It's 1890. You've just put your competitors in the Horse Slaughtering and Glue Rendering profession out of business. Your factory pumps black tar-like smoke into the lungs of the widows and orphans who managed to not get kicked out of the tenements you own. But on the bright side, only one youthful employee got his arm ripped off by an exposed belt in your factory this week.
That night, the Angel of Future Tragedy visits you, to show you visions.
1. Your precious child, now a full-grown man, blown to shreds driving a volunteer ambulance in the Argonne.
2. Your future grand-daughter, OD-ing in mid-lick of taint of one of her Weather Underground co-travellers.
3. Her son, your great-grandson, bragging about picking Aggy.
4. Finally, a bizarre vision of your great-great-granddaughter, for some reason chained like a Medieval doxy to some sort of ...road block? In a desolate wilderness?
Perhaps you'll wake up a changed man. Or maybe you'll just take what would have been someone's trust fund, and start spending it.