FATAMORGANA

We had generous salaries—$250K to $300K a year. In Missouri, after tax, that’s the price of a decent house. If your spouse worked too, you could afford one every year.

But labor costs for Mastercard were a rounding error. Like the fourth decimal of pi—technically there, but nobody cares.
They generated tens of billions in profit—without factories, without warehouses, without the drag of real operational costs.

So where did the profits go?
Just here and there.
Dividends. Stock buybacks.
Acquisitions—a giant vacuum sucking up potential threats before they could grow.
Executive compensation, naturally.
And filling more coffers.

Louis Vuitton bags stuffed with cash.
A sign over the vault: No Peasants Allowed.
Vanity plates on Ferraris out front: PKTCHNG.
(Kidding. Sort of.)

A few years ago, I flew to the Philippines for the launch of Priceless Experiences.
Business class, of course. Luxury hotel. Personal driver.

Mastercard had reserved a museum as the venue. A lavish dinner, flower arrangements, caviar, cocktails.

Locals holding umbrellas over the marketing lady—because it’s raining.

***This excerpt is from the middle of Fatamorgana.