Hey, I jist figgered this out!

Ol' Bobert's gonna git hisself a big ol' white house, kinda like that one in DeeCee, but in the Shenandoah Valley. He'll sit on the porch, a-sippin' juleps an' bourbon an' branch, and ever' coupla days the mailman'll bring him another one of them seven figger checks.

Bobert'll cash the check and buy some more property an' fix it up. Pritty soon, he'll own 'most everything in the Valley, an' then he'll start oppressin' folks. Raisin' the rents, evictin' them that can't pay, waterin' the workers' beer. After a few years the wretched of the Earth will revolt. The Shenandoah Valley will be ablaze with revolution; Naked Creek with run red with the blood of Bobert's overseers an' lackeys an' lickspittles an' brownnosers an' toadies. Mobs armed with pitchforks an' torches will move onto the Big House (as it'll be called), shouting things like "Kill the monster!" an' "Sic semper tyrannis!" and "Workers of the World, Unite!"

Ol' Bobert'll be on the porch dressed in overalls an' a busted-down straw hat, strummin' his guitar, when the mobs arrive. They'll pass by him, thinkin' he's just one of them, lookin' for Bobert. Not findin' him (and after eatin' all the P-Vine's cookies), they'll start a barbecue and ask Ol' Bobert to play a bit for it. Somebody'll drag out Bobert's beer, an' a party will start. By the next mornin' they'll have figgered out the name of the guitar picker, but everybody will have had such a good time nobody'll care. An' Bobert'll go back to oppressin' the masses, but this time everybody'll know what a good guy he is, revolution will be stifled, Winchester'll still export apples to DeeCee, and everybody'll be happy.

That boy Bobert, he's some smart dude.