Capitalist Xylophone {Islanders}

A Story by Abishai100

Fictional portrait of bound-Romanticism in the Ivory Coast for chocolate, competition, a wayward prince reformed, and an island of thinking.

Another nod to that wonderful place of Cote d'Ivoire.

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I'm Amlan Satan (Algerian-American). I was roaming around New England, hopping around in billiards-bars at night, living off my princely-inherited fortunes and challenging street-gunners in pool and making a small-splash having developed my hands/eyes for that table-game of ball-stick aim and fire shooting in pockets for quick or slanted-slow placements for targets and vanity. It dawned on me that I wasn't applying my princely-status or fortunes for any public 'deed' of expression and decided to move to the Ivory Coast and become a confectioner-capitalist, investing in a special candy-store in the capital-city of that West African nation of great cocoa-beans and AFCON (world-soccer) social media fanfare for Selfie-faces.

Now, Cote d'Ivoire ("Ivory-Coast") had seen much in intrigue in motions of peoples and clans and kingdoms and ivory-trade and eventually much cocoa-production and trade (exports) stamping the African nation as a world-leader in the chocolate creation industry (wow). It defied French colonial rule and waved through politics 'troubles' to become its own special haven, which is why I sought a venture for adventurism and self-made dignity and made my candy-store (Wonderland) a cool testament to Earth transit/customs for helmets and cleats (ha). This was Selfie-like!

Sure, I was fascinated and vitalized as a once-wayward billiards-hall Western Algerian-American US-citizen prince of money. Cote d'Ivoire had my attention, and I got myself a great work on the nature of negotiations for wrought customs/exchange of verifiable socialized intelligence for commerce and life and why the 'civil war' phenomenon cast both doubt about relations potential-energy and energization about reinventions of customs-borders for profit-thinking. I was intrigued and studied Ivory-Coast 'troubles' of civil war orientations and clan-disputes preceding stabilizations of its great cocoa-beans and trade helmets for world capitalism confidence (wow).

AYA: You want to marry me.

ME: You'll be my candy-shop manager of relations/philosophy in the Ivory Coast, Aya.

AYA: This is race-intrigue, surely, darling.

ME: We're in love, it's not that complex, surely.

AYA: You know my uncle owns that rival confectionary in the capital-city.

ME: Consider this a treaty of adjective for an unfounded civil war between capitalist 'family' value.

AYA: Damn (Facebook-like).

BUTRA: You dating that American (Algerian?) musketeer, daughter?

AYA: His store is really cool, daddy.

BUTRA: This is outrageous; there's already Ivory Coast street-talk he's Peter Pan (or something!).

AYA: He's a Romanticist; reborn for shedding of prince-vanity snake-skin, daddy.

BUTRA: You better have no doubt here/now; my confectionary was once supreme.

AYA: This is a union of capitalist-souls, as Amlan Satan says (to me).

BUTRA: Selfie-like?

Aya and I ran our own smaller store and it flourished. The union of capitalist brain-imagery made for 'cool' Cote d'Ivoire talk, and it fueled battery-action for consumerism toys and adjectives and I felt like Romeo or Peter Pan himself. This was excellence; and Aya was the queen-diplomat of a healthy Ivory Coast chocolatier rivalry good for peace and social media prestige 'cleats' for leviathan-evasions (sure). This was Facebook-like (for the Ego!).

I got myself a Fiero and drove around Aya. All was beautiful in the Ivory Coast, and I felt like a real man (ha). However this was somehow unpredictability-smoke; for something more complex was to follow us, like the machinery-slick of my Fiero (damn).

Butra, Aya's father, brought in some media-PR excellence to challenge my grip on the streets of Cote d'Ivoire chocolate-talk (damn). Suddenly, I found myself thrust back into the Western vanities of capitalism-less magazine-indulgence slick consciousness. I was different now. What could I do, for Aya (Facebook-like)?

BUTRA: You want a public spotlight co-investment in Rayovac (batteries)?
ME: Think it, father-in-law; your company, my company, investing in consumerism trophy.

BUTRA: Batteries?

ME: A simplified gesture of leviathan-evasions; we think consumer electronics (all).
BUTRA: Idealism.

ME: Preferred to the indulgences for manmade 'civil wars' between capitalists of style, no?

BUTRA: Fine (visit my estate and we'll generate the customs languages).

ME: Selfie-like (ok).