Written by Blake Hargreaves, age 33, Sydney, NSW – 18th May, 2025
Right. I dunno how to start this without sounding like a bloody lunatic, but here goes. My name's Blake, yeah? I'm just a regular bloke from Sydney. Not a genius, not a tosser either, just... y'know, average. Grew up near Bondi, did a bit of IT work, tried a travel vlog that flopped harder than a magpie on a windscreen. Anyway, last year I was travelling Europe on what was supposed to be a "soul-finding" journey. That's what my ex called it when she dumped me—"Go find yourself, Blake. You're lost." Ha. Right.
So I ended up in the bloody Faroe Islands. Ever heard of it? Looks like Iceland's weird cousin who reads too much Lovecraft. Moody skies, grass on rooftops, sheep giving you the stink eye. I was there for peace and quiet. Little did I know I was about to be used like a pawn in some rich bastard's private circus.
Here's how it went down:
I'd been wandering the coastline near Gjógv—beautiful spot, but the wind'll slap your soul out of your body. I came across this beach, untouched, just screaming serenity. So I threw down my jacket, took off my shoes, and lay down like I was hugging the earth.
Then this helicopter lands. Out comes a man with slicked-back hair and cheekbones that could slice a tomato. Behind him? A woman that looked like Aphrodite if she was raised in Miami—wearing a bikini that'd get banned in at least thirty countries. Stingray-shaped thing, barely hanging on. Trailing behind them were five or six girls who looked like they'd just been cut from a luxury yacht catalogue.
I thought it was some influencer shoot.
Turns out, I'd just trespassed on Bjarke Sørensen's private beach. He was a billionaire Danish-Faroese tech baron who had apparently booked the entire coastline for himself. Can you believe that? The entire. Bloody. Coastline.
He looked at me like I'd pissed on his marble floor. "Who is this?" he said, and not in a funny way.
I told him I was Aussie and didn't know any better, just wanted some sun. The guy raises an eyebrow, smirks, then mutters something to his wife in Danish. She laughed—honest to God, I think even her laugh had an accent. Bjarke offered me a deal. Said I could stay... but only if I played a "friendly" poker game with him that night at his estate.
Now look, I'd watched a lot of World Series Poker on late-night TV. But I never played seriously. Still, I was broke, jetlagged, and frankly, offended by how perfect his abs were at age fifty. So I agreed.
That night, I show up at his fortress—I mean mansion. Glass walls, fire pits, a bloody indoor waterfall, and a dining room where a six-foot swordfish hung from the ceiling like a chandelier. Girls giggling, cigars puffing, champagne pouring like tap water.
He handed me a contract. "Just legal nonsense," he said. "So the lawyers are happy."
Now I'm an idiot. I didn't read it. Just scribbled my name and sat down at the table with him, his bikini wife, and two guys in suits with blank expressions.
And mate—I played like my life depended on it.
At first I was a wreck. Hands shaking. My heartbeat was doing the Nutbush. The girls were lounging about, whispering in Danish, and I swear one of them winked every time I lost a hand.
But then something clicked. Maybe it was the red wine. Maybe it was Bjarke's smug smirk. Maybe I was possessed by the ghost of Steve Irwin, who knows. I started winning. Not just luck—clean plays. Bluffing like a bastard. Reading their tells. Sweating through my shirt but pretending I was chill.
Four hours in, it was just me and Bjarke.
He had a cigar in his teeth, fury in his eyes.
Last hand. I bluffed him. He went all in.
He lost.
And then the room went... quiet. Eerily quiet. He stood, shook my hand, and said, "Congratulations, Mister Hargreaves. You've just won the Sørensen Clause."
I blinked. "The what?"
His assistant came over with a tablet. Showed me the contract I signed.
Apparently, whoever beat him in poker would receive complete legal control of all his holdings, properties, business assets, and decision-making power for seven days.
I laughed. I thought it was a joke. A gimmick. A billionaire's ego trip.
But mate. It was real.
The next morning I had security, assistants, a private jet, two drivers, and a PR team. They addressed me as "Mr. Sørensen, acting."
So what did I do?
I went absolutely feral.
First, I gave all his staff a week off, full pay.
Then I fired a board member live on TikTok.
I redirected one of his offshore funds to pay off student loans for an entire university in Jakarta. (Still proud of that one.)
I chartered a ship, filled it with Danish street food, and floated it around coastal villages.
I changed the name of his AI company from "BjarkeTech" to "Hot Chook Data Inc."
Oh—and I let the sheep from the beach onto his golf course.
The man was livid. His lawyers called, his wife called (weirdly flirty), and his assistant begged me to stop dancing shirtless on social media.
But I didn't.
Because for once, I had power.
And I wanted him to feel what it was like when a regular bloke messed with his sacred order.
On the final day, I sent Bjarke a handwritten note:
> "Cheers for the ride. Next time, read your own contract. P.S. Your wife's got great taste in sunglasses."
I signed it with a smiley face.
Hopped on the next plane to Budapest.
Don't know if he's hunting me now. Don't care. For seven days, the universe turned upside down and handed me the wheel.
Was it ethical? No.
Do I regret it? Not a single bloody second.
That's all.
I just needed someone to know.
—Blake