(Copyright: Sue Vincent)
This was one location beyond both intrusion and inclination of even the most intrepid mortgage foreclosing agency.
Dilapidated, desolate and decrepit, the cold, damp and isolated stone structure reared its ugly head at the outskirts of the city of Soldman Gachs, a once bustling epicenter of unshackled greed and grist. Altruism and austerity were passé while excess was in. Horatio was no exception to the rampaging herd. Hounded and herded by mortgage originating behemoths such as Widecountry, flush with loans from ever accommodating bankers such as Fells Wargo and continually eager insurance companies such as GIA ready to bear the financial burdens accumulated by the blazer clad, Maserati driving, mansion building investment bankers, Horatio became the proud and naïve owner of a six-bedroom mega structure in the Fran Sancisco locale.
Then began the “riches-to-rag” plunge. By the time Horatio realized that he was being “sliced and diced” by a bunch of heartless robber barons, things had come to a head. The gleaming Bugatti Veryon in the garage was the first to disappear, followed by the appearance of notices of foreclosure adorning the exquisite outer walls of the mansion.
But no dilapidation within him could match any external wreckage. He had fallen prey to what a prescient saint had termed “irrational exuberance.”