Falling for My Dirty Uncle

You see, my theory is that ever since Mr. Davion's little spectacle at Nailers Arena, he's come into some scrutiny by the city and state. You'll remember that this column even suggested that the city stop doing business with him entirely.

Well, guess what building is coming up for final decision on choosing the developer that will build it?

That's right. Equinox Towers.

And it makes perfect sense that this man—who is not unintelligent or slow in the slightest—will be staying on his best behavior to not piss anyone else off.

What happens though when Equinox Towers is his?

Does the old Magnus come out?

Or can we keep this one?

It's an interesting question. I much prefer the current version of the man, but who knows what will happen. Or, if he'll even get the contract at all.

I'll let you know as soon as I find out.

Until then, keep your ears to the ground, New York. I'll be listening!

Magnus

I can’t get a fucking break.

There was one good article about me, and now it’s back to the old burn-the-bastard-at-the-stake routine. Whoever’s writing this garbage must be having a lot of fun, because these kinds of articles have been coming for a very long time.

Seriously, whoever runs the New York Daily Journal must have a fucking grudge against me, because I have no other explanation for this. Sure, I know I’m not exactly one of those cookie-cutter role models, but is this kind of bullshit really needed? It’s not like I eat fucking children for breakfast.

I decided to hop out of my limo a few blocks away from my office tower, thinking that it’d be a good idea to stretch my legs. I didn’t need to walk long to find one of these newspaper stands that seem to be one of the New York staples. Curiosity got the best of me and I grabbed a Daily Journal copy, flipping it straight to the Gossip Central column. After giving me some good press, I thought that whoever’s behind these things had given up on trashing my name. I was wrong, of course.

I grab one of the newspapers from the newspaper stand in front of me, pay the old guy in the booth, and tuck it under my arm. I stroll down the sidewalk, taking my cellphone out of my pocket, and scroll down the contacts list. I press my thumb over Joyce’s name and hold the phone to my ear. Just like always, she picks up after just one tone.

“8 am. Congratulations. I don’t think I even remember you being up this early,” Joyce chirps, but I don’t even indulge her small talk. I go straight for the kill, my mind strictly focused on business. It’s high time this bullshit stops.

“Have you read the newspaper?” I ask her, hoping to get some answers. If there’s anyone who knows what’s going on, it must be Joyce. She always knows what’s up, God bless her.

“I have. Are you surprised?” she replies flatly, and I can tell she’s not exactly happy. Not that I'm surprised—ever since I told her I was seeing Penny, Joyce’s been in a foul mood. I can’t really blame her, though: I know that fucking my own stepdaughter isn’t exactly the smartest decision I could be making right now, especially now that the Equinox deal is on our plate.

Yeah, in case you’re wondering, I told Joyce all about Penny and I. I might not be the brightest guy when it comes to choosing the women I fuck, but I’m still aware I’m in charge of a multi-million dollar company. And if there’s the slightest chance my relationship with Penny is going to cause some ripples, Joyce should know about that. Besides, I had to fucking tell someone about it. Secrets are fine, but there’s a time when they just start eating you up from the inside out.

“Of course I’m fucking surprised, Joyce. Don’t you think this bullshit with the NY Daily Journal has already gone too far? I know they have to sell their newspapers and shit, but seriously… What have I ever done to them?”

I hear her sigh from the other side of the line and, even though I can’t see her, I know she’s rubbing her temples in frustration.

“Seriously? Have you forgot about who’s running the show at the Daily Journal?” she asks me, and I stop for a few seconds, trying to think of an answer.

“I have no fucking idea. Is this something I’m supposed to know?” There’s just silence from the other side of the line, and I realize that the answer to my question is a simple yes.

“How could you forget about something like this, Magnus? Rhoda’s the Editor in Chief at the Daily Journal, for God’s sake. Your ex-wife!” she tells me, and I stop walking and just freeze in the middle of the sidewalk, the

New Yorker’s around me rushing as they try not to be late to work.

Rhoda! Fuck, now everything makes sense. No wonder the Daily Journal has been jabbing at me for so fucking long. Rhoda hates my fucking guts with a passion.

“Well, that explains a lot, but --”

“Magnus, you really are one of a kind… I can’t believe you’re this blind to what’s happening,” she cuts me short, and I can already tell that Rhoda’s not my only problem.

“What is it? Lay it on me.”