LazarusBoard

”Oh, Wassily, you are a genius.”

The events of the last week seemed as if the stars themselves were aligning-- Wassily Kazakov had just enough time to move securities and wealth of his flag corporation to offshore shell companies, converting the wealth of the Kazakov arms empire into the lifeblood of the international market; Fleurs, Moes, and Dollars.

Then, WURCo. began a soft purge of employees, targetting low-level workers with factory jobs. Assets were consolidated in decisions such as personnel being reassigned to the more remote think tanks of the corporation, the number of production areas being lowered and the extra resources going into shadowy holdings and were never seen again. On paper, it seemed as if the exports of WURCo. had reached an all-time high when in reality, much of the newfound success was a front for the relocation of heavy equipment necessary for the resuming of their operations abroad.

By the time the first shots were fired and the country was torn into what only a bystander like he could identify as a real, disasterous civil war, WURCo. was effectively in the clear.

Kazakov chuckled to himself as he recovered a scented cigar from his velvet coat pocket. The service aboard his private jet, one of the many allowances he was allowed as compensation for the great load of the country he had to bear with his economic contributions, had never seemed so luxurious now that he could declare it his own and not the allowance from an all-seeing government.

And what a clear we have stumbled into. No government, or at least no more than a highly disputed one, means WURCo. is effectively its own independent company now. We can now operate how we please, free to expand how we see fit and allow ourselves to cultivate an international personality. And what was the Federal Republic to do? They could attack or seize the factories, but they had been stripped clean or are nothing but hollow investments. But then, that side would risk making an enemy of us-- all we’d have to do is throw our weight and support the opposite side!

As he prepared to light his cigar, a voice from the pilot’s compartment said, “No smoking, please, sir.”

Kazakov, initially shocked, quickly reverted back to his grin and pocketed his lighter. He may be rich and will get richer still, but he wasn’t a fool.

“How long until we land?” Kazakov asked, calling into the pilot’s compartment.

“Two hours until we land in Gelbary, sir.” The pilot responded.

Kazakov leaned back into his seat and sighed. Gelbary, a district of Northern westwald-- a land filled with well-maintained urban centers, serene broadleaf forests, and clean air; but most importantly, fine foods and warmer weather. The Chief Executive of WURCo., although most of his financial wealth had been transferred to accounts in Northern Rosary Isles, would need someplace pleasant to take refuge in other than his homeland. After all, the proximity of Northern westwald to events and his still-detained assets in the FRCP was important.

Wassily meditatively chewed on the cigar as he mused; meanwhile, the jet soared some 10,000 meters above sea level, well above the precipices of cloud. In the late evening, his servants-- he could call them that now, he didn’t belong to a socialist country-- unpacked his cargo and escorted him to their hotel where he laid his head down on Westwaldan pillows, completely lump-free. He really ought to go abroad more often.