Rise Of The Immaterial Man

Stabbed In The Back... Literally

To put it simply… pretty much everything I had ever wanted to do with my life had already happened, and I was only 21 years old. 

Own a new Fortune 500 tech start-up? Check. 

Hot women literally throwing themselves at my feet for a moment of my time? Check again. 

A badass apartment in Battersea Power Station with a whole sub-basement level for a ton of top-of-the-range cars? You better believe that’s three checks in a row. 

The name’s Richard Parker, but most people just call me Parker these days, and I’m the proud CEO and founder of PK Industries, the hottest new tech start-up on the block, producing some of the best and most technologically advanced phones the world has ever seen. 

Sure, Apple and Samsung used to lead the way in cell phone design and manufacturing, but the market was stale and old, and when I cracked Augmented Reality holo-displays? Well, it was all over. 

We weren’t topping out their market value’s just yet, but with phones flying off the shelves in every single part of the world it was only a matter of time before we climbed up above even the biggest global companies. 

That’s right, I was on my way to being the next Bill Gates, Steve Jobs and Elon Musk all rolled into one… and it felt damn good. 

So, what does an internationally famous, incredibly handsome, young tech magnate do when he’s not grinding out innovations in the office like the badass he is?

He parties, of course. 

I’d been in the club for a while now, dancing with pretty young women, drinking far too many drinks in far too short an amount of time, and there was one thing I knew for sure… I needed a smoke. 

There was just something about getting absolutely pissed on drink that made me need a smoke afterwards, Alcohol was a depressant and nicotine was a… thingy… one of those things that made moods go up instead of down. The word wasn’t coming, but I knew the concept. 

I staggered to my feet in the VIP area, stumbled to the side and collided with the banister, leaned over and called out to the nearby barman, “Another round up here, my tab!” 

The roars of approval behind me let me know how much I was loved. 

I staggered forward and when someone asked me where I was going I just about managed to slur out the words, “Just a fag mate, back soon.” 

The pulsing of the drum and base seemed to sync up with the rhythm of my heartbeat and before I knew it I was dancing and twisting and bumping my way across the dance floor until I was spat out on the other side into another stumble. 

I only just about managed to whip my hand out and slap my palm against the wall to stop myself from tumbling all the way over onto the ground. 

I laughed and said under my breath, “Close one there, Parker, nearly looked a right twat,” Before stumbling off to the left and out of the door. 

The fresh air of the outside world hit me like a slap in the face. 

I staggered down the steps, carefully, I knew how drunk I was and while a fall in the club would have been embarrassing flipping down some stairs would have been downright dangerous and I wasn’t that far gone yet. 

The entrance to the club was in a seedy alleyway somewhere in Soho. 

It wasn’t the best club in the world, definitely not the sort of place that I would have gone if I was alone, but my best mate Alex Wood liked drinking there. Had a thing for one of the ladies who worked behind the bar. I couldn’t blame him, they were all hotties. 

I fumbled around in my pocket for a moment, pulled out a cigarette and my lighter, sparked it up and leaned against the wall. 

The alleyway smelt like piss and alcohol, but that was quickly wiped away by the smoke of my fag. 

I knew smoking was bad for you, I was a genius after all, but there was something enticing about deliberately doing something that was bad for you and not caring. 

Besides, I was a billionaire now. Or I was going to be very soon, anyway. If I got lung cancer I’d probably just end up paying to take someone else's lungs. That was a thing rich people could probably do, right?

I took a long drag on the cigarette and felt the nicotine rush into my system. 

The world came into sharper focus, like a filter being removed from an I*******m profile picture to reveal the truth underneath, and I let out a long smoke tainted sigh.

Life was good. 

Things were going right for me and, considering the dirt poor background of my family, that was a pretty fucking significant step in the right direction if I did say so myself. 

I chuckled to myself and looked up at the stars in the sky. 

Who knew, maybe my empire would even reach up there one day, out into the wider universe to discover… who knew what. 

I knew it was possible, just needed the right tech and the right mind and the right money. 

That or I was just letting my drunk thoughts run away from me. 

I was probably just letting my drunk-

My drunk thoughts were cut off in an instant. 

One moment I was happily puffing away on my cigarette, celebrating my victories. My ascension from poor to wealthy. My company and my friends. 

The next I felt a sharp pain pierce through my back right into my chest. 

I keeled forward with a little gasp and crumpled like a piece of paper being screwed up by a child playing in a nursery. 

Something wet and warm was spilling from my back, but I couldn’t reach around to check what it was. 

I didn’t need to wait long to find out that the slick wetness was blood pouring from a wound, in seconds my face which was cheek first on the hard cobbled floor of a Soho Alleyway was covered in the sticky red fluid. 

The name’s Richard Parker, and I’d just been stabbed in the back… literally.