Jeffrey King is only thirty-nine years old, and legendary. More than half his life remains before him, yet he has already changed the world. It doesn’t matter to him that his name is unknown in popular culture; what gravels him is that he feels he hasn’t been adequately compensated for his success. He may be one of those mysterious people he used to hear about as a child, those tales of men and women who “had more money than they knew what to do with,” but sometimes he still worries. Look how fast it fell away from Michael Jackson. No matter how much there is, it seems it can always just drain away. There is no safety net. He has to keep working.

Jeffrey has glided through the latest economic downturn. He scoffs at those who call it the Great Recession, handwringers who compare it to an actual depression. Ten percent unemployment is good for his business, pares the fat from the body.

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