The 1% Solution: An Excerpt

After several months, time has allowed me to finish my book The 1% Solution.
It is the story of the wealthied guilt of the 1%, fear, confusion, the seeking of a higher power and especially of the role Coincidence plays in all of our lives.

I am proud of the story I tell, amazed by the coincidence that has taken place during it’s creation and of couse

If I have intrigued you, my book will be available soon, first on Kindle, then in paperback. As always, I look for your feedback and comments.

Thank you,
Stuart Welch


Book 4

            When he reached the corner, Trent was ponder-struck with how on each corner a different brand name of Worship had grown. Each building had it own distinct design and personality but they all had something strangely in common. Spiky Catholic spires topping gothic towers, the simple brick, toothy dentition trim and arched windows of the Presbyterian Church, the Reform Synagogue standing large and square, wrapped in fluted columns and sharp angled arches and sitting low-roofed and lonely, the Jehovah Witness hall topped with a partially half lit cross or upside down “T” giving it the appearance of a giant graph _|_ floating overhead.

But what they all had in common, other than they each offered a unique path to salvation using their own roadmap and lowest common denominator signposts to generally the same place, was that even in the dark, they appeared worn and unused, vacant and deserted.


The seed’s white root erupted in a white point and then began to find its way in fertile ground.


Book 5

As he crossed the street, Trent heard an ear-piercing roar of a powerful engine and squeal of tires. He froze in his path. In a dark Thursday night, a Ferrari screamed by, melting asphalt, blowing the stop signs and never even pausing to give way. The Ferrari was followed closely by a black Jensen Interceptor again speed-blow-burning through the street scene as if no one else existed in the world outside the pair’s tinted black windows. Whatever lights were on along the dimly lit street, streaked long in the cars high gloss polish as the scream machines raced blindly past a non-existent Trent.

Here and gone in a flash-second, the screaming metal never looked at the street or the gables or the little people that may be crossing the street that night. The drivers for just that moment almost looked glowing crazy-eyed, laughing heads thrown back uncontrollably, mouths gaping wide, as their inner city racing challenge flared.

As he had thought, the rich, those people inside those machines, lived in a different world and even though the Wealthy lived among us, the 99%, the meat puppets of the Human race, we rarely made contact or crossed paths with THEM, with the Others. The Uber-Wealthy had different time sensibilities, different shops and neighborhoods and mostly different realities.

Trent Gillespie didn’t hate or despise them as many around him did. The Wealthies fascinated him, that like aliens, illegal or interplanetary, they could live among us. We would rarely have a chance to steal a glimpse of them unless Paris had to serve another few publicized days in a local jail or there was a weird news story catching our collective eye about a 700 dollar bottle of beer or diamond crusted IPod from a Neiman Marcus Christmas catalog.

And that is what we, the 99%, the beer boobs, the fun-bags and Mugs did when we finally caught them: we chase them, we photograph them from every angle, we arrest them, we try them in a court of our law, and then we beg for their blood, we beg to be allowed to eat them and then we put them in jail. Just for a few days.

And then the 1% start their giggle and finger wagging at the captured.

And then they are released quickly, silently, late at night to still make last call at the private club, while we are watching our televisions and self-medicating with cheap alcohols we purchased while working head-down head-sweaty for them.

It is and always was an odd dependency, an odd relationship between the 1% Wealthy and the 99 % rest of the ghetto cracker people of the Planet.

And then they were gone, the whine of engines fading into the neighborhood until there was no trace, no witnesses. The only thing that may have been disturbed were papers on the street or a muffled coo coo wabbling batch of pigeons, trying to put down somewhere for the night, not to be disturbed.



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