04-05-2014, 04:31 PM
There comes a point in every man's life that he wants nothing but at least a couple of weeks of doing absolutely nothing. Every man realizes that at one point or another in his life and every man sets off on a life-changing quest of earning himself that couple of weeks of absolute rest. In this modern age and time, there happens to be one whole planet dedicated to satisfying such men and their needs and expectations. The one planet that belongs to absolutely no one and any man from any corner of the universe can have his pointless urge of being useless fulfilled there. That is, if he can afford his way in, which proves to be costy at times and keeps the less classy out of the moors and docks.
Some call the blue planet of Curacao a dreamland, some even go as far as calling it a paradise, but in reality the only difference it has to any other planet is that there are no tables there, and so there are no under-the-table deals. No one sticks their nose into anyone else's business, so a business is a business no matter how shady, immoral or destructive it may be. Some even say the hideous plan of bombardment of Cambridge originated from a drunken night of jazz and booze on this very same planet. True or not, that's what Curacao is - A richly disguised shady bar where deals are made, just in planet scale.
Of course, the sunny beaches and gorgeous waitresses, strippers and the assorted purchasable visual and physical pleasures in female form are considerable improvements over the stink of the filthy barcloth every bartender in every Junker or Zoner bar so constantly and persistently tries to clean the bar with, or the smell of stained oil oozing out of poorly-maintained service robots doing the same thing - often even better than - the suitably clothed, bathed and shaved staff on Curacao do. By the end of the day though, it doesn't matter how better the deals made on Curacao may look to an outsider compared to the deals made in a dimly-lit corner of a shady bar in one corner or another of the universe, because by the end of the day, the deals are all the same - Greedy, immoral and often with a reasonable portion of backstabbing involved.
Some call the blue planet of Curacao a dreamland, some even go as far as calling it a paradise, but in reality the only difference it has to any other planet is that there are no tables there, and so there are no under-the-table deals. No one sticks their nose into anyone else's business, so a business is a business no matter how shady, immoral or destructive it may be. Some even say the hideous plan of bombardment of Cambridge originated from a drunken night of jazz and booze on this very same planet. True or not, that's what Curacao is - A richly disguised shady bar where deals are made, just in planet scale.
Of course, the sunny beaches and gorgeous waitresses, strippers and the assorted purchasable visual and physical pleasures in female form are considerable improvements over the stink of the filthy barcloth every bartender in every Junker or Zoner bar so constantly and persistently tries to clean the bar with, or the smell of stained oil oozing out of poorly-maintained service robots doing the same thing - often even better than - the suitably clothed, bathed and shaved staff on Curacao do. By the end of the day though, it doesn't matter how better the deals made on Curacao may look to an outsider compared to the deals made in a dimly-lit corner of a shady bar in one corner or another of the universe, because by the end of the day, the deals are all the same - Greedy, immoral and often with a reasonable portion of backstabbing involved.