Summer 1969, off the coast of Italy on the Adriatic sea.
Clark Cadbury sat in his personal cabin on board his private yacht: The S.S. Cioccolato. His young and beautiful wife, Meredith was sound asleep in the cabin that they shared. Usually, he loved how she looked when she slept. The moionlight spilled all over her raven hair and her sun kissed skin. She was only 20 years old, but she looked 19. Clark didn't look so bad himself. He had short blonde Hair, smooth white skin with some muscles, and he had a set of deep hazel eyes that people found intriguing. The cabin that Clark was in used as his study. As he sat at his desk, he pondered about how his life had turned out the way that it did. He had been born a penniless bastard in Chicago and now he was a wealthy European gentleman who would one day own a confectionary empire that serviced the English monarchy. It wasn't handed to him on a silver platter, he took it for himself. He'd had to lie, cheat, and impersonate his way to the top. He'd even had to kill a couple people along the way, literally. Yet, through it all, he'd ever been convicted, charged or arrested for any of the crimes he committed. Clark took his golden pocket watch with the family name out of his royal blue robe pocket. It was half past eleven. Clark had tried to get some sleep, but nothing was helping. He'd made wonderful love to Meredith, then he had tried counting stars. It was no good. In a last ditch effort, he pulled out a blue leather bound journal that he'd bought from a store in San Remo. He opened it to the cover page and took out his brand new ball point pen that he'd bought in Venice. On the cover page he wrote, "The Cordial Mr. Cadbury." He then turned to the first page and began to write.
"I can forgive you for thinking that you know who I am. Everybody thinks they do, but they don't know shit, those people. So, who am I? Clark Henry Cadbury. 21 years old, Husband. Wealthy traveler of Europe, and now, next in line to inherit the Cadbury chocolate fortune once my father dies. That is who I am now, but that's not always who I was.
Autumn 1965, Concord, Rhode Island. It seems quite peculiar that fate should have chosen the capital of one of the smallest of the United States of America as the place of my birth.
Arnold Culliver sat in his room, pondering. The 17 year old had been living at home ever since he had dropped out of high school. he couldn't get a job, the only talent he had was telling lies and impersonating people. He was actually very good, all he had to do was hear a person's voice and he could mimic it. His mom was on another of her drunken benders. His old man had split a few years after Arnold was born. He was used to his mom's episodes by this time. Arnold just sat in bed, reading his favorite book, The Great Gatsby. The strange thing was that he didn't read it for the message. He read it because it went into detail about the lifestyle of the wealthy bourgeois of American society. Arnold loved and envied Jay Gatsby. Jay was and had everything that Arnold wanted out of life. Money, power, prestige, and a beautiful woman on his arm. While Gatsby may have been unbelievably wealthy, Arnold and his mother were barley living within their means. Arnold hated the life he was forced to lead with all his heart. All he wanted was to be rich like Jay Gatsby. His aspirations were one of the biggest causes of tension between him and his mother. She was unable and unwilling to give him the lifestyle that he felt he deserved.
"Arnold!"his mother shouted one day as Arnold slowly came down for lunch.. "Will you stop reading those stupid books and eat your chicken!" He took one look at the plate of fried a chicken and pushed it away.
"I'm not eating this stuff." Arnold replied.
"Why not!" His mother asked furiously.
"This is peasant food and unlike you, I have decent taste."
"Just who in the Hell do you think you are? Speaking to me like that." Arnold stood up from the table.
"I'm somebody who is sick and tired of living in a shack and eating food from a garbage can." he shouted.
"Why you ungrateful little shit! I have had it with you!" His mother screamed in a blind rage. "Get the fuck out of my house and don't you ever come back! Little snot."
"With pleasure!" Arnold yelled back as he got up from the table, spit on the fried chicken, and stormed out the door.
After I took my leave of the putrid Hellhole, I decided that I was on my way to Boston. No one, not even that peasant wench who dared to call herself my mother would find me that grand city. I could finally take the first step on the way to the life I was owed. A life of wealth and privilege.