So we had an idea, how can we encourage young minds to dig deeper? To look behind the scenes? To see the world for themselves and not through polished media lenses? This was created by my Son (Shout out to him!) as an idea. He said “now your cool dad”. What do you think? Maybe a weekly thing?
Book 1: The Plague of Greed
THE INFECTION BEGINS
They called it a miracle drug. But the only thing it cured… was their conscience.
The city was burning again. Not all at once, just in slow, cruel pieces.
A slum clinic here. A tenement there.
Smoke twisting up past broken windows like some kind of prayer no one answers.
Down below, kids coughed into their sleeves. Real coughing, the deep, crackling kind.
A man in rags handed them something from a crate labeled CUREX™.
It used to be “emergency use only.” Now it was street currency.
Hospitals were empty. Warehouses full. The rich stayed quiet.
And somewhere above it all perched on a rooftop like a gargoyle, stood Mr. Times.
Worn coat. Quiet eyes. Steady hand.
He lit a cigarette, watched the chaos unfold like a bad memory on repeat.
He wasn’t press. He wasn’t police.
He worked for AFG, and he didn’t do warnings.
Just truths—and consequences.
THE CORPORATE TEMPLE
The higher you go, the more rot you smell.
The marble lobby gleamed. Everything in this place shined — the floors, the glass, the lies.
Mr. Times walked in like smoke through a keyhole — silent, sharp, unnoticed.
He didn’t flinch at the gold sculpture shaped like a dollar sign.
Didn’t blink when two men in suits laughed beneath it, holding flutes of something too expensive to spill.
He passed them. They didn’t even look. That’s the problem with power — it forgets who’s watching.
This wasn’t a business. It was a temple.
And they worshipped one god: Greed
THE DATA ROOM
They weren’t curing the sick. They were feeding on them
The hallway buzzed with silence. Just the hum of machines and the flick of motion-activated lights.
Mr. Times slipped through a steel door marked DATA STORAGE.
No guards. No eyes. That’s how you knew they thought they were untouchable.
The servers glowed red in the dark like arteries.
And there — on a dusty monitor — was the rot.
Emails. Memos. Instructions:
* “Suppress side effects.”
* “Fast-track approval.”
* “Monetize panic.”
He didn’t need a warrant. Didn’t need clearance.
All he needed was a pulse… and a reason.
And AFG had given him both.
THE RATS IN THE HALL
You don’t need claws to be a predator. Just a suit and silence.
They were waiting for him.
He felt it before he saw them — that slick scent of cover-up sweat and cologne.
Two men in thousand-dollar suits stepped out of the shadows.
Eyes hungry. Teeth sharp.
They didn’t speak. Didn’t have to.
One carried a briefcase.
The other, nothing but a grin and a gold watch fat enough to choke.
Mr. Times lit a fresh cigarette with the same hand he used to hit the first one.
It connected with a wet crack — not rage, just rhythm.
He was a man on tempo.
The second one lunged.
Didn’t matter.
This wasn’t the first hallway they’d tried to silence him in.
And it wouldn’t be the last.
BURN NOTICE
If truth is a plague, I’ll be patient zero.
The city burned behind him.
Ash fell like snow. The skyline was coughing smoke.
Mr. Times sat in the shell of an old internet café, tapping at a rusted keyboard.
On the screen: “Upload Complete.”
Corporate files. Email chains. Trial results.
Everything they’d buried under non-disclosure and blood money.
All of it—now public.
He lit his last cigarette.
Behind him, the Statue of Liberty melted in flame and fury—
Not a symbol of freedom anymore, but a warning.
He didn’t smile. Didn’t say a word.
He just watched the progress bar fade.
The fight wasn’t over.
But the silence?
That was broken.
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