I, Zillionaire

By Denny Zartman

"I felt as if I had climbed to the top of Mount Everest. Except, instead of a mountain made of stone, this was a Mount Everest made of money. I could see myself on that mountain, surveying the vast landscape around me; the smaller, surrounding mountains of gold coins, they themselves bordered by another long line of mountains of silver coins. As the wind would gust, hundreds of thousand dollar bills would swirl around me. I’d be on top of this enormous mountain of bills, ankle deep in cash. I could, at any time, lean down and plunge my hands into the great pile of money, and come standing back up holding giant fistfuls of thousand dollar bills. I could then shake those fistfuls of dollars at the sky, at the world, at the universe, and loudly proclaim my preeminence."

"I, Zillionaire" is the hilarious and harrowing epic rise and fall and rise and fall and rise of the richest man in the history of history. Hear all his secrets revealed for the very first time, directly from the man who has lived a life of mythic proportions. Learn the truth about the human being behind the legend!

"I, Zillionaire" by Denny Zartman - Get your copy today!

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Denny Zartman is an actor, writer, musician, and artist working out of Atlanta, Georgia and Los Angeles California. "I, Zillionaire" is his first book.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Denny Zartman
• Release date: Jun 15, 2012
• ISBN: 9781476416410

Denny Zartman

Actor.

Book preview

I, ZILLIONAIRE

I, Zillionaire

By Denny Zartman

I, ZILLIONAIRE

By Denny Zartman

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2012 by Denny Zartman

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. This book contains material protected under International and Federal Copyright Laws and Treaties. Any unauthorized reprint or use of this material is prohibited. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without express written permission from the author / publisher.

For Mom and Dad with love

TABLE OF CONTENTS

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

CHAPTER TWENTY ONE

CHAPTER TWENTY TWO

CHAPTER TWENTY THREE

CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR

CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE

CHAPTER ONE

As a child, I fell in love with books.

When I was a young boy, I would walk miles in the winter cold to the nearest library and spend hours poring over the dusty tomes lining the shelves. My primary interest was non-fiction, particularly biographies. I thought fiction too crass, too callow. Why should I listen to some silly fool make up unbelievable stories? It seemed like an incredible waste of time.

Instead of fantastic tales of fantasy, I gravitated toward the real-life stories of the great men and women of history. I was fascinated at how they went from less than nothing to everlasting fame.

I devoured history books and biographies of all sorts. I particularly enjoyed autobiographies. The thrill of hearing an important individual tell their story in their own words provoked such an exquisite excitement within me that I can barely describe it to you now despite my deep, deep desire to do so.

One stormy day, in an unusually harsh winter, I had trudged miles over uneven ground to the library. I would spend the day reading a book, and once I was finished, I would select three other books to check out and take home with me.

During my trip to the library that morning, I seemed to hit every deep puddle masked by snow that lay along the way. I tripped over hidden branches and slipped on frozen rocks often. It was miserable, but after several hours I arrived at my destination.

Inside, it was warm and inviting. I stripped off my wet boots and overcoat, took off my pants that were soaked up to the knee, hung them all near the radiator, and soon lost myself browsing the endless, tall shelves.

That day I happened to read the autobiography of a certain great rich man of the time. I won’t name who it was, but it was a prominent figure on the national and international business scene that anyone would certainly recognize at a moment’s notice.

Let me tell you this: It was a magical book. Listening to this historic figure (who, to me, had previously been just a name in the newspaper or on a store sign) tell me the epic events of his life in his own words was a truly wonderful experience. I had nearly forgotten the awfully uncomfortable trip to the library, and I finished the entire book in one sitting.

After I turned the last page and closed the cover, I sat for a long while in the warm silence, my hand resting on the soft green back cover of the book.

I sat there in the library with my eyes closed and a peaceful smile on my face for quite some time, mentally digesting the incredible life of the titan of industry that just swept before me.

There are moments in life that you look back on and wish you could have just stopped time right then and kept that moment forever. That was one of those moments in my life. I was so perfectly happy right then.

But, it was now time for me to go back home.

I opened my eyes and sighed deeply. I got up, carefully put the book back upon the shelf, and gathered my things.

My clothes had dried well on the radiator, but in my hurry to take off my pants, it seemed that I had stripped my boots off with a tad too much haste. What I am attempting to say here is: the careful care that I took to hang my clothes to dry had not been extended to my footwear.

I should have shaken out the considerable amount of ice and snow that had collected in the boots during my perilous journey to the library that dreary day. Instead, I had set the boots aside, rushed to use the bathroom, then returned to my seat with a book; promptly forgetting all about it.

In the hours I had spent reading, the snow and ice that had collected in my boots earlier had melted, transforming to cold water and ice chips. Fortunately for me, there was a hole in the sole of one of my shoes, so some of the water had soaked away into the library carpet. But, other places in the boot hadn’t worn away completely yet. Those places made for nice little foot pad sized bowls perfect for holding icy liquid.

I went outside to shake as much water and ice out of my boots as I could, but they were still soaking wet, and the leather was practically frozen in spots. I debated going back inside the library, turning them upside down on the mat, and waiting a few more minutes for them to dry a little bit more. But a momentary glance at the horizon was more than enough to tell me that it was already far later than I had ever planned to stay. Even though the library would be open for a few more hours, I must leave at once if I wanted to get home at any reasonable time.

Reluctantly, I pulled on my boots. I grimaced at the clammy coldness inside. My socks were already getting wet and cold before I had even walked a single step. Nevertheless, I stood, slung the book bag over my little boy shoulder, and began the long trek home.

The walk back home seemed to go so much slower than the trip to the library. I suppose I shouldn’t have been surprised at that. On the way to the library, I had been fully rested, dressed in dry, warm clothes, and with a little bit of food in my stomach. On the way back I was tired and hungry, and my feet were wet and cold right from the beginning. And naturally my feet became numb quickly during my walk home.

Between the diminishing light and the loss of feeling in my legs, I ended up stumbling on more rocks and hidden branches and falling to the ground than ever before. Soon, my hands were plunging into the snow or onto the hard frozen ground with what seemed every other step, soaking my mittens and my sleeves, and jarring my wrists as they withstood the brunt of my full weight being suddenly being dropped upon them again and again and again.

Finally, after what seemed to be a hundred years, I made it back to my home.

Papa, Papa! I cried. My father greeted me at the door. Where were you? You’re hours late, son, he said in his gruff but loving tone.

I stripped off my boots in a flash and quickly set them aside as I set about to tearing off my coat and pants. My mother entered the room. Hang them up carefully, dear. Your dinner is getting cold!

Yes, Mama, I said, and rushed to the kitchen with both my parents following behind me. The house was warm and inviting, in sweet, stark contrast to the harsh cold of the world just outside the door.

Our dinner was meager, because we were very poor. Mother made the finest gruel, but it was still gruel. And while her slices of bread were often hard as rocks, they were never moldy. Despite the sparse ingredients available to her, she was able to feed us most every week. I loved her for that.

We settled into our chairs in the dining room, and mama spooned the lumpy gruel into a bowl in front of me. She did the same for father, and then finally into her own. She sat down, we said our prayers, and then I started to eat as quickly as I could. I was ravenous!

Slow down, my father said. Don’t eat so fast.

Mmmppgh, I replied.

What kept you so long at the library, son? my mother asked.

I gulped down a few more spoonfuls and wiggled my toes. Feeling was only then beginning to come back into them. Between greedy scoops of gruel into my mouth, I told them of the book that I had read that day.

I was reading a book, a wonderful, wonderful book!

My mother and father both smiled and nodded. They both knew well my passion for reading.

I told them the name of the book that I had read, and my father immediately said Oh!

I looked at him and continued to eat at a rapid pace. The first few bites of dinner had only stimulated my appetite, and I couldn’t get the food inside me fast enough.

Between bites, I blurted out a condensed version of the book, lauding this tremendous man who had lived such an extraordinary life, and told my parents how it felt like he was really talking to me personally, like I was a friend to whom he was confiding his secrets.

My father picked at his food casually and said "Yes, I know of that book. It is a wonderful book. In fact, I met the fellow who wrote it."

Mother smiled at him and said Is that so?

Oh yes, I met him in business in Chicago once.

I gaped at my father. He knew this famous titan of industry, this legendary figure, this extraordinarily wealthy person? I was stunned.

I asked my father if he had really met the great man in question.