Ho Ho Ho Money

In what felt like the blink of an eye – or perhaps a very profitable, whirlwind half-hour – those newly minted 'VDL' partners drifted from the deck, their faces positively glowing with contentment. They dispersed into the lavish banquet, each, no doubt, already mentally spending their projected fortunes.

Meanwhile, at the far end of the deck, Arthur, who had been leaning against the railing, puffing on a cigarette, looked like he'd just witnessed a pig sprout wings and fly past the moon. His jaw was practically unhinged, and his eyes, wide as saucers, followed each departing businessman, his lips moving in a silent, frantic count.

"One... two... three... twelve," he mumbled, his voice barely a whisper. Then, as the last tailored suit vanished into the glittering throng, Arthur let out a choked gasp that was part expletive, part primal scream. "OH. MY. LORD! Five hundred thousand dollars per person, Dutch! That's... that's six hundred thousand dollars for twelve blokes! Dutch, oh, Dutch! Have we actually... actually become... millionaires?!"

His voice, raw with disbelief, cracked on the final word. His eyes, swimming with a mixture of awe and utter bewilderment, were glued to Dutch, who merely puffed contentedly on his cigar. Arthur's entire body trembled, his hands shaking so much he nearly dropped his cigarette. Six hundred thousand dollars! Good heavens!

When you factored in their previous, painstakingly accumulated earnings and the meager savings from a lifetime of 'honest' outlawry, their grand total was now circling, like a majestic vulture, around the one-million-dollar mark!

Holy moly! Even a bank robbery, with all its chaotic glory and lead-flying excitement, hadn't yielded such a dizzying sum so swiftly!

A millionaire. The word echoed in Arthur's mind, a shimmering, impossible concept. What did 'millionaire' even mean in the wild, untamed American West of 1899? It meant they had not merely entered the upper echelons of Saint Denis society; they had rocketed past them, planting their flag firmly at the very pinnacle!

These so-called venerable families, even Signor Bronte in his prime, would consider themselves positively flush if they possessed a mere three hundred thousand dollars in liquid assets. Most of their wealth was tied up in dusty real estate and the rather intangible, albeit valuable, prestige of their ancient names.

To find a true, honest-to-goodness millionaire in all of Saint Denis was rarer than a sober man at a saloon on a Saturday night. So, while their lineage might not boast centuries of gilded ancestors, in terms of sheer, glorious cash, Dutch was now undeniably among Saint Denis's absolute elite.

Dutch, seeing Arthur's jaw practically scraping the polished deck, his eyes still wide with the shock of six hundred thousand dollars, let out a hearty, booming laugh. He exhaled a plume of rich cigar smoke, the aroma swirling around Arthur's still-trembling form.

"Alright, Arthur," Dutch said, a dismissive wave of his hand, though a flicker of undeniable pride danced in his eyes. "Calm yourself, boy. Six hundred thousand dollars is hardly a king's ransom. Why, if our clothing store were to simply plod along, selling its wares, it would accrue that sum in a mere two years! A blink of an eye, my friend!" He took another puff, a theatrical shrug.

"So, do put a cork in your astonishment, kid; your gaping maw is quite frankly… embarrassing!" Dutch leaned in, a conspiratorial whisper. "Do you recall Miss Camille Morgan, the rather… striking young lady we encountered previously?"

Arthur nodded, still looking dazed.

"The Morgan Family, Arthur, the colossal entity lurking behind her… that is true wealth. As far as my discerning ears can tell, their total assets now hover around… thirteen billion dollars. That, my boy, is wealth enough to rival a small nation! Our humble million, here in this delightful backwater of Saint Denis, is but pocket change in comparison."

Dutch knew it instinctively: the American West and the American East were now two entirely different universes, separated by a chasm as vast as the intellectual chasm between a paramecium and a fully armored battle tank. Saint Denis, the self-proclaimed jewel of the West, with all its opulent pretensions, would be considered a mere provincial town, barely decent, in the sprawling, modern metropolises of the East. Its so-called "skyscrapers" would be dwarfed by the architectural titans of New York or Boston.

Listening to Dutch's pronouncement, Arthur's eyes widened even further, if that were possible. "Thirteen billion dollars?! OH MY GOODNESS GRACIOUS! I… I can't even begin to wrap my head around that sum! Good heavens, Dutch, a single train car probably couldn't even hold that much, could it?!" He threw his hands up in despair, as if the sheer enormity of the number had physically overwhelmed him.

Indeed, it couldn't. Convert it to cold, hard cash, and you'd probably need a small fleet of twenty train cars to transport thirteen billion dollars. Arthur truly couldn't fathom it, and to be honest, neither could Dutch.

He'd never quite managed to manipulate a Cheat Engine to generate that much virtual currency in his previous life while playing.

But even with the mind-boggling scale of the Morgan Family's billions, Arthur still buzzed with an almost manic excitement. Because, jokes aside, other people's money remained tantalizingly other people's. Their own money, however, was gloriously, undeniably theirs.

The most exhilarating part was the sheer, breathtaking speed of it all. Three months ago, their biggest haul had been the one hundred and fifty thousand dollars from the Blackwater Town robbery – a significant sum, certainly, but a paltry sum compared to this sudden, six-hundred-thousand-dollar windfall! In his previous existence, getting a mere seventy-five hundred dollars from robbing the Valentine bank had sent Arthur into paroxysms of joy; this was on an entirely different plane of existence.

Seeing Arthur's still-fizzing excitement, Dutch simply smiled, a knowing, almost paternal glint in his eye. He waved a dismissive hand. "Alright, Arthur, enough of this giddy financial accounting. We have more pressing matters than gawking at zeros. Money that simply sits idle, my boy, is merely a pile of pretty waste paper. The true art, the true preservation of wealth, lies in using money to make more money."

He gestured towards the main saloon of the ship. "Come, my friend, we have upper-class gentlemen and ladies to charm. And more importantly, to negotiate with."

"Right, Dutch! Got it!" Arthur took a deep, shuddering breath, visibly battling to rein in his racing heart. "Okay, Dutch, should I… should I go fetch Mr. Lemieux? Is he the next one on your… agenda?"

"Yes, child," Dutch nodded, a thoughtful expression now replacing his earlier amusement. "Indeed. I believe a conversation with him is… long overdue." He watched as Arthur, still slightly wobbly-legged, turned and disappeared back into the brightly lit splendor of the cruise ship's main banquet hall.

The night outside remained a canvas of profound darkness. Even the meager lights on the deck struggled against the oppressive gloom, casting long, shifting shadows that made the entire space feel a little melancholic, a little uninviting. The persistent sea breeze, carrying with it the briny kiss of salt and a faint, elusive hint of fish, whispered secrets past Dutch's ears. The low hum of the cruise ship, a constant thrum beneath their feet, was muffled, almost swallowed, by the rhythmic sigh and crash of the waves against the hull.

Dutch remained rooted to the spot, his hands resting on the cool, iron railing, his gaze lost in the vast, inky expanse of the distant sea. His thoughts, for a moment, were delightfully scattered, drifting like loose sails on a lazy wind.

In truth, he harbored a secret yearning to follow the path of a J.P. Morgan, to orchestrate empires with the sheer force of financial acumen. But alas, he lacked the intricate, almost surgical, brain for such endeavors. He was a man of more… direct action. He would rely on his current, proven methodology: influencing the masses, cultivating armed forces, and slowly, inexorably, expanding his sphere of influence. This, he knew, was the only way to build a fortress of security around himself and his family.

Dutch flicked the ash from his cigar into the swirling blackness of the ocean, the tiny glowing ember briefly illuminating the darkness before vanishing. He collected his thoughts, bringing them into sharp focus, readying himself for the delicate, often treacherous, discussion awaiting him with the formidable Lemieux Family.

He mentally scrolled through the list of councilor families, a rather extensive roster, he mused. But within that multitude, some stars burned brighter than others. There were, naturally, significant disparities in their power and influence.

The Lemieux Family, for instance, stood head and shoulders above the rest. Their patriarch, Mr. Henry Lemieux, held the coveted position of Mayor – a clear indicator of their formidable sway. Being Mayor, after all, bestowed upon one the glorious privilege of funneling endless benefits directly into one's family coffers; it was a position no sensible man would ever willingly concede.

And the right to utilize Guarma Island, that distant, sun-drenched jewel? For other families, it would be an insurmountable bureaucratic nightmare, a labyrinth of red tape and political maneuvering. But for Mayor Henry Lemieux? It was merely a matter of signing a document, a simple flick of his practiced wrist.

Of course, Dutch knew this wasn't a document that simply materialized out of thin air, like a magician's rabbit. This particular piece of paper was interwoven with the vested interests of countless individuals, as complex and contentious as, say, an oil exploration permit for an Indian settlement.

However, Dutch possessed an unshakable confidence in his ability to apply… persuasion. He was prepared to bring the full, overwhelming force of his will, and his armed men, to bear upon anyone who dared to oppose the document's passage. The crucial prerequisite, the very cornerstone of this forceful persuasion, was that he first obtained the document from Mayor Henry Lemieux.

This, Arthur, was the beautiful, undeniable manifestation of legitimate authority. Once that document was in his possession, every subsequent act of forceful suppression, every 'unpleasant' conversation, every 'firm' reminder, would transform from a crude act of thuggery into a righteous, justifiable act of quelling rebellion.

It was the masterstroke that would minimize complications, a stroke as brilliant and brutal as the American armies' historical 'right' to legitimately slaughter the Indian people.