Your Boss demands: "What happens next?"
There's no union to protect you. If this guy points at you some muscle will lean on you until you are dead.
So you tell him. You make it up of course. You use the brain you've got and hope to hell it's better than the Boss' and your luck holds.
And the Boss says: "How do you know that?"
So you make up some rigmarole to explain it which so befuddles the Boss that he doesn't send the muscle after you. Yet.
98 times out of a hundred it blows up in your faces. If your Boss survives he sends the muscle and you don't. If the Boss doesn't survive you have to find a new Boss before you starve.
One time out of a hundred the Boss drops dead before you find out. His heir could give a shit about that. He wants to know: "What happens Next?"
One time out of a hundred it all works out just like you said. The Boss shoves rubies and emeralds into all your available orifices.
Life is sweet.
You now have enough to establish a following. Enough: stature, money, chutzpah, moxie, or what ever it takes.
Syncophants gather around you. You can provide the means to, if not actual, careers. They challenge you. You respond. They pick you apart. You whup them.
Maybe they win. Maybe you do.
Doesn't really matter. History (as written by those in need of a justification for the Boss) names you a founder. A system exits because you picked the answer that panned out in the near term. And worked damn hard to keep the other SOBs from claiming it.
Many generations later we venerate you. Oh great and glorious moral philosophe.
Without you, a different industry would exist.
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