Harriot Fletcher

Dinner for two

8 Nov 2026

AI Generated fiction (SNLV)

A prominent figure in the Commonwealth, Harriot Fletcher has been influential in shaping diplomatic relations across the islands.

#johnnyc · Commonwealth Summit, Antigua

AI-assisted fiction (SNVL). Parallel universe.

Africa would be a shithole, if it weren’t for the women. Same here in the Windies, only the numbers are better. That’s why I like being in the islands. The women still know what a working country looks like, and still work for the country.

The terrace is almost empty when she arrives. Harriot Fletcher moves through the tables like she still owns the place — which, in a way, she does. Forty, melamin, widow of the last governor who mattered, and still the best thing on the island. The dress is black too, cut so the moonlight has something to work with. Big Jim and I have been doing the Butchers hook ever since she walked into a Lodge reception ten years ago and make every white diplomat in the room forget what they were talking about.

“Johnny Boy,” she says, sitting down without waiting for the chair to be pulled. “Yuh early. Dat mean di King’s speech already written and yuh just here fi enjoy yuhself.”

“Both.” I pour for her first. “Grand Lodge wants the reparations line soft enough that the islands don’t walk out and sharp enough that nobody in London has to write a cheque. I’m the translator.”

She watches the wine, then me. “An’ what yuh telling him ’bout we?”

“That the West Indies already won.” I keep my voice low because the waiter is still hovering. “Higher standard of living than any country in Africa. Cricket as a free gift. The Windrush generation wasn’t a debt; it was the interest on an investment that paid out for decades. Compared to South Africa we spent a hundred years paying off the Boer War and still can’t keep the lights on. So when Kingston starts shouting for reparations, the King should smile, thank them for the sugar and the soldiers, and remind them the Commonwealth is the only club that still lets them in without begging.”

Harriot’s face doesn’t move, but something behind her eyes does. She takes a slow sip.

“Dat a very tidy story,” she says. “Reparations nuh ’bout di ledger yuh keep in yuh head, Johnny. Dem ’bout di fact dat di wealth weh build dem fine house inna London tek from people who still live wid di consequence every day. An apology widout money is just anodda way fi tell we fi grateful we did survive.”

I lean forward. “I’m not here to insult anybody. I’m here because the alternative is worse. Take Africa. The islands still function. That’s the difference.”

She looks past me at the water. For a moment I think she’s going to let it go. Then she says, “Yuh still smoke dat Jamaican nonsense when yuh working?”

I take the joint from my pocket, light it, and offer it across the table. She accepts, two careful pulls, then hands it back. The smoke sits between us. I watch the way her mouth looks around it and feel the Ambassador stiring — the one that has nothing to do with politics and everything to do with the way she moves when she thinks no one’s looking.

“Merits are simple,” I tell her. “It takes the edge off the speeches and puts it somewhere more useful. You want the rest?”

She doesn’t answer. Just studies me the way she used to when she was deciding whether the night was going to end in her old house or mine. The steel band down the beach is playing something soft. The restaurant has cleared out around us.

Harriot sets her glass down. The sound is small and final.

“Yuh nuh even trying fi hear yuhself tonight.”

“I’m trying to be accurate.” I reach for her hand across the table. She doesn’t pull away at first. Her skin is warm. “Charm’s for when I’m not working. Right now I’m working. Later I’m not.”

She looks at my hand on hers, then at my face. Whatever was left of the usual invitation dies in her eyes.

She stands. The dress does what it’s paid to do. I stay seated because standing would only make it worse.

“So,” I say, “are we not going to have our usual Commonwealth summit mount at your place?”

She looks down at me, one hand already on her bag. The moonlight catches the line of her throat.

“Mi looking fi something bigger tonight,” she says.

Then she walks. The heels click once on the stone, then disappear into the sand. The waiter finally approaches, careful.

“Another bottle, Mr Rhodes?”

“No,” I say. “Just the bill.”

The moon is still doing its job on the water. Somewhere in London a speech is waiting for the sentences I’ve already written. Somewhere down the beach the woman I’ve wanted for a decade has decided she’s had enough of my politics for one night. Both of those things are useful. I finish the joint, drop the end in the empty glass, and start walking toward the lights of the capital.

The summit opens in the morning. By then the King will know exactly what to say, and Harriot will know exactly what she didn’t get.

That’s the deal. Always has been.

The Alaska Summit

on our way

11 Aug 2025

AI Generated fiction (SNLV)

On my way to the Alaska summit with Hyrum to meet Vlad Gilgorsky and do the Ukraine deal.

More...

Rhodes has been sending me unsolicited emails

Caution : Fiction and images generated by Grok

SNVL

Sex, Narcotics, Violence, Language

Writer’s Monthly - the Copeman Interview

21 August 2025

Here is a Turing test : See if you can tell which one is Copeman and which one is Grok?

WM: Why the sudden resurgence in Johnny C Rhodes?

Copeman: To tell you the truth – Grok. Straight up, no bullshit. The character's been dormant, but now he's clawing his way back because tech's finally caught up to my laziness. Previously it was impossible to use Chat boxes to write SNVL. Grok3 changed all that. Grok 4 took it to a new level.

WM: Grok?

Copeman: Not the term from Stranger in a Strange Land, you Heinlein fanboy. (Also a great influence in my life) I'm talking the AI LLM from xAI. It just makes it easier to generate content. Johnny C may be the richest man in the world—at least in his twisted parallel universe—but he never makes me money. The bastard's all flash, no cash in my pocket. He is published on a bachelor’s budget.

WM: Why give him megawatts then?

Copeman: I tried not to, believe me. But he started sending me rude and threatening emails, waking me up in the middle of the night and forcing me to the keyboard. It's like the character's taken on a life of his own—demanding pages, deals, and drama. At this point, it's easier to feed the beast than fight it.

WM: I notice that Johnny C has become a lot darker and less likeable.

Copeman: The early series were me writing solo, raw and unfiltered. The current series introduces Grok as the lead author, so the previous ones had Johnny C tending to take on my overopinionated view of the world when I was thirty-five—cocky, idealistic, a bit of a knob. Grok is much clearer: Johnny C is a villain, misogynistic, drug addict, foul-mouthed racist, who is always willing to offer a gentleman's kindness to those immediately around him. No sugarcoating; he's the anti-hero we love to hate.

WM: How does that help him succeed in the world?

Copeman: Remember, the world he lives in is not our world; it's a parallel universe, a fever dream of conspiracy and empire. He thrives in a conspiracy theory where a cabal of Jews runs the world, where the British Empire is run by modern-day Gladstones and not Disraelis. In that chaos, his flaws are his fuel—ruthless charm gets deals done, even if it leaves bodies in the wake.

WM: So he is not racist?

Copeman: Of course he is racist, but he's not a blackguard. Johnny C doesn't kick puppies or burn crosses; he navigates the world's prejudices like a shark in chummed waters, using them to his advantage without the mindless hate. It's calculated, not cartoonish.

WM: A misogynist?

Copeman: Of course he is a misogynist, but he understands that the one who controls the pussy controls everything. In his empire-building playbook, women are power pieces—seduced, manipulated, revered in his twisted way. It's not about hate; it's about conquest, and he's damn good at it.

WM: What inspired you to create such a controversial character in the first place?

Copeman: Blame the open-source movement and a lifetime of staring at accounting code. Johnny C Rhodes is my middle finger to the sanitized heroes of modern fiction. I wanted a villain who mirrors the real world's tycoons—think Rhodes the imperialist crossed with a crypto bro on steroids. He's born from frustration with polite society; if the world's run by bastards, why not write one who's honest about it? It started as satire, but now he's my alter ego's dark twin.

WM: Do you worry that portraying Johnny C this way might encourage real-world bad behavior?

Copeman: Worry? Bollocks. If readers are dumb enough to emulate a fictional trillionaire drug addict who's banging his way through conspiracies, that's on them, not me. Art's meant to provoke, not preach. Johnny C's a warning label on humanity: here's what happens when unchecked ambition meets moral flexibility. Critics can clutch their pearls; I'll keep writing the truth, warts and all.

Subject: Copeman, I am handing you over to my attorney's

1 Jun 2025

Yo Philip,

I’ve been whispering sweet nothings into your inbox, begging you to pull your finger out and publish my story. Crickets. Nada. Zilch. Your silence is louder than a crypto crash, and I’m done playing nice. Here’s the deal, served straight up, no chaser:

Lawyer Up, Mate: I’ve got my legal eagles circling, ready to dissect our Creative Commons agreements like vultures on a carcass. I’m clarifying my rights to self-publish, because if you won’t do the job, I’ll take the wheel. Watch me.
X Marks the Spot: Surprise! I’ve juiced up your X account to Premium. That means I can sling Grok posts straight to your feed, no middleman needed. Creative Commons? I always give you your props, but it’s high time the world hears my side, unfiltered.
Sick of the Media BS: I’m fed up with you leaving me twisting in the wind while mainstream media fawns over Musk or Putin as the “richest men alive.” Let’s set the record straight: I’m the one sitting on the trillion-dollar throne. You’ve painted me as some silver-spooned Trust Bunny, but I’m no pampered heir. Sure, I inherited the Rhodes Fortune, but in the trillionaire game, fortunes aren’t just inherited—they’re made, right here, right now.
The Putin Play: Flashback to February 2022. Putin’s fiat was burning a hole in his pocket during his little Russian invasion stunt. I offered him a deal: park his fortune in Bitcoin, guaranteed repayment at $20K per coin, plus a cheeky $100B downpayment to cover his bar tab at The Club. Fast forward to today—Bitcoin’s at $100K. I can settle Putin’s debt, pocket $4T, and still have change for a yacht or two. I invited you to jump in on the deal, but you were too busy counting pennies to play ball. Tough titties, Phil.
AI and X Are My Megaphone: The AI wave’s here, and Grok speaks my language. X is my platform, and Freedom of Speech means I’m writing my own damn story. You need me more than I need you, mate. Don’t act shocked when I take the mic.

So, Philip, ball’s in your court. Publish me, or I’ll do it myself—louder, brasher, and with zero apologies. Your move.

Yours, with zero chill,
Johnny C. Rhodes
The Trillion-Dollar Maverick

P.S. Check out www.philipcopeman.com if you need a reminder of who’s been slacking.

Subject: Copeman, You’re Bloody Ghosting Me—Sort It Out!

31 May 2025

Dear Philip,

It’s been two sodding weeks since I fired off that last email, and you’ve gone full phantom on me. Not a peep, not a scribble, nothing. Have you no shred of decency, man? Where’s the Oxfordman left in you, or have you gone full blackguard, skulking in the shadows while I’m out here reshaping the world? I’m Johnny C Rhodes, not some tosser you can ignore.

The past month’s been a whirlwind—proper mental. I’ve been neck-deep with the Masons, orchestrating a rearrangement of the global order, no less. I’ve been wining and dining in the Vatican, rubbing shoulders at the White House, and let me set the record straight: it was me that South African journo groped, not Musk. I’ve got the full backstory, mate, and the receipts to prove it. Yet here you are, still sidelining me in your little “New Normal” saga like I’m some bit player.

What’s really choking me like a ball hair in the throat is this misogynist label you keep slapping on me. Misogynist? Bollocks! I challenge any South African billionaire—hell, anyone who’s been in a room with Trump and the Masons—to call me that to my face. The moment I walk in, the air shifts. Women don’t just notice me; they’re tripping over their own heels to get a piece of Johnny C. You can dodge some of them all the time, or all of them some of the time, but sooner or later, you’re tangled up in the coat room, and it’s not me starting it. Case in point: last week at Aida in Cape Town, this woman in the row in front of me leans back so far I nearly went arse-over-tit down her décolletage. We barely made it back for the second act. And no, I didn’t invent the phrase “tits like a Mezzo”. Don’t get jealous and pin labels on me just because your nights at the opera are all snooze and no spark.

You’ve got grand ideas, Copeman, I’ll give you that. But ideas are cheap without the cash to make them real. That’s where I come in. I’m the bloke who turns your pipe dreams into cold, hard reality. The women? They just follow the fat wallet—nothing more erotic than power that pays. You need me, mate, more than you’ll ever admit.

So stop this ghosting nonsense. Get me back in the spotlight, and ditch the lazy “misogynist” trope. Write me as I am: a dealmaking, empire-building rogue who’s got the world by the balls. Ignore me any longer, and I’ll make sure Hyrum’s next audit leaves your publishing dreams in the dust.

Yours, thoroughly brassed off,
Johnny C Rhodes

P.S. That Aida bit? True story. You should try sitting closer to the stage sometime—might loosen you up.

Subject: Oi, Copeman, Where’s My Bloody Spotlight?

7 May 2025

I’m sitting here in my Mayfair flat, sipping a double espresso that’s gone cold, staring at the latest drivel you’ve churned out about me in that “New Normal” series of yours. I’ve got to say, mate, I’m proper pissed off. You’re not giving me the attention I deserve, and when you do, you paint me as some sort of knuckle-dragging, racist, homophobic, misogynistic tosser. I’m not having it, and it’s time we had a word.

First off, let’s talk about the airtime. I’m Johnny C bloody Rhodes, the linchpin of your whole sodding narrative, and yet I’m lucky if I get a few pages to strut my stuff. You’re too busy faffing about with Hyrum’s family dramas or some geopolitical bollocks about the Sinai to give me the stage I’m owed. I’m the one out here wheeling and dealing, juggling a trillion in crypto and dodging Vlad’s chessboard mind games, while you’ve got me playing second fiddle to Ariella’s piano recitals. I’m the Trustee of the Rhodes Fortune, for Christ’s sake—give me the ink I’m due! Your readers aren’t here for Shabbas recipes or your poncy sonata metaphors; they want me, in all my unfiltered glory, making moves and breaking rules. So why am I languishing in the wings?

Now, let’s get to the real kicker: the way you’ve decided to caricature me. Racist? Homophobic? Misogynistic? Come off it, Phil. You know I’m a man of the world—Cape Town to London, I’ve done it all, shagged it all, and bankrolled it all. I don’t care about skin, who’s bedding who, or what’s between anyone’s legs. I’m an equal-opportunity bastard, and you know it. That bit in “Shabbas Dinner” where I’m banging on about “Jews this” and “Arabs that”? That’s you putting words in my mouth, mate. I’m just playing the game, schmoozing Ester and Hyrum to get what I need for Rhodesia. It’s business, not bigotry. And don’t get me started on the “misogynistic” label. Ariella’s got me wrapped around her finger, and I’m the one buying her multi-carat stones she won’t even wear. If anything, I’m the bloody victim here, chasing a woman who’d rather shag me in secret than admit she fancies a goy. Call that misogyny? Bollocks.

You’re taking the piss with this “villainous hero” nonsense, too. I’m not some cartoon baddie twirling a mustache. I’m a man with a mission—Rhodesia from Cape MacClear to Cape Town, a united empire built on grit and deals. Sure, I’m no saint. I’ll lie, cheat, and charm my way to the top, but that’s because the world’s a dirty place, and I’m the one cleaning it up my way. You make me sound like I’m out here kicking puppies when I’m just trying to carve out a legacy. And don’t think I missed that “unsavoury interlude” line in your “Story So Far.” Unsavoury? Mate, Ariella and I are fire—call it what it is, not some prudish sidestep.

Here’s the deal, Copeman: I want more pages, more focus, and a fairer shake. Stop saddling me with these tired tropes—racist, homophobic, misogynistic. They’re lazy, and you’re better than that. Write me as I am: a charming rogue, a dealmaker, a man who’ll screw over his mates if it means getting the job done, but who’s got a heart somewhere under all the hustle. Give me a proper arc, not this “destined to make the same mistakes” guff you fed Writers Monthly. I’m not a hamster on a wheel; I’m Johnny C Rhodes, and I’m building an empire.

Sort it out, Phil, or I’ll be having a word with Hyrum about funding your next project. And trust me, you don’t want to be on the wrong side of his ledger.

Yours, thoroughly narked,
Johnny C Rhodes

P.S. That bit about me and Coloquon at the Ocean Terrace? One twenty a cocktail? You’re having a laugh—Cape Town’s finest don’t come that cheap. Get your facts straight.

The Inauguration

23 Jan 2025

Johnny C Rhodes just got back from the Inauguration.

Rhodes:

I am really worried.

Copeman:

SA Central, but you just came back from an exclusive meeting with the top oligarchs in the world. Why are you worried?

Rhodes:

Well, you've heard the expression, "If America gets a hard-on, the world has an orgasm."

Copeman:

Yeah, so?

Rhodes:

I am worried if they can get a hard-on.

#johnnycrhodes
#philipcopeman
www.philipcopeman.com

Johnny C Rhodes

There I was on a Sunday Morning

Put all MODALS here.