“Let them eat cake,” he snarled.
He reached for the expensive wine—not the slop the masses consume—poured a glass, and rested his self-satisfied elbows on the table.
Another day over, another day pretending he cared, another round of economic cuts that would remain buried in news dominated by another timely terrorist atrocity.
There would be more made homeless, he’d been warned, more families unable to support themselves. He yawned.
He wouldn’t worry: a couple more years of tiresome political wrangling and his race would be run.
He swirled the wine extravagantly.
Now to concentrate on maximising his personal investments.