Chapter 18: The Hands-off Boss
When George came out of Ryan's room, he saw Paul standing at the door to his own. George greeted him. "Hi, Paul. Have you made up your mind?"
He opened the door and invited Paul in. They ignored the tools scattered on the floor as they sat down.
"Yes, George. I've thought it over."
"That's great. You won't regret this decision." George got up, retrieved three thick stacks of documents from the desk, and handed them to Paul.
"First, you'll need to find a lawyer. I'll give you three authorizations: one for patent filings, one for managing the novels, and the last for establishing the company." George also handed him a check for \$1,000 and an address. "Welcome aboard."
"Thanks, Boss. What's the company called?"
"PL Company."
By noon, Paul had returned with a lawyer. George signed the three authorizations.
George glanced at the two battery prototypes on the desk. With help, things would be much smoother.
That afternoon, George escorted Ryan to the train station. Before he left, George gave him a \$1,000 check.
Back at the hotel, George lay on his bed, reflecting on the past few days. He fell asleep. Later, awakened by hunger, he pulled food from his storage space and ate.
Then he created twelve Shadow Clones. Ten transformed into peregrine falcons, one carrying a compass, and flew toward Wakanda. One clone remained in the hotel, while George and another clone headed to the Villa.
By the time they arrived, it was daytime. George swapped places with the clone and absorbed its memories. John had visited, left a quote, and mentioned it was negotiable.
George summoned a worker and asked them to fetch John.
By noon, John arrived. "Sorry for the delay, Mr. Orwell. I came as soon as I got back from the bank."
George poured him a glass of whiskey. "No worries. So, what's the update on the Villa?"
"I've negotiated with a dozen owners. The total cost is \$560,000—all in cash. They've agreed to your conditions."
"There's a change. I want to buy all the Villas. And can you draft a plan on how to consolidate the land? No rush—give me a detailed, feasible plan in a month. For now, collect 120,000 liters of wine from any Villa. Prioritize speed."
John, initially worried the deal might fall through, was delighted. "Understood. I'll get right on it."
George thought to himself: he was ready for a bigger move. With 50,000 liters of wine supplied monthly at a cost of \$70,000, he'd earn \$1 million per month post-profit share. After costs, he would net \$930,000—and this was just the beginning.
With market prices rising, his profits would only grow. This new 120,000-liter batch alone could bring in \$2.8 million.
Tax season was coming in June. Paying taxes on \$2.8 million would be costly, so investments were necessary to reduce liabilities. Paying taxes? As little as possible.
He estimated \$1.5 million would cover the acquisitions and leave funds for plans.
Everything was coming together. Paul was handling the Washington operations, and John was managing the Villas. Capitalism truly rewarded initiative.
Wait—he forgot to tell Paul where to register the company. Washington wouldn't do; he wouldn't be there much.
New York was ideal. Later, when the company expanded, he'd buy property, take out cheap insurance, and when disaster struck, cash in. Solid plan—he made a mental note.
George then rode a Villa horse to town, bought ingredients and seasonings, and returned. Tonight, he'd cook for himself.
At the market, he found various Chinese spices and stocked up. With his cooking skills and recipes from the Little Chef system, he was ready.
Forty minutes later, his feast was complete: sweet shrimp, boiled fish, braised pork, and West Lake shredded pork soup. Paired with whiskey, he dined contentedly. Afterward, a clone cleaned up while George sipped wine by the fire.
He needed servants: a driver, a cook (since Ryan wouldn't cook), and cleaners. Also, he needed cars—one here, two in Washington. He'd make an electric starter and drive around easily. Practical and intuitive.
He drifted off on the sofa. It wasn't comfortable, but his enhanced physique kept him from getting sick.
Several relaxed days passed.
On April 1st, George extracted Deadshot's shooting and combat skills. Deadshot, a master assassin from the Suicide Squad world, was famed as the world's most lethal marksman.
But George had no gun to practice with. His collection was too valuable for target practice. Still, he assigned two clones to build gun sense—holding the weapon and mimicking shooting.
That evening, John delivered the wine. George sorted it into three quality grades and stored them at a 0.5:1:8.5 ratio. The best wine was already in his cellar; these were for sale.
He asked John to help hire servants. Five arrived: a driver, a cook, a gardener/horse handler, and two cleaners. They all seemed competent—John had chosen well.
With the wine stored, George wouldn't need to visit for a while. The Villa was far from Washington and technically abroad.
Before Ryan arrived, George instructed the staff to follow his lead. He left a bird-transformed Shadow Clone as a communication tool and prepared to return to the U.S.
Back in the States, George remembered the deliveries. He located drop points, withdrew wine from his space, and sent coordinates to the contacts via peregrine falcon clones.
The contacts' stunned reactions amused him. He never appeared in person—even the letters were delivered by clones.
His last stop this time was Washington, since no profits were shared. But in the future, he'd end inup New York, where the Corleone family was based—and where he could secure a lump-sum payment.
Still, this laundering method wouldn't last. Winning large sums at fixed times would draw suspicion. He needed a backup plan.
In Washington, George recalled the reading clones. Their memories flooded in.
Exhausted from days of flying (even though it was the clones), George went to bed, his subconscious still absorbing their books.
The next day, refreshed, he sent more clones to the library. Then, an alert from Africa appeared in his memory.
A clone had found something.
George lay down and shifted his consciousness into the African clone.
He saw a valley ahead filled with people. Brightly dressed Black citizens stood in stark contrast to George's imagined primitive image.
He had found it: Wakanda.
The clones hadn't taken long to arrive—just two days across 10,000 km, with breaks.
Despite having seen Wakanda on a map, its hidden nature required a carpet search.
Wakanda was a paradox. Outwardly, a poor agricultural nation, it was the most technologically advanced country on Earth, thanks to Vibranium.
Each ruler was the Black Panther, protected by the Dora Milaje. Vibranium was invaluable—during WWII, a gram cost \$10,000. This rare metal elevated Wakanda to global prominence.
Despite their advancement, they maintained isolationist policies, only trading when necessary. Vibranium was used in advanced tech like Captain America's shield and Sentinel robots.
After WWII, Wakanda blended Vibranium with education, sending agents abroad to acquire knowledge and maintain their superiority.
Their spiritual leader was the Panther God, whom new monarchs communed with in the spirit realm.
The more George learned, the less he liked Wakanda. Technologically supreme yet always pretending to be poor—it seemed disingenuous. They remained silent during the slave trade. T'Challa's fiancée was scolded for aiding African refugees.
Sending spies worldwide while claiming isolationism was contradictory. They could take from others, but didn't allow others to take from them.
Even their first Black Panther, a supposedly ordinary man, advocated for the Sokovia Accords—then died despite having a Vibranium suit.
Something didn't add up. They had contributed—at least in part—to the superhero Civil War.
— End of Chapter 18 —
📝 Translator's Note
Thanks for reading! I'm thinking of launching a Patreon soon with early access to 10–20 chapters—would you be interested? Let me know in the comments!