Robbie's youthful dreams seemed to die that day. Little did he know, they would reawaken and blossom in ways he had never imagined. He soon learned that he had been mistaken. Publishing was in his blood after all.
In his first year with the paper, he moved ruthlessly through upper management, cutting overhead, staff and salaries. He expanded advertising space, increasing ad revenues. At the same time he expanded circulation into neighboring towns. The paper thrived.
Watching all that his son had accomplished in one short year, Robbie's father even began to proudly boast that when his boy pricked a finger he bled black ink.
In two years he succeeded his father as publisher. He immediately encouraged his people to print sensationalistic stories. The more lurid, the better.
Sex sold. Robbie stuck a half-naked woman on page 3.
Murder sold. Headlines like BRISBANE BLOODBATH! and MASSACRE IN MELBOURNE! soon replaced the more subdued front-page stories of his father's reign.
"You're embarrassing the family," his father accused on a rare latter-day visit to the bustling city room. By then he was stooped with age. Although he hadn't worked at the newspaper for several years, the ol' man's fingertips were still stained a faint blue.
"I'm selling papers," Robbie had replied.
"You're selling your dignity."
Robbie had scowled. The expression came easy to him now. Gone forever was the easy, winning smile of the young man who had returned from college in England so full of hope and so eager to see the world.
"Dignity ain't worth spit," Robbie snarled. "All I know is my fingers are clean and I don't have a hump like some dago bell ringer. Now get outta my newspaper."
His father died that same night.
PUBLISHER'S POP PASSES! blared the next day's headline. To honor the late MacGulry patriarch, the page 3 girl of the day wore a black bikini.
After a few years of regional success Robbie had rolled the dice on the notion that his tabloid style would play somewhere other than Wagga Wagga. He used his life's savings to finance Australia's first real national newspaper.
The risk paid off. The new paper soared to new publishing heights on wings of blood and mayhem. Now hugely successful on a national scale, Robbie MacGulry turned his gaze to where it hadn't been in more than fifteen years. The outside world.
Back home in Australia MacGulry had always had a winning hand in all his business dealings. But his luck ran out when in 1974 he tried to purchase the sedate London Sun.
MacGuhy's reputation as a tabloid publisher had preceded him to England. During their very first meeting, the stuffy old British family that owned the newspaper flat-out refused to sell.
Robbie's Australian paper had a London bureau. A flat nearby was kept year-round for his business trips to England. He returned to the apartment after his humiliating rejection by the London Sun owners.
MacGulry was slamming his apartment door shut when the telephone rang. He grabbed the receiver angrily.
"What?" he demanded.
"Hello, Robbie."
It was a calm male voice. Although the caller spoke English with a bland American accent, there was no regional dialect. MacGulry's tan face puckered.
"Who the hell is this? How did you get this number?"
"I'm someone you need, Robbie," the smooth voice explained. "And I'm someone who needs you. I've been looking into the publishing field. Most times it's a losing proposition. But you seem to have found a way to make money. You have an impressive knack for business. I believe we're kindred spirits."
The guy sounded like a kook. MacGulry's brow lowered. "You didn't answer either of my questions," he said.
"I appreciate your directness. I have your telephone number because I have access to virtually anything computer related. Your unlisted number is just such a thing. As for your first question, my name is Friend."
"All right, mate. What do you want?"
"Not mate, Friend," Friend had explained. "In the uppercase. People like friends. Friendship establishes a trust in business. If we're to be partners, I'd appreciate it if you made an effort to use my proper name, Robbie."
"Listen, Jacko," MacGulry growled, "I don't know you, you are not my friend, and I sure as hell am not doing business with you. Call this number again, and you'll be making friends in a prison shower."
He slammed down the phone.
An hour later the phone rang again. It was his accountant back in Australia.
"They're falling!" the man exclaimed. The accountant was English. MacGulry liked servile Englishmen in his employ. However, he didn't like it when they were blubbering into the receiver like war widows, which this one was doing.
"What are you talking about?" MacGulry demanded.
"Your stocks!" the English accountant said. "You'll be ruined! We've got to sell now, before it's too late!"
MacGulry didn't believe it. He was too diversified to be ruined in a single day-not without a worldwide crash. Rather than take his accountant's word for it, he checked for himself. In the ten minutes it took him to do so, he was broke.
Robbie couldn't believe it. It was impossible. It was as if some demon force had targeted his personal portfolio. Everything he had worked for all his life was gone. The newspapers would have to be sold off to cover the losses. Ken "Robbie" MacGulry was penniless.
The shock of sudden poverty hadn't even begun to sink in when the phone in his small London apartment rang once more. He grabbed the receiver desperately, hoping his accountant had some good news on this blackest of days.
"Can we talk now, Robbie?" asked Friend's smooth voice.
MacGulry moaned, pressing a hand over his eyes. "If you're still looking to get into business with me, forget it. I'm broke."
"Yes," Friend said with deep sadness. "It's unfortunate that I had to go to such lengths to get your attention. It would have been so much easier if you'd just listened to me to begin with."
MacGulry found a chair. Swallowing hard-trembling with fear and rage-he sank into it.
"You did this to me?" he hissed.
"You wouldn't listen to my proposal," Friend said in that damnably reasonable tone.
"You cost me millions," MacGulry menaced.
"But, Robbie, I can make you billions."
The promise was ridiculous. But there weren't very many options open to him that miserable afternoon. Gritting his teeth, Robbie MacGulry had gotten into bed with the faceless man who had ruined him.
He was amazed at how fast his bad luck turned around. By massaging the stock market, Friend covered MacGulry's losses the very next day.
When Friend learned of Robbie's difficulty with the owners of the London Sun, he took prompt action. The family's eldest son apparently had a sexual appetite that involved the occasional dead prostitute. Robbie never really knew how Friend found that out. Something about hotel room credit card records and two traffic violations in the vicinity of two separate murders. A little blackmail and a lot of money got Robbie MacGulry the Sun. It turned tabloid the next day. The first lead story of the new paper, LORD OF THE RAPES! told in lurid detail the story of the previous owner's son. "That'll teach you for playin' hardball with goddamn me," MacGulry had crowed.
The next fifteen years of Robbie's life brought him to a succession of dizzying highs. Newspapers led to magazines led to publishing houses. The acquisition of Vox film studios and the creation of the fourth American television network was the culmination of years of work.