Brad Carlton Top News - 2004
See Also: Ashley Carlton  Colleen Carlton  Abby Carlton

Newman Whipped With Carlton's Belt of Deception

October 20, 2004
by Brent Kellogg

"I've never heard that name in my life," former Abbott Hotel pool boy and hedge clipper Brad Carlton declared Wednesday after being asked if he's the much sought after Charles Robert Casein.

Like anyone worth their even remotely sober intellect would buy his story, hearing voices in her head Nikki Newman couldn't believe her ears. "Are you telling me the truth?" she asked, as if a man who for whatever reason had changed his name would admit it.

"My name is Bradley Carlton," Carlton wheezed, adding that it always has been unless you count the names "Junior" and "Golden Boy" assigned to him from time to time by Jack Abbott.

Seeing Carlton as some grinning like a troll on ether orchestrating the whole Casein yarn so that he can make her look like a fool, Newman said she knew it wasn't true. She knew that Carlton had changed his name when he was living in Cleveland years and years ago. She didn't quite know why but it had to do with some tragedy and was perhaps the first notch on Carlton's truly outstanding belt of deception.

Carlton was blown away. Just how would Newman know anything of his past? It wasn't as if they'd almost married once and should have had some inkling of each others background.

"I had Paul Williams look into it," Newman cackled, and Carlton did not burst out laughing and maybe say, "Paul Williams? That hack? You believe anything that bumbling bozo tells you? Nikki, dear. You are such a fool."

Carlton was beside himself. Just what had that embarrassment to the private detecting industry told her?

Newman didn't want to go in detail. She just wanted to know if Carlton is who she thinks he is. She wants him to free her soul so that she can get on with her meaningless life even if it means Carlton's may be destroyed in the process.

Unwilling to dismiss her blathering outright, Carlton asked Newman to describe again the massive wave of unprecedented unrest; the mutinous anger not seen since Sharon Newman tried taking over her role as Ponderosa Queen Bee, and to prove - if she can - why he shouldn't swat her away like a massively duped and misled woman in desperate need of a head exam or a chat with Damon Porter or Wesley Carter, at the least.

Newman emptied her bag of woe. She shot a five-year-old boy dead in the head. She's been living with this "horror" all her life but only recently remembered any of it.

When Newman was done spinning her tale Carlton thought it was touching and all but wouldn't let her make the connection. Nor did he tell her that the way to defeat the screaming demons is simply to stop listening to them. Stop running and stop trying to make something out of nothing for which nobody benefits but her and even then that's questionable because what good could come of it? So you killed a kid, Nikki. So you killed your father too. You seem to have gotten over that last part just fine. You don't hear Nick Reed screaming in your head - do you? Face the snarling demon. Scream your truth and hold your ground and then watch the big monster dissolve into a pile of reeking gas, signifying nothing. Just leave everyone out of your pointless nightmares, get back to work and make yourself useful. Maybe volunteer at your husband's wreck center. Anything but this.

Then, it was like Satan himself reached up from Hell and pulling Newman down whispered something in her ear. "Let it go my little helper. I have a way to keep this going for those of us who are equal parts amused and horrified by your hardcore pro-family anti-everything-else sob story. Repeat after me in Latin. Mumble, mumble."

"I was so wrong. I'm sorry," Newman oinked, then waited patiently for Satan to work his spell.

It didn't take long.

"I can't talk about this anymore. My past hurts too much," Carlton muttered before fading into the darkness.

Applause, Nicole Reed Bancroft Newman Abbott Landers Newman and Newman. She's done it again. There is something in Carlton's past he doesn't want known. Once again, Newman is free to keep dredging until the point is entirely lost and nobody cares.

The Fear Factor Revisited

October 19, 2004

So Brad Carlton is concerned that his colleague, Nikki Newman hasn't shown up for work for several "days" is he? And when she does show up mostly after hours she spends so much time brooding over her personal problems the little work she does do is "slipping"?

What work would that be? The report she turned in that was so full of errors it had to be re-done? Who, actually, was depending on this report and of what importance was it to Jabot Cosmetics? Has Newman's flawed report has any positive impact on Jabot's continued poor financial situation? Just how long can a failing company survive before it goes belly up?

These are the real questions that need to be answered but Carlton didn't drive all the way to the Newman ponderosa on Tuesday to tell his subordinate that her job is on the line or to discuss the flailing Jabot. In Genoa City, work or no work, employees remain employed.

"I had to come talk to you," Carlton told Newman, perhaps to justify his reason for not using the phone and thereby wasting gallons of precious $2 gas. Furthermore, Carlton hadn't come as Newman's boss to say she'd better get on the stick or the board of directors might toss her ass like it did Jack Abbott's recently.

As a "friend" Carlton wanted to know where Newman's head has been. What's eating her alive?

Drifting around in space, Newman emerged from the cloud long enough to ask Carlton, "What do you think I've been through?"

Had Carlton replied that he asked first Newman wouldn't have heard him because she was, as usual, hearing voices in her head. This time the voice was that of the great Victor Newman telling her to keep her yap shut about the possibility that Carlton had his named changed.

So what, besides asking Carlton "what are you doing here", were the next words to flow from Newman's mouth?

"Was your name ever Charles Robert Casein?"

Carlton had no immediate reply, but as sure as Newman has rammed almost everyone down this bleak hole of pointlessness it was almost certain he'll avoid answering the question, accuse Newman of poking around in his personal life and then slam off so that this drama can drag out for another month or so.

Oh my God but these are terrified people. They walk around all quivering and tremulous waiting to be crushed by some dark massive throbbing wall of evil at any moment. It's the basic truism of Genoa City: Fear yanks away their sense of dignity and ability to function. Fear is the poison in the air that elitist babies cling to at birth in lieu of absentee parents one or both of whom may not be biological.

Need more proof?

Remember when Cassie Newman knew something awful was simmering right under her nose? Her mother was acting weird and whispering a lot. Each time Cassie asked to be told what was happening she was told she didn't need to know. Now Daniel Romalotti is doing the same thing. Feeling the fear in the air he asked his mother this week what was going on and was told he didn't need to know. Fearing he'd keep pestering her, Phyllis Summers let him drive her SUV to town instead of taking a taxi.

Fear is just around the corner. If it's not gangbangers and bogeymen bursting into their homes its demons in their heads. Fear is Nick Newman freaking out that his wife may become an exhibitionist and promising to get Sharon Newman a job in the corporate world so as to stop her restlessness. Never mind that she isn't skilled or educated to do much more than serve $4 lattes.

Fear is Katherine Sterling taking the word of a total stranger that the man she's been shacking up with for nearly a year wants to kill her. And logic? Poor ol' logic breaks down in the face of fear. Try this test. Ask your neighborhood embezzlement buster just what, exactly, would happen if, say, his daughter was taken to the Newman stables for a pony ride during which said daughter fell off and dislocated her shoulder.

"If that had been my kid I would have slapped you with a law suit so fast it would make your head spin," Jack Abbott told Victor Newman this week.

See?

Fear. It's everywhere.

PI Will Pull Strings, Get Confidential Sealed Documents Open!

October 14, 2004

He won't say how he found out, but presumably private dick in-training J.T. Hellstrom found out by Googling Brad Carlton's name on the Internet! Is this not the dumbest thing you ever did hear? No, it isn't. Because it gets dumber and lamer.

Working out of his shoe box for a change, private investigator Paul 'Clueless' Williams on Thursday allowed Hellstrom to break the news to their client, the hearing voices in her head Nikki Newman. Yes, it's true. Carlton changed his name. Unfortunately, details of the name change are contained in a record that has been sealed by the court.

Knowing damn well that sealed records can be opened by powerful and popular PIs if they are a mind to Newman asked Williams if there isn't some way he can find out what's inside.

Never one to let his rich clients down Williams said, why, sure. Not a problem. In fact, it'll be a piece of cake. He won't even have to go on a duck killing spree with the supreme court justice. He'll just make a call to a "reporter" he knows!

That reporter will, merely because Williams has asked, track down a crooked judge who for a nice greasing of the palm, will unseal the record!

In the meantime, Williams instructed Newman not to say a word about what they've found out until they know for sure. And as the GCN reported earlier, it was only a matter of time before Newman would run straight to her husband and blurt out, "I may have killed Brad Carlton's brother!"

Oh brother!

Is it not bad enough that Williams illegally tracks credit card usage of people he's tracking by remote control? Is it not bad enough that he finds all these buried secrets on the Internet? Is it pitiful and downright unethical that he's sharing files and information with two lawyers albeit one of those lawyers got her degree from Sears? Is it not pathetic that Williams has gnarled calluses from working Hellstrom's puppet strings, he of the thin-lipped sneer that makes babies cry and women wince?

Nossir, our man Clueless knows a reporter who knows a judge so well the reporter can ask the judge to open sealed documents!

What a place Genoa City is with its overfed white guys sitting around in their comfy luxury slapping each other on the back grunting how nice it is to have low friends in high places who will break the law for a few bucks. These same white pigs who will later declare that justice must be served and democracy spread around as they rape and pillage. Whee what fun.

Are we not all impressed? Are we not all slapping our foreheads and saying, wow, that Paul Williams guy, he of such massive corruption and adulterous scandals, he is one bad dude, stomping madly on an already torn to shreds Constitution. What a guy.

You know what? It's not a big deal. It's just an occasional violation of the public trust, right? Except here, here in the land of make-believe where people fall in love with strangers, move dead bodies and commit crimes without repercussion this numbly violent attitude of unethical behavior thrives. Find a slimy judge, slip him some blood money and pretend you're actually a manly PI when all you are is rather small and weasel-like.

Which is to say, this is yet another perfect example of the agenda as set forth by the Williams slime machine. Very much the way the Newman's and the Carlton's and the Abbott's and the GC Police attack people they don't like. No fairness. Zero respect. No reverence. And no actual talent required. Just violate the law and ethics and morality at will.

In the final analysis, it's all about how these people approach and engage. It's all about with what degree they stomp around crushing the weak for profit and hollow thrill.

Williams sees the world as his personal blood-sport playground, where he can take anything he wants, where Nikki Newman can kill whomever she likes, where Kevin Fisher can repeatedly break the law, where Sharon Newman can have sex with multiple men yet suffer no ramifications that can't be covered up with a few what will become of my family if I go to jail rants.

Like it's not creepy enough that everyone's favorite PI is Paul Williams or that his one and only bestest "assistant" is a part-time college student/hunkmonkey. Hell, Williams might just as well hold a puppy-bloodletting ritual in the company conference room with Hank Weber the way they butcher civil liberties and scan email and detain those walking around in public they don't like.

So what we can expect next from Williams? Will he cut a deal with Judge Hendricks. Hey Judge! Your bride-to-be thinks you're out to kill her but if you help me get some sealed documents opened I'll shine her along. Sometimes it's stories as tiny and seemingly insignificant as searching the Internet for clues that reminds us over and over what a ball of walking disgust with no discernable pulse Williams is.

Huffing & Puffing
June 25, 2004

by Brent Kellogg and Michael Kelly

It's not enough that Brad Carlton has reverted back to January, 2003, when the rebel without a clue was whining and snorting how his wife Ashley had betrayed him by bearing a child sired with the sperm of the malevolent, monied, mumbling Victor Newman.

"My life has been shattered. The daughter I adore has been taken from me," Carlton brayed and blubbered like a diarrhea afflicted mule and went on to carp and cry that he doesn't know his wife, she's not the woman he married, and she overwhelmed him with "lies and deceit."

The hypocritical creep failed to mention he'd just banged his wife's best friend, Dr. Olivia Winters as it was more fun to fuss and fume that Ashley chose a man he detests to be the father of her child, which was a dirty little secret Newman was in on but not him.

And it should be noted that Dr. Winters told Mrs. Carlton at the time that sleeping with her best friend's husband was merely one of those accidents people make and can be quickly discarded regardless of the many times she rubbed the tryst in Ashley's face.

Everyone knew back then that Brad is a diabolical, unrepentant sissy boy. For days there was much anticipation that he would do something crazy and maybe shoot Victor Newman or literally stab the great man in the back. There was hope that Carlton had for once stopped flapping his gums about getting Newman and was really going to do it. It didn't have to be deadly. He didn't even have to come out the winner in a fisticuffs encounter. It was merely a question of whether Carlton could put his muscle where his mouth is.

And as we all know by now - he couldn't.

The gutless wonder did confront Newman at the Athletic Supporter Health & Fitness Club on September 29 that year but as usual Carlton could only run his mouth.

"I'm sick of it! You're dealing with me now," Carlton hissed at Newman, the great trickster, winking, smirking, scratching his groin and full of hot air.

What a blowhard.

Newman knew it too. That's why the old-timer was about to walk away from Carlton's little idea of how to settle differences "like men" when who should appear but Neil and Dru Winters to break up the fight that would never be.

As Carlton sniveled like a little puppy dog spanked for peeing on the carpet, Mr. Winters stood in front of his boss until Carlton had finished twitching and then hauled him away.

That's why when Carlton went through almost the identical script again this week, heads shook and eyes rolled. There Brad was, sputtering and spewing at Newman again about how that damn kid named Abby - who neither Brad nor Ashley have bothered to ask how she feels about having two daddies - is a pawn in Newman's grand scheme of things. And this was subsequent to Brad telling Ashley for the umpteenth time that he's not sure where their marriage is headed.

Without boring the reader with the details, this one statement Carlton made sums it up. It capsulates the conception that like the boy who cried wolf, Brad is not to be believed.

"She [Abby] is my little girl. your only contribution to her life was some DNA which was used without your permission or knowledge. Now you want to interrupt her life by playing daddy."

Is this not the dumbest thing you ever did hear? Can you believe that anyone would say something so stupid? Oh, excuse me Victor, but my wife stole your sperm and had your baby and tried to keep it a secret. Now you just shut up about any notion of wanting to know your child. You got that?

Scrunching his face all tight and furrowing his brow and wagging his finger and saying dumb things and threatening to punch Victor out is the eternal Carlton conundrum. How to appear sort of blank faced and ignorant of the true atrocities his wife commits so as to avoid any sort of direct accountability, and yet still pretends to be a savvy, aware, tough-guy who gets things done and takes no bull and launches unprovoked attacks on anything that stands in his way.

Bringing Jack Abbott into the scene this time to tell the boys to stop fussing didn't help. There's a point where the smell of rot singes the intuitive nose hairs and Carlton reached that point long ago. He has become a nothing.

Carlton has, in short, become the epitome of the indignant and the self-righteous, of the morally arrogant, of someone whose power base is threatened and yet who is still blathering the same things he blathered a year ago. He wasn't believable then and he's not believable now.

The fact remains: if Brad had the gonads to demand the truth about the child's paternity before getting married, or at least had the intelligence to stay put after the revelation was uttered rather than running off to bed down with that squinty-eyed butchering barracuda, he wouldn't be in this mess.

Breaking Up is Hard to Do
May 4, 2004

Time to kneel down again. Put your hands together. Offer thanks right this very moment to whatever deity you desire that you are not 17 years old and spoiled and living in Genoa City right now.

Pray too that you are not a 20-something-year-old hunkmonkey free to attend college on your terms, in love with a high school girl and faced with the tragic reality that as an adult you must leave the kiddies behind and start acting like a man.

Pray too that you are not J.T. Hellstrom on your way to a special coming out party in Los Angeles to celebrate the release of your first hit single and bringing along Colleen Carlton to share in the joy. For if you were Hellstrom, God help you, you'd be faced with having your girlfriend's daddy tagging along with you!

This gratitude, it is a given. This is so much of a given you might not even need to hear why. You just say to yourself, oh my freaking God, I can only imagine.

As if being a rock star isn't bad enough. As if having Hellstrom's single released means it'll soon be on radio stations nationwide and Beach Front Records has money to burn promoting off-the-wall heart throbs. Add Brad Carlton to the mix.

As one of Jabot Cosmetics' leading executives struggling to keep a company together Carlton has so much vacation time accrued he can just take off whenever urgent situations arise. Such was the case this week when Carlton learned that the reason his daughter is walking around with her chin dragging on the ground again is because she fears Hellstrom is ready to dump her. It's not like Carlton doesn't understand why. He knows Hellstrom is a much sought after hunkmonkey and as such has certain responsibilities to his puppeteers. He knows that his daughter is still in high school, that Hellstrom has a career to launch and it's not like Colleen can sit around and wait for her man to come back as though he were off fighting some war.

Bottom line: Adult times call for adult decisions. Rock stars must leave their kiddie porn behind. Is Hellstrom prepared to make the difficult decisions?

"I know we didn't expect I'd suddenly have a music career. But it shouldn't matter to Colleen. I'm not dumping her," Hellstrom squawked, and then, frightfully aware of who he was speaking with, asked if it was Pa Carlton's desire that he stop seeing the little girl.

Oh Lord, no! That's not what Carlton wants. Not yet. What he wants is to protect his daughter's heart from being broken again. He wants to serve his time in Hell and rid himself of the guilt he has of being an absentee father. He wants a guarantee that Colleen can have what she wants when she wants it. So no, breaking up would be hard to do. But can Hellstrom prove he's not going to leave the little girl along the wayside?

The hunkmonkey thought for a moment. "Gee Mr. Carlton, they're throwing a party for me in Los Angeles next week. What if I take Colleen with me? Won't that prove my worthiness? What happens when I'm out on a world tour about a month from now? Why, Colleen will go with me. She can do like I do. Put her education on hold until she decides to complete it. I'm sure Walnut Grove Academy won't mind. Maybe you could put in a good work with the headmaster for her. What about it Mr. Carlton? Can Colleen go with me? Can she please with sugar on top?" Hellstrom did not exactly say, but you get the drift.

And so it came to pass that Carlton granted the hunkmonkey's wish - with one caveat. As a parent anxious to protect his daughter from life's cold realities he will tag along.

"Shucks Mr. Carlton. You are just the best. Boy, I sure hope the day comes when I can marry Colleen because better than having sex with her will be the fact that you are my father-in-law," you could only imagine Hellstrom say as he actually said, "I'll have my people take care of it."

In a rush to attend a business meeting, Carlton asked Hellstrom if he'd wait at the Carlton residence until Colleen showed up so that he could tell her about the trip. Hellstrom said, "you bet I will" and then, as an afterthought and with such matters of great importance in the air, Carlton told the hunkmonkey to remind Colleen of the upcoming Mother's Day Brunch.

If you didn't already know that the minds of the elite in Genoa City run on the strangest tracks, you might think that notice of the MDB would have been posted on the refrigerator and not something a concerned parent - a supposedly male parent at that - mentions in passing.

But maybe you don't care about any of this. Who cares about hunkmonkeys and their jail bait girlfriends anyway? Let the snarling high school kids and the cute rock stars writhe around in their sad troughs of ignorance. Just so many cute self-delusional moths gnawing musty old socks in the closet of true awareness, you might add before it hit you.

Didn't Hellstrom say that he's going to L.A. and was waiting at the Carlton home to tell Colleen she could go with him?

Why then was it that sad sack Carlton acted like she didn't know about the trip until Hellstrom's main puppet master told her? Go to the videotape. See? There's Colleen and the woman known only as Shiloh having a chat. Shiloh flew all the way back to Genoa City just to tell Hellstrom in person about the party. Listen closely. Hear Shiloh ask if Hellstrom had told Colleen should could go with him?

"That's what he told me," Carlton said.

So when, you might ask, did Hellstrom tell Carlton if he's still waiting for her at the Carlton home? And why, you might also ask, would a dipstick like Carlton ask Shiloh if she has "feelings" for Hellstrom? Doesn't everybody? Doesn't Raul Guittierez wish he could get into the hunkmonkey's Jockeys? Better yet. Why does a nitwit ask a total stranger whose last name she hasn't bothered to ask about if she'd like her to breakup with Hellstrom?

To leave no doubt that vigilance is mandatory when listening to these blackheads babble, when Carlton returned home it was only then that the hunkmonkey told Carlton she was going on the trip.

Beyond the believability that Hellstrom could ever become more than Billy Abbott's or Raul Guittierez's sex partner, that Carlton can charge airline fares and expensive lattes to her father's credit card, that she'd have any interest whatsoever in attending the Mother's Day Brunch, one thing is certain. The end is near for these two unadulterated scary kids. Blasts of fresh happy love won't be unleashed anew no matter how much chaperoning Brad Carlton does. Horror is nigh. Colleen and J.T. are but a rapidly fading blip on Genoa City radar. Just do it already. End the farce so that we can move on to the next sad and dysfunctional couple. Stop making breakups so hard to do.

Gutless, Carlton can't tell the truth
February 4, 2004

So then about a year ago former hedge clipper/pool boy/retired hunkmonkey Brad Carlton tried making a come back as the hunk "women of color" couldn't resist. Desperate for any man and always whining how her last man had cheated on her and what a disgusting rat Malcolm Winters and that Nate Hastings before him were, Olivia Winters began sucking around Carlton when she learned that her best friend and husband were having marital troubles and eventually got him into bed.

Winters' dream of having the white boy as her own was shattered when Carlton went back to his pregnant wife. He promised that whatever had been between himself and Winters was over and would never happen again. As if God had lit a fire under her ass and had personally told the bitch she'd rot in hell, Winters appeared at that instant to tell Ashley Carlton she was sorry for having slept with Brad and begged forgiveness. Incredibly, after what Winters and her evil sister had done to her, Ashley forgave everyone involved. Everything old was new again.

For all the struggling there remained the problem of who sired Ashley's first baby and whether Victor Newman should be told that she had stolen his sperm. Because too many lives would be affected it was decided the secret would stay under wraps.

And then Ashley's new baby died. And then Ashley went into a psychotic state.

Since then Brad has changed his mind about telling Newman more times than babies change diapers. And as a new week got underway he changed it again. This time his plan was to let the cat out of the bag as the shockingly nefarious Ashley can only be cured by Newman and by telling Newman the truth might speed up the process. Try as he might, Brad couldn't get the words out.

The calluses on his hands from working Ashley's remote puppet strings gnarled, Newman, with that thin-lipped sneer that makes babies cry and women wince and cosmetics companies crumble, went to the Carlton home to do what he does. Manipulate Ashley's mind.

Ashley began bawling and said she couldn't understand why, after all this time, she was still crying over a dead baby. But then again she wasn't sure about much of anything given how she's so confused.

In his best mumble Newman told the whimpering woman to get a grip. She's depressed and running away from her troubles. Ashley admitted, "it's like I've been in a fog" and then dismissed the great man as he moved closer to her ruse.

Pleased to see that his wife was smiling for the first time in weeks Brad puked green chunks of verbal bile all over the carpet. "It's a love that comes from my soul," he actually said of his concern for Ashley which was just so damn sickening considering his fling with another woman.

And because this nonsense has been going on so long and you might be asking when will it end, it can only end when Ashley springs the trap she's set to get Victor back into her life. This, of course, will cause Brad to breakout in warts and could send him back to Olivia who still wants him so bad she can taste the sweat in his armpits.

In the process another wall will be built between Victor and his wife, Nikki. The woman he keeps saying is his destiny won't like her husband spending so much time with another woman's child which will only serve as a reminder of Victor's undying love for Ashley. Painful as it is, when you think about it, this is a skewed version of the Brad/Traci/Colleen story except that Traci knew that getting rid of Brad was the best thing she's ever done.

There is no nobility, no honor and no point in feeling sorry for Ashley. She stole Victor's sperm and should be made to live with the consequence. Brad should get off his ass and have her committed before she screws everyone. A few years in a nut house might do her good.

There are far more pressing issues to care about than Ashley's fragile mental state. Have Carlton and Newman forgotten they've got a cosmetics war to run? Prison time to avoid? Back-stabbing sons squatting on the empire? So Ashley's got a problem. Everyone has problems but as a rule don't withdraw from the world. Those that do are institutionalized.

Which of course makes it no less stupid, no less of a brutal blood rush. Ashley's head game is a sympathy-supported one played solely for the sake of ... what? To make Victor end another marriage? Is this the thrill she got from killing something that never had a prayer? Is that it, Ashley? Is that why you squeezed your fat belly behind the wheel of the SUV that day? Must be.

And, finally, there is the patented Brad soothing method, wherein he makes a little gun shape with his thumb and index finger and sits back and aims at his head and shouts "Bang!" and someone smashes Ashley in the head with a baseball bat. Same difference, really.

It's not a big deal. It's just Ashley being Ashley. How many times will she play this scenario until someone catches on? Except here, here in the land of the obvious, where you simply cannot help but vomit on Ashley's little mind-set, this numbly violent attitude of - I'll just pretend to be spaced out until I get what I want when all she is rather heartless and inhumane and small - will likely work for something like the next two years.

Which is to say, this is what we're up against. This is yet another perfect example of the Genoa City agenda. Because it is, in the final analysis, all about how the rich and powerful in Genoa City approach and engage the world. It is all about with what degree of sadness and disgust these people walk the streets, treading lightly or stomping heavily, in awe of the interconnectedness working to crush the young and the restless for profit and hollow thrill.

The elite see the world as their personal blood-sport playground, where they can take anything they want, kill whomever the like, suffer no ramifications, and do it all on someone else's dime.