Money

''According to the Bank for International Settlements, the total amount of money circulating as cash is about $5 trillion.

According to the CIA, the total amount of money in the world is $80 trillion.

It's a proven fact, that the richest 1 percent of the people do control 82 percent of all wealth.

That only leaves one question:

How do I get into the richest 0,1 percent?

I'm an international arms dealer. What do you know about war? They'll tell you it's about patriotism, democracy or some shit about the other guy hating our freedom. But you want to know what it's really about? What do you see?

A kid from Texas doing his patriotic duty to defend his country?

I see a helmet, fire-retardant gloves, body armor, and an M16.

I see $20 thousand. That's what it costs to outfit one soldier nowadays. Over four million soldiers fought in the last two big wars. It cost one country's taxpayer $5 billion each year just to pay the air conditioning bills for those wars. And that's what war is really about.

War is an economy and if you ask me it the most profitable one of all. Anybody who tells you otherwise either in on it or stupid.''

-Henry King, Ceo-/Founder Fontaine LLC.

Dreaming about a life I am not living, I, Henry King awake in a dirty field bed, gunshots coming closer disturbing my sleep. Ready for combat, I jump out of my bed, take my M4 and sprint out of my tent. Biting cold winds of a clear desert night nock the last remnants of sleep out of my limbs.

Working as a low-level soldier sure isn't easy and in my case is further complicated by the fact that we are in a country where we are not supposed to be, protecting an oil pipeline that is not supposed to exist.

My less eventful than standing in a traffic jam. Most of the time we are just waiting at outposts or driving around in our bikes on lonesome barely visible tracks.

Jumping into the nearest foxhole to another mercenary, I ask him: ''What is going on?''

''I don't know. Yesterday a group of saints came. I guess they are the same as the ones attacking us now.'' The mercenary tells me barely understandable thanks to a burning cigarette between his lips.

Getting a bad feeling I ask: ''What did they want?''

''I think they were searching for our refugees.'' The mercenary tells me, just before he fires blind into the night with his M16A2.

''Shit!'' I say jumping out of the foxhole and running to the guest quarters.

From my back, I can only hear gunshots firing. It has to be said, that despite our base not being an official state-owned compound, it still is arranged 100% textbook accurate. Armory, Infirmary and Command center situated in the middle with our barracks and vehicles forming a protective barrier around it and divided up in four sectors by two routes, this base in the middle of nowhere is my home.

Sprinting from the North-West section of barracks to the South-East ones, where the refugee s are living, I am running straight through the command center.

''Captain King on your way to our guests?'' Asks me my direct superior Major Raven.

''Yes sir. One of the mercs told me our uninvited guests this evening are from a group of saints looking for our refugees. I am on my way to get them here.'' I explained to him as is the procedure.

''Very well. I believe in your judgment.'' Raven tells me, handing me a radio and I am on my way.

Running through the central fortifications I reach the tent the aforementioned refugees are housed. Stepping into the tent I can smell the metallic taste of blood.

Checking the first person laying in the field bed closest to the entry, I find the young man's throat slit.

''Ah, help.'' I can hear the voice of an old man breathing his last breath close by.

Finding the man in the opposite corner of the tent, I quickly come to his aid. Seeing gunshot wounds on his chest, coloring his white shirt red, I take the closest piece of cloth available and press on his wounds.

''My time has come... Let me die...'' The man tells me in his native tong before recognizing me.

''Man down, Man down. Barracks South-East.'' I say to my radio, applying more pressure.

Two days ago I had helped this old man and his granddaughter into the camp by remembering Major Raven of a mostly ignored military code.

''You are a strong man... Strong enough to keep this...'' The man tells me, handing me an old ring on a leather strip with the last of his strength.

Feeling the life leave the man. Only moments later I am pushed aside by the medics coming in.

Clutching the old man's ring, I take my M4 and join the mercs in the foxholes.