This is a fictitious story that originated in a dream. It is illegal and unethical to copy another persons product without their permission. This article was written only for entertainment purposes.
Even as a young boy I always made a lot of money. My first business was distributing the morning newspaper. I had twenty newsboys on bicycles that were at my dads garage at six in the morning. They dropped each newspaper off at the doorsteps of my customers and were paid at the end of the week. I got my share on the first of the month when my mailbox was packed with over one thousand envelopes filled with checks. Before I left for an ivy league college my business was sold for fifty thousand dollars. My major would be business administration, taught to me by professors who never knew how to start up a newspaper delivery business. But they understood the inner workings of large corporations. After six years I graduated with a masters degree in business but was now broke. The college costs wiped me out. My parents were now in a nursing home and could not give me any help. Every thing I had was contained in my head, but I was sure it would help me survive.
The secretary was not impressed with my M.B.A. and the rest of the information on my resume, she told me that I would make better use of my time by looking for a job. I met the top money lender after practically breaking into his office. He was a sloppy looking man with a desk piled with assorted financial documents. He was scratching his crotch while sipping on a can of soda. He looked up at me and said: “Watta You Want?” After an hour of listening to my business proposal he was able to offer me a hundred thousand dollar line of credit. His interest rates were staggering but I was in no position to refuse his offer. He didn’t bother to shake my hand or say goodbye when I left his office, but his line of credit was all I needed.
I rented a large dairy cow barn situated in the middle of a hundred acre deserted farm. Its anonymity would be perfect for the business of manufacturing copies of famous name handbags. It was soon filled with fifty used sewing machines that I got at an auction. The manager I hired was an unemployed alcoholic but an expert at putting a handbag together. The fifty sewing machine operators were recruited outside the downtown unemployment office and were happy to get a job. The leather goods and other supplies were given to me with only a promise to pay my bills. My customers were hundreds of money hungry peddlers that sold them on the sidewalks of big cities. The production line was soon turning out two thousand copies of designer ladies handbags daily. The top money lender got his hundred grand back with interest in less than one year. He even invited me to be the best man at his wedding, and we became good friends.
After twelve years of a big profits I was forced to close down. The real manufacture of the designer handbag warned me of legal action if I remained in business. But since I had bigger and better ideas and had made over seventeen million dollars it was time for me to move on. My employees were each given a severance pay of ten thousand dollars and a kiss on the cheek. Each took home as many fake designer handbags as they could carry, and latter sold them to their lady friends. I took home only one as a gift to my live in girlfriend, but she knew immediately that it was a fake. I was forced to get her the real thing, which cost me twelve hundred bucks. That ended my involvement with ladies handbags. Now I was interested in buying a business with a brand name product that could not be pirated. But that is almost impossible in a world where everybody is desperate to be successful businessmen.
melpol
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