It was a whimsy, this thing of his, this need that burned like a firefly, all winking on and off and flying all around. If you asked of him his need, he could not define it, so you could not know it. Fool, thinks you, he of the whimsy that drives him so hard. Yet, drive him it did.
It drove him to acquire initially. Such was the misunderstanding of his whimsy that he acquired things, the substantives of the modern race to the top. His car was a Bentley, a vehicle of monstrous whimsy, his house an airy estate in the Hamptons where he partook of afternoon strolls in a tophat with his wife and daughter grumbling incessantly about the lace and parasols they must carry, even in the rain, particularly in the rain. Such was his dedication, nay his compulsion, that often he did not go out on sunny days, and if he did so, he did so with his umbrella.
He felt guilty often on those days, for opposition is truly not whimsy, and merely donning the wrong kit did not produce in him the welling of playfulness of the child he still wished to be. His hobbies were, therefore, diverse, ranging from that of taming of the shrew, which had yet to be accomplished, but lent mightily to his collection of finger scars, to the arbitrary slaying of insects to childish rhymes, such as one potato, two potato, three potato, four. Those were the dark days of whimsy, days better spent in the attic consumed by foreboding of the comeuppance a man such as he should certainly suffer.
The neighberhood wives, of the constitution required by stalwart men of business, would call upon his wife to feast on her misfortune, after whence they would commence to neigh and whinny amongst themselves about his nature. Never mind he the industrialist had built such great and graceful things nor that things of their very own issued from his factories, scattered all over the globe, or that his was the most reverent house on the block in the worship of the atlantic normal, with its stately columns in purest white and majestic lawns with beautiful hand wrought wicker and iron furniture, all gleaming white as was the custom. Nor could the whinny and neigh of his stables be contested, and the men and women who worked his grounds turned out in the most immaculate livery in the entire town.
Neither, truly, was his wife a bitter, miserable woman. She saw in her husband the spark of the unknown greatness. The men of her acquaintance, many who held wives in this very neighborhood, were to a fault conventional, such that their punctuality was so habitual it was effected without the aid of a timepiece and their expectations of their wives was the same, that dinner be at six in the evening and so on, that it be held at the table with the slaughtered beast or fowl and that junior have his homework done and that the wee lassie be decked in finery.
Such was the high standard of huskhood achieved by the rare denizens of this sleepy little town. So thick was the whitewash over every single soul that the only way of achieving color was to reek of the mould and rot of snipish gossip. So, nevermind the new Rolls Royce at the lawyer's house, his wife was seen with the gardner in an improper way.
The truth of the matter is, of course, that all of the species in all walks of life partake of a long draught of the gossip, for it renders each and every one of us that much better by comparison, as well as provides a strong reminder that we remain human, rather than divine. However, in most walks of life, the taint of gossip is lost in the glorious color of living, as the standard, being somewhat lower, allows people to live as people, doing as they wish with little care of the consequences.
Not so in this sleepy little town. The slightest infraction leads to wagging toungues and, sooner or later, an injunction at the town hall about the beach balls littering your back yard. That sort of thing, the process of living a life such that happiness is allowed to seep into it, is strictly forbidden.
However, our Misses of the Mister in question had chosen him precisely because he lacked the dour self possession of his colleagues. His Bentley was du rigor for his stature, but was painted bright yellow with purple seats and spinners on the wheels. Rather garish though it might seem, it pleased our man. Truth be told, his vast empire owed more to his sense of whimsy than any other thing, as his products did more than do a thing, they brought the joy of the doing of a thing to life.
Have you ever had a thing that to hold it was a delight? That to use it was glorious? That was so intoxicating you found yourself using it incessantly, whether or not whatever it did needed doing? That thing came from our man's factories. Truth be told, the glorious things pouring out of the gates of his monuments to efficiency probably did more real damage to productivity than could be calculated, with workers tending to use his hammer rather than another company's screwdriver, causing, of course, the screw to be bent or broken, and the thing once made in this fashion to lack luster. Such a trend can cause a man to be king, when his things are so superior that the things of others pale so much that the public clamors that all things be made by him.
However, in this world, there are those who, driven by the spirit of spite in plentitude, will reject the success of man as little more than a capricious happenstance, something that is immoral, as it has ennobled one man above another despite that they ought to be the same. These men we call communists for lack of a more precise printable word. These men have seen the world for what it is in its stark nakedness and have determined that the various ugly pieces must go. And, like crazed surgeons, they begin to hack these pieces off.
Such was the peril of the day, leading to a black whimsy, a dark, foreboding whimsy, of epic proportions in the darkest, dankest dungeon of a basement in the house. The inspectors had arrived that day and determined he possessed a monopoly in the production of useful things in one particular market. They further determined that, since he charged so much more for his things, despite that the public was eager to pay it, and, indeed, lined up for city blocks to pay it, that he was price-gouging the public and must either reduce his prices or reduce his production.
Well, a facet of the soul-hardened communist that is of no little amusements to his enemies is his rather incomplete grasp of economics. Were the man to reduce his price, he must needs reduce his quality, and, thus, likely, lose his monopoly, as the public call out for quality on some goods. Were the man to reduce his production, and there be none other that can match his quality, his price must needs go up, as the public with the wherewithal to satiate their wishes would clearly continue to bid for his goods. Were he to not allow the price to go up, he would simply run out.
Our hero understood this. Our hero's wife and child understood this. It is likely most of his horses and certain that his dog understood this. The cat could be taught it given sufficient patience, time and thick gloves. Humans are, of course, another story. Never is a man so obdurate as when he concludes a thing must be done no matter the cost. The communist cares not whether his idea can be made to work, his mind has settled that it must work. This he terms as mandate, that the thing shall be accomplished, because, lo, is it not righteous and good and of a modular construction?
The man of whimsy, the man of greatness, our man of great sorrow this day, must see his happiness and the things he produces that bring others happiness brought low because they meet not the righteousness of those who have annointed themselves the consciences of the nation.
