By James P. Othmer
Yates is a Futurist.Which is a posh approach of claiming he flies world wide, lecturing a variety of meetings, confabs, and conglomerates, meting out prepackaged bullshit in an try and remain simply prior to the newest development and declare he observed it first. yet now Yates has misplaced religion within the very destiny that he's paid to promote and offers what might be a career-ending rant. as an alternative, a mysterious governmental team hires him to go back and forth the globe and become aware of why the area turns out to hate the US. From heart jap conflict zones to Polynesian superluxe company retreats, James Othmer takes us on a mordantly hilarious trip via company double-speak and worldwide unrest to discover the reality underneath the buzz.
From the alternate Paperback edition.
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Her stomach rumbled and reminded her that the first order of business was breakfast. She’d think about the bath and bolting later. Charlotte followed Bay down the carpeted stairs. Her boots were probably ruined after spending the night out of doors, and now she didn’t have a nightgown either. There were any number of things she wanted to speak to Bay about, but her mama always said a man had to eat before he could think. The sideboard was spread with enough food to feed every mistress on the street.
He had no hesitation to punish her for her sister’s transgressions—if one thought that hours of sublime sensual pleasure was punishment. Charlotte put an ear to the bedroom door and listened for any movement. A pleasant lingering of cheroot smoke drifted into her nostrils, but the house was dark and silent save for the steady ticking of the clocks. The timepiece in the cherub’s stomach at her bedside told her it was gone on eleven. He must have left while she availed herself of the discreetly screened commode chair in the dressing room.
And then it hit her. Deb had teasingly spoken about making off with Bayard’s paintings. Said they were valuable. Lord knows, there were enough of them all through the downstairs rooms. There were breasts and bottoms and nipples and nooks on every wall, some near to life-size. But the artwork on the stairs was a manageable size, as was the one hanging directly below it. Charlotte could take them down herself, cut the canvas from their frames, and sell them. All she needed was enough money to hide out for a few weeks.
The Futurist by James P. Othmer