A Story by Peter Rogerson

The domination of wealth.



If you’re a rich man the very last thing you want to see is the poor man next door enjoying some of your privileges. I mean, just swallow your pride for a moment and try to put yourself in the position of a multi-millionaire or a billionaire. You’ve got more money than you’ll ever spend but it’s in your DNA to both protect it and increase it. You inherited most of it, haven’t had to do anything mundane like working for it, are rich by virtue of being rich!

And now you’ve got a tumour in hour brain, operable you’re told, but unless you get the surgery nasty things will happen to you and within a year or so you’ll die in pain of multiple organ failure, probably blind, almost certainly deaf, and without a thought in your head bar one: the knowledge that there was a time when you could think.

Oh, and the poor man next door has exactly the same problem with a tumour, the same prognosis, the same predicted outcome. But he can go to the doctor and the doctor can set him on a course to a cure without so much as a request for his insurance certificate because, like every other citizen, he enjoys the privilege of national insurance. Everyone’s got it, everyone pays week by week and calls on it when he needs it, and the poor man next door is as entitled to medical help just like everyone else. Just like you, though in order to make yourself seem special you also have an expensive private scheme which will see you all right should all else fail.

So you’ll get what you need, a nasty diseased bit of your brain skilfully removed, and you’ll be all right for a good few more years once it’s been done and dusted. No, not dusted. They don’t dust brain surgery!

But here’s the rub. You’ve got your billions of cash so you’re cured, but so is the poor man next door. With only measly pennies in his bank account he gets treatment that is the equal to that which you received. And you see him in his garden, recovering, wearing a bandage almost identical to the one that decorates your own head! And you’re a rich man with every right to benefit from the skills of a surgeon, and he’s a poor man. Why should he have the same privileges as those that you enjoy?`

You’re rich. You deserve to live. He’s poor and ought to die. Isn’t that the natural order of things? Doesn’t your wealth count for anything?

It’s the damned National Health Service. That’s what it is: it provides equality where there shouldn’t be any.

But you know the wretched thing won’t be around for ever. Your chums, your wealthy chums, those in Government, have vowed to see to that. Bit by bit and sort of secretly they’re selling off that wretched Health Service and the way it treats paupers as if they were princes. And right now, with a pandemic occupying the newspapers and rolling television news channels, is the perfect time to slip in the odd bit of law that will make the gradual reversal to a natural order in which money counts for something a reality.

You can’t wait.

Next year, or maybe the year after, you’ll go to see your medical man and he’ll ask you that one question you can’t wait to hear.

What will it be, sir, cash or a credit card…?”

That’ll sort the poor man out when he scrabbles in his pocket for cash he hasn’t got before reaching for his already maxed-out credit card before making a cheap-rate call to his friendly undertaker in order to book his services.

Who do they think they are? Paupers who think they’ve got a right to life? I mean, what does he do anyway, that neighbour of yours? He scrabbles around at his work, going every day to some office or workshop, and you, well, your wealth is inherited like all wealth should be, and it’ll buy you health and happiness until the day you die…


© Peter Rogerson 23.07.21


© 2021 Peter Rogerson

My Review

Would you like to review this Story?
Login | Register

Request Read Request
Add to Library My Library
Subscribe Subscribe


Added on July 23, 2021
Last Updated on July 23, 2021
Tags: inherited wealt


Peter Rogerson
Peter Rogerson

Forest Town, Nottinghamshire, United Kingdom

I am 77 years old, but as a single dad with four children that I had sole responsibility for I found myself driving insanity away by writing. At first it was short stories (all lost now, unfortunately.. more..