Big John was rich and he knew it. He had worked very hard all his life and now he could enjoy the fruits of his honest labour. He owned three thousand acres of the very finest Somerset cider land. All in all he was worth about 3 million quid but it could have been so much more!

As Big John chewed on his tender piece of filet steak he couldn't resist rehearsing a favourite fantasy. If only he had bought his farm two years earlier he would be worth two or even three times that amount! Serious money indeed!
Quite strangely the previous owner of the farm had discovered a huge treasure of 17th century gold coins while digging for potatoes some thirty years ago. Some old pirate had buried all his ill-gotten gains on that small field and that wretched, smelly man had earned one million pounds in a few seconds! With a confident and mature grasp of the stock market he had trebled his money within several years. "What a lucky devil", thought Big John. "If only I had ignored my third wife's advice and bought the farm four years earlier we would be gloating right now and drooling over an immense wad."
coins
Just then Big John noticed that his vast mansion was eerily silent and he felt rather sad and bereft of friends. Brenda, his girlfriend of several months duration, had finally left him and returned to her family in Leeds. At least he had his bloodhounds and they would never leave him. Wheezing loudly he stubbed out his cigarette and walked out into the large courtyard outside the mansion. There was work to be done and a farm to be policed and protected from the numerous apple thieves who threatened his life and his livelihood.
Big John sauntered into the weapons section of the farm and selected a shot-gun. This was a moment in the day that he would always treasure. He had rights and one of those rights was the right to enjoy and defend his property. After all he had devoted forty hard years of his life to amassing his fortune . . .
. . . and now those wicked villains were stealing his Rosemary Russets!

What cheek!
Four bloodhounds and a shot-gun would serve John well in his enforcement of those inalienable rights. Slowly but surely the big farmer ambled his way around the estate. Everything seemed right with the world. His labourers were grafting with conspicuous diligence and his cows were mooing efficiently and then as he approached one of his favourite orchards on the south-west corner of his plantation he could hear ominous sounds of children laughing and playing with self-evident contempt for his property.
Suddenly he bellowed commands to his servile dogs and within seconds the hunt was on. "Go on, mine hounds terrify those who attack our rights and privileges!" The large bloodhounds did not need further encouragement as they charged enthusiastically in the direction of the evil intruders.

Two ten-year old lads had managed to climb over the fence and had already gorged on four excellent Sturmer Pippins while clearly sneering at Big John's sacred rights of property. Fortunately for them they both excelled in the 100 yard dash and they managed to run for the fence and climb over just in time. Big John was furious and discharged both barrels of his firearm into the fence as he swore furiously at both his dogs and the fleeing criminals.
"Haven't you heard about the ten commandments and the Lockean understanding of property you little monsters?" screamed the noble landowner.

"This is my land and I own it. It's mine and not yours. Keep your hands off my Pippins."

In his mad frenzy of fury and moral disdain Big John had neglected to notice that his heart was pounding with considerable pace and alacrity. Suddenly a searing chest pain convulsed him and he fell unconscious to the ground.

The bloodhounds licked him energetically but he did not regain consciousness.

Tragically no one attended his funeral.