surroundings. And yet, with arms around each other, they were grinning. Their eyes shone with genuine happiness.
Martin's thoughts began to go around in circles, in a fashion not dissimilar to a Ferris wheel. In the wee hours of the morning, it would be futile to even begin comprehending. He gently closed the book and decided to sell it to the Ministry of History. Even though it was just another work of fiction, perhaps they'll find a use for it.
