bitcoin

Here’s an example of why Riff n Raff will appeal to bitcoiners, crypto currency believers and people who loathe banksters.

Book 2 – POOR NO MORE
Chapter 19 – Let’s Have a Party!

Riff could not believe the site he beheld when he made his way out to the Money pool. Dozens of obese men were lounging next to the water. Collectively, they had more chins than a Chinese phone book. It was 110 degrees, yet they were all wearing blue pin-striped suits, white shirts, grey ties, and black shoes. Despite the fact that they appeared to be walrus-men, not one of them was swimming. None of them were even sweating. Strangest of all, at least to young Riff, they were all counting money.

The banksters had brought with them a small army of personal security guards. They were hairy, hulking beasts, muscle bound steroid monsters. All of them were clad in identical costumes; body hugging black t-shirts with a large, golden B on the chest; black, knee length pants with a gold strip down the outside of both legs; black and gold striped socks that rose to cover their knees, and black combat boots.

Mr. Money rushed over to Riff and exclaimed, “Whatever you do, do not, under any circumstances, mention bitcoin to any of our guests. Not even to the Bruins.”

“The Bruins?” asked Riff.

“The Big Bad Bruins. The security guards. Not that they would know what bitcoin is, they’re too stupid, but they might repeat what you say to the banksters, and then there will be trouble.”

“Why? What’s bitcoin?”

“It’s a new form of money that the banksters cannot control. It scares them to death. They fear it, they hate it.” Mr. Money winked at Riff and Riff winked back, not really sure what it all meant.

“They all know about you, so there’s no need to introduce yourself,” said Mr. Money. “Now, go have fun, I have to go make a sycophant of myself.”

Riff wandered around meeting the banksters. Try as he did to converse, the only thing the banksters wanted to talk about was money. Money, money, money, that’s all they spoke of.

Riff observed one bankster looking at a pile of money in front of another walrus-man, and asking, “How much money you got there?”

The other bankster snarled,

I’m alright Jack

keep your hands off of my stack

Three banksters were gathered together, laughing. Riff went over to see what was so funny.

One smiled,

New car!

Another laughed,

Caviar!

The third chuckled,

Four star day dream

Then all three of them howled, “

Think I’ll buy me a football team!

Riff interrupted, “Do you ever think about giving some of your money to people who need it?”

The banksters laughed in unison,

Don’t give me that do-goody-good bullshit!

Riff quickly bored of the scene, and walked away He wanted to party, so he pulled his new Gretsch G6120 Chet Atkins hollow-body, and a vintage Fender amp, out from his room. He hauled them poolside, and started to kick it.

Some people like to rock

some people like to roll

but movin’ and a groovin’

gonna satisfy my soul

Riff broke into a Chuck Berry duck walk around the pool. No one paid any attention to him.

I never kissed a bear

I never kissed a goon

but I can shake a chicken

in the middle of the room

The kid thrashed around like a young Angus Young doing the Bad Boy Boogie. Everyone ignored him.

Let’s have a party

ooh, let’s have a party

oh, send it to the store

let’s buy some more

let’s have a party tonight

Riff wind-milled away at his guitar, a la Pete Townshend. No one cared. Not an eye was on the boy. The banksters just kept on counting their piles of money.

Thoroughly baffled, Riff started smashing his guitar. Smash, smash, smash, smash, smash, SMASH! It sounded like some kind of prehistoric monster being hit with a cattle prod over and over again.

Finally, he kicked his amp into the pool. It exploded. No one noticed. No one cared.

Five seconds later, everyone stopped counting their money. “Get your stinking paws off me, you damn dirty ape!” scowled a swarthy bankster.

Riff was standing next to the biggest, ugliest Bruin, a brain-dead bruiser named Looch. “Uh-oh” said Looch quietly. Riff asked what was going on. “Big bad,” grunted Looch. “No touch boss. No no touch boss! That one new. But should know no touch boss. Now he learn hard way. Must go.”

By the time Looch had arrived at the scene the rookie had already been grabbed by several other Bruins. They striped the rookie’s shirt off. They tied him to a post, hands above his head.

The aggrieved bankster, an insane, masochistic fascist named Javier Valarde, extended his arm, and Looch handed him a whip. It was a short whip. It had several leather thongs, each one with three small, lead fishing sinkers knotted in at the ends.

Valarde was the most vile of his vile ilk. He had risen to the top of the banking world through sheer bloody-mindedness. He’d amassed a personal fortune by nickel and dimimg everyone ignorant enough to deposit money in his bank. He took particular delight in stealing from the poor. He’d stolen money from the accounts of charities. If he’d had children, he’d have sold them into slavery and he could not fathom why all parents, rich or poor, did not do exactly that.

The monster smiled   and struck the first blow. The thongs cut into the skin of his victim’s back, the lead sinkers tried to embed themselves into flesh. The Bruin howled in pain. The other banksters cheered wildly.

“What is The Law?” yelled the banksters.

“Not go on all fours. No touch boss,” whimpered the Bruin, as he was whipped again.

“What is The Law?” yelled the banksters.

“Not go on all fours. No touch boss.”

The whipping continued for ten minutes. Each blow struck deeper into the victim, into the tissue, into the muscle. The banksters took turns spitting on the Bruin, as blood squirted from his back with each new blow.

When they were finished, the rookie’s back had been slashed to shreds, long ribbons of flesh oozed blood.

And then the banksters went back to counting their stacks of money, as if nothing had happened.

Disgusted, Riff schemed. There was only one way to hurt the banksters, he concluded; steal their money. Riff grabbed a five gallon vat, filled it with yukaflux, and added a pint of sleeping potion. He got Looch to help him serve the concoction to all in attendance, and then bid Looch have one himself. Five minutes later, everyone was sawing logs.

Riff called BeanO. “Dad! What are you doing?”

“Riff, good to hear from you. I’m on my way to… a business meeting.”

Riff knew BeanO was headed to Ye Olde Clowne House, “I’m at a big party. Free booze!”

BINGO!

“What’s the address?” panted the salivating clown.

Sixteen Parkside Lane

“Great! I’m just around the corner. I’ll be right there!”

Fifteen minutes later, Riff and his father were racing away from the scene of the crimes, BeanO’s clown wagon stuffed full of cash, laughing all the way to the… well, no, they certainly were not going to any bank.