Gallagher was Onto Something
I rested for another week because once the drugs wore off, I was in a lot of pain. Like each breath was sore. Until I felt a bit better, I spent my time not thinking about anything and just reading some of the books in my room that I hadn't read in years.
Once I felt good enough too, I headed into town. I went into a hair salon, and they were free, so I got a haircut. It thinned out my hair a bit but basically fully concealed the bald spot. After paying and being shown how to style it properly, I left. I praised the hairdresser as some kind of deity. It looked slightly weird, but I had felt that way about every haircut I had ever gotten, and the feeling always went away after a few days. As for the style, though, it was more of a side sweep, and those were usually fine anyway.
I only had a few hundred quid saved from jobs I had worked the last two summers, so it wasn't like I had infinite money, but I bought a few things I needed, namely a proper pair of running shoes, about a dozen 8Gb Flash Drives all of different colours, and a lunchbox-sized lock box. A quick trip to the library acquired me several books as well, on things like economics, business, and law.
I also bought all the ingredients for pasta before heading home; jeez, I forgot how expensive food is.
Since my dad worked long hours and mom couldn't really stand, meals were never really anything fancy, and once I got older, I slowly learnt how to cook.
When my dad got home, I briefly hugged him, even if for a moment the smell of mastic and solvent, which he was covered in, gave me flashbacks. Mum rolled in later, and they kissed before dad went to have a shower.
"Wow, I did not know you could cook. Smells nice?" she said, looking at me curiously.
I just shrugged and said, "It's Bolognese; it'll be ready in a few minutes. A friend at university has been showing me."
"Is this friend a girl?" She asked, smiling.
I quickly replied back immediately, "Nope."
"Wow, that was a quick rebuttal. I think he has a girlfriend." Said Holly as she came in from the back garden, as she deliberately tried to rile me up.
I wanted to shout and explain how I was currently overweight, unhygienic, and could barely walk up the stairs without losing my breath, and that if they had just been straight with me, then I might have changed. But then my actual brain came along and explained they aren't making fun of you; they are legitimately curious and don't see any of that. It was a nice sentiment, and when it came to meeting people, sometimes you got lucky, but the vast majority of people were conditioned to ignore people who didn't pass a certain level of attractiveness.
Someone's opinion of you is often made up in the first twenty seconds after all.
"No, I'm not seeing anyone at the moment, but you people will be the ones I let know first." I said as I began to dish up the food. "And you're twelve; what would you know about that?"
"Nothing," she said innocently as she washed her hands. I doubt it.
After chatting, eating, and drinking wine for a bit more, I cleaned everything, then went upstairs. I spent several seconds staring at my shirtless form in the mirror. I want my pieces back. Also, brush teeth, like seriously, three times a day. I have not gotten a filling yet, and I am not ever getting them again. There I go, repeating myself.
After I was done, I got an old notebook and began to write in it. Writing in Turkish, I began to write down as many historical events as I could remember. I thought about how it really was a shame I couldn't stop 9/11, but that really was out of my control. And even if I had been a few years further back and had warned someone, it just would have put a spotlight on me when the attacks happened anyway. It was common knowledge in the future that the CIA knew the attacks were coming and either through incompetence or maliciousness allowed them to happen.
I leaned towards the prior. The US government was too incompetent to hide any kind of conspiracy. All modern Governments were to be frank.
As I thought about the future, I decided I would probably stay in the UK for the next two to three decades before going to some place like Guyana, Switzerland, or Estonia since they were pretty unaffected by the world population collapse due to the fact they were rich enough to pay for it, and I don't think they'd mind another billionaire moving to their country as long as I pay taxes.
It wasn't until early July that an idea for how to get some initial funds that didn't require me working my butt off came to me. Until then, I just relaxed, took it slow, and enjoyed time with my friends and family.
It was while I was in a hospital waiting room as I was about to get the stitches on my head removed that inspiration struck me.
It took the form of the antique roadshow. Now you see, before cell phones, there really wasn't much one could do in a waiting room besides twiddle one's own thumbs or read one of the many-year-old magazines that ranged from riveting topics like fashion to fishing. Occasionally, the hospital would have a muted TV with very inaccurate subtitles playing in a corner.
This one was set to BBC One, and I had the untimely pleasure of being stuck watching a show about people trying to sell their old junk at auction and occasionally making money.
Now my idea wasn't to make a tonne of money selling antiques; that was a hit-and-miss thing, but it reminded me of something. From my perspective, about four months ago I was reading one of those click bait articles about times people found things that sold for a lot of money, and despite my best judgement, I read the whole thing.
It was mildly interesting, and after that I got back to whatever site I had been on before clicking the ad.
But I clearly remember in 2012, or was it 2013, a woman found a painting from some famous Dutch painter or other while looking for nice picture frames. And it turned out that it was worth a lot and that somewhere she mentioned it having sat there for decades. It wasn't mind-boggling amounts of money, but it was definitely enough to put the next stage of my plan into action.
Let's begin. Onwards to Warehouse City.
After I felt good enough, I packed a bag and embarked on my little excursion to Manchester.
Jeez, what a shithole, not that the locals seem to mind all that much. I think Noel Gallagher was onto something though. What are they even shouting at? The Premier League doesn't even start for a month yet. Oh, that's an idea; better write that down for future use.
I kept my own thoughts to myself as I sipped a pint in a local pub while leafing through a phone book. Was this a long shot? Yes, did I have other options, most likely? Why was I doing this then? Well, I'm lazy when it comes to some things.
At least I can vaguely remember what it looks like. Now, as far as I could see, there were over 63 antique dealers and another 144 second-hand and charity shops within the greater Manchester area. Jeez, this is going to take forever. Why couldn't they have said where they found instead of saying, 'Well, I was in Manchester and just looking around some of the local shops.' Eh, I probably would have forgotten even if they did.
So I spent the next two weeks scouring every store I could find while sleeping in my car. All I could remember about it was that it is an oval painting with a woman in a white dress.
I found what I thought could be it on day twelve, but found out it wasn't after getting it looked at by a local appraiser. I kept looking and eventually found it in a rundown second-hand shop on the outskirts of Stockport. After getting it officially appraised, jeez four hundred quid for just two appraisals. I was basically out of money; the two appraisals had eaten what I had left. Now with an official document of value, I used the last trickle of money to take it to an auction house in London, and now it was just time to wait.
Over the next two weeks, I exercised regularly and ate around 1500 calories a day. Despite my body's protests, I had to break the addiction to food I had. I did a lot of reading of law and computer textbooks from the library. Occasionally I would do something with my family or my trio of friends.
After VAT, taxes, and auction dues, the painting sold for around £309,000 and went to some Chinese businessman. Was I a little guilty about stealing this from the lucky woman who found it? Sure. But not that much. I had no qualms about stealing others 'luck.' and I wasn't going to try and justify it to myself.
I immediately paid off my student loans.
Now for the next step, I needed a company. The best option would be a private company, since in the UK, while the government knows who all the shareholders are, the public is only entitled to know the company's address, the name but not the identity of the director, and whether their tax filings have been done for that year.
Now one may ask why all the extra hoops no? It basically boils down to two reasons really, one, tax evasion, and two, privacy.
Tax evasion Since I didn't really feel like paying more money than necessary to a bunch of liberal-economic orangutans who would just flush half of it down the loo while shoving the other half into their friends Pockets. I didn't hate politicians; they were just people who were really good at manipulating other people into giving them more money than necessary.
And privacy because it was just nice, I guess. The only real upside of fame was recognition and the ego boost of having people idolise you. Whereas if you were relatively unknown, then you wouldn't have to worry about getting scammed, and if people were after your money, or getting kidnapped, and so many other things. If I ever get married, I will never tell anyone else; I don't want to endanger them or any kids I might have or adopt.
After a bit of asking around on a business forum using a library computer, I was given the number to a company in London that would act as the address of the company and forward mail onto you. I went through all the paperwork, and three weeks later, the certificate for the private company called Essan Holdings arrived from the company's house.
It was kind of dumb, really; all one needed to do was go online, fill in the details, and boom, your own company. And I knew for a fact that no one checked to verify the information. It was why by the 2020s London was the money laundering capital of the world, with people like Margaret Thatcher, Snooty McSnootface, and Mmmmmm having trillions of dollars go through their businesses never to be seen again.
Due to how UK tax laws worked, once Essan Holdings was established, its ownership was given to a trust that was privately managed by me for me, and it opened another company that it owned in its entirety called Essan Investment Strategies and had itself appointed as director. Meaning that if someone wanted to find out who was making millions, they would first look for who the director was and see a holding company and only know my name after a bit of research, and that was only for so long until I had enough money to hire a patsy.
…
[Stats] (as of the 1st of August 2002)
Name: Jacob Essan
DOB: 05/04/1982
Citizenship: British
Age: 20 years 3 months 28 days
Dependents: N/A
Spouse: N/A
Major Assets: 1997 Nissan Micra, (£1,800) Cash, (£297,000)
Major Liabilities: N/A
Estimated Net Worth: £300,000
…
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