The banker has figures burnt into his skin: impossible numbers, with symbols and sigils bending calculations into arcane sums. When is a cult just another religion? Is it when it’s close enough to mainstream mores to rub along just dandy? Or is it, as the banker believes, more a matter of sharp accounting, with high returns and assets squirreled away at the roots of Yggdrasil, the True Cross, and those mighty oaks which grew from tiny acorns and still bear the alluring taint of copper? Clarity is everything, and he rules neat red lines in his skin-bound ledger, so as to keep profit and prophet perfectly distinct; but the moment he blinks, the vault springs liernes and tiercerons, ribs opening to a heart of gold. Scars and welts itch for acceptance, for a wishing well on every village green and a weekly show on the BBC with an inoffensive celebrity calling the country to spend, spend, spend. Thirty pieces of silver for everyone. Just sign here:
And here:
Oz Hardwick