So here we are in the 21st century recreation of a Victorian era adventurer’s den where our neo-feudal faux-aristocrat enjoys his smuggled Cuban and a fine old Islay. But it’s a virtual reality as we are in a new world where there is no new world to exploit, sorry, I mean discover. Luckily (for him, not the rest of us) this alpha male doesn’t have far to go to find conquests. His new world is a zero sum jungle where he takes no prisoners, only trophies.

In his lair we see husks of former colleagues taxidermied into menacing poses. Their frozen impotence reminds him of how good an entrepreneur/executive/sociopath he is. He reflects on how well he could lie and wait. And how they never heard the shot that got them.

Artifacts of ex-wives are here, too; their images preserved at, in his not so humble opinion, their finest. He says he was more sporting with them than with his collegial opponents, as his intent with the ladies was always was catch and release. An artful deal all around; they get severance, he gets bragging rights, and, of course, the lawyers get most of all.

And on the floor, the rug and foot stool, is the saddest story of all. A servant mistook his master for a poacher and was out gunned. He’d been reading the wrong documents, something about “establish Justice,” “promote the general Welfare” and so on. “A tragic accident,” our capitalist smirked. The killing was ruled self defense, by the Supreme Court, no less.