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"200 Million Dollars" (the twenty-eighth ACWclub monthly writing contest) |
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Assignment: Write a story or poem using the following title: "200 Million Dollars" 2500 words or less. Deadline: Midnight (DST), December 15, 2003 All entries are the property of the authors and cannot be copied or reprinted without their consent. |
| 200 Million Dollars by lee10@host365.com (Entry #3) |
| ~Winning Entry~ |
| George’s face filled the
Screen, six feet high by six feet wide. His pores looked like anaemic orange
peel, the pale grey of fear. His wife Claudia noted he’d squeezed some
blackheads. In the oily shade by the side of his nose, the skin was red and
angry. George squinted at the camera. "Why does the boy always look gormless?" his grandmother enquired. Her sharp voice was unsympathetic. "Shurrup, Mother. We wanna watch George, not listen to your whining." Eric’s eyes never left the Screen that hung on their living room wall. "He’s our passport out of this hell-hole." "What good’s that lad of yours ever done?" the old woman sneered. "You don’t think he’ll win, do you? More fool you if you do. No, we’re stuck here forever, thanks to that pathetic father of yours. You and the boy take after him. No backbone, any of you." "Mother, belt up, " snarled Eric, "or I’ll give you a thick lip." She shut up. It was Wednesday. George’s family watched the Screen, waiting for the game show to start. The door to the street led directly into the room. Under the door, a strong draught carried the smell of the open drain that ran the length of the road. George’s grandmother, Doreen, sat in the only easy chair, its seat rubbed to a shiny gloss by her backside over many decades. It sagged and dust was thick along the back cushion. "It was the only thing your miserable granddad left me. It’s mine," she’d once told George. "So keep out of it." George’s father, Eric, had taken possession of the only other seat with a back. George’s mother, Sylvia sat next to Claudia on a wooden bench. The state-of-the-art, state-sponsored Screen was the only electrical appliance in the house that worked without fail. The house was as down-at-heel as everything and everyone in it. It was one of thousands of such houses in the city’s Workers’ Ghetto. The family desperately wanted to escape to The Hill, where it was rumoured there was an indoor toilet in every house, but they could not afford to buy their way out of the Ghetto. George hadn’t returned home from work on Monday. Eric had been delighted, hoping that meant he’d been picked up by the game show’s press gang that plucked the week’s players off the streets. "Yes!" he’d shouted and punched the air when a personal message on the Screen told them "their loved-one had been selected to Play the Game on Wednesday." There was only one game on the Screen. It was a game from which George might not return. Faint, Sylvia had reached for Doreen’s chair. A slap across the face brought her round. "That’s my chair. Do your fainting somewhere else," her mother-in-law had shouted. George’s face faded, replaced by that of another man, a wispy, grey beard sparse on his cheeks and chin. His breathing was rapid but like a rabbit in thrall to a stoat, he was otherwise motionless. The camera drew back to bring the studio into view. The two men sat uneasily on high stools, facing each other across a blue-carpeted floor. Each held a black box with a cable that disappeared into curtains at the side of the studio. The name of the show was written in tall red letters on the wall behind them. HOW TOUGH ARE YOU? it screamed at the nation. "And now," a voice boomed from the Screen, "your Master of Ceremonies for tonight’s How Tough Are You……Mister…. Freddy…. Nightmare." Freddy Nightmare bounded onto the stage before the last drawled out syllable of his name had faded, all gleaming teeth and glinting jewellery. "Do you think George’ll be alright?" Sylvia whimpered. No one heard her above the discords of pre-recorded screams and canned applause that flooded the studio. The M.C. bowed. "Thank you friends, thank you," he grinned at the camera through falsely perfect teeth, allowing the uproar to continue for a few seconds more. He held up his hands. All sound ceased. The game was about to begin. "Ladies and Gentlemen," Nightmare shouted. "Let me introduce you to tonight’s contestants. "On my right," he gestured towards George, "is George Latham." Claudia squealed and clapped her hands. "Stupid cow," Doreen muttered. No one responded to her venom. "And George’s opponent this evening," Nightmare continued, "is Howard Hopwood. Let’s hear it for the contestants." Canned applause swept from the Screen. Nightmare strolled across the stage to stand behind a podium. He picked up a gold envelope. The applause trickled away and was replaced by a drumroll, which faded as Nightmare opened the envelope and withdrew a sheet of paper. "And now, ladies and gentlemen….we have…," Nightmare waved the paper dramatically, "The Question." George looked sick and frightened. Howard held tight to the edge of his stool, swaying slightly. Nightmare’s smile disappeared. "Let me run through the rules for the Show’s first part." His voice took on a serious tone. I will ask…The Question. Each contestant has a buzzer. The first correct answer wins and the contestant gets a chance to play…The Game." The pre-recorded applause and stamping of feet continued for a while. Nightmare cut the air with his hand. The sound stopped. "Regretfully then, we will have to lose the other contestant, so let us show our appreciation for him now." There was a quick burst of applause. "Of course," Nightmare laughed, "we may not lose him entirely, just bits of him." The two stunned contestants were bombarded with hoots of laughter. "Gentlemen, are you ready?" Nightmare asked. George nodded. Howard swallowed and blinked. Nightmare took that as a ‘yes’. He looked down at the paper and read, "And The Question is…and make sure your fingers are on your buzzers, gentlemen…The Question is…," he raised his voice. "What is the tenth month of the year?" Neither contestant spoke. The silence seemed to stretch towards infinity. "Er…" George managed. "See. Told you he’s stupid," Doreen crowed. Eric caught her face with a backhand swipe. "I told you to keep quite," he snarled. "October," Sylvia whispered. "Tell him October." "October" George blurted hesitantly. "The buzzer, fool," Claudia squealed. George waved the box towards Nightmare and pressed the buzzer. "October", he shouted. "October." Lights flashed, bells rang and Howard Hopwood fell off his chair. He lay on the carpet, curled as though asleep. Two men dressed in black uniforms dragged him from the stage. "Well done, George," Nightmare shouted above the noise. "Ladies and gentlemen, tonight, after a few words from our President, George Latham will play …The Game." The Screen was filled by a close up of an elderly, gently smiling, grey-haired man who looked over the top of his glasses and spoke to the nation. The four members of George’s family jumped up, howling and hugging each other, all animosity forgotten for the moment; the President’s speech unnoticed. The intermission over, Nightmare’s voice oozing from the Screen brought them back to reality. "Dirty old man," Doreen hissed. Eric stopped kissing Claudia who sat down on the bench, tugging her short skirt down. Sylvia glared at her daughter-in-law, then sat down to listen to Nightmare. "Tonight," he was saying, "we are going to test how tough our contestant…Mr.George Latham…really is. George, are you ready? "I, er…" "George, are you tough?" "Um, er…" "Great. Great. George, the top prize of Five Hundred Million Dollars is yours. All you have to do is to pull that lever." Nightmare pointed to the centre of the stage. A thick electricity cable ran from the back of the box from which the level protruded. "Can you, George, pull that lever?" Nightmare knelt on one knee by the lever. "Of course, if you do," he drew the flat of his hand across his throat, "it’s curtains for poor Howard." Sylvia gasped as a shot of Howard was shown. He was kneeling in a dimly lit room, his head on a block. Above his neck, a guillotine was suspended. A stray beam of light briefly twinkled on its sharp edge. A burly, black-hooded man with a wicker basket in his hand stood next to Howard. Nightmare could be heard saying unctuously, "Are you tough enough, George Latham? Will you take the money?" Eric screamed, "Take the money, George. Do it, boy. That Hopwood’s a loser." "He can’t," Sylvia moaned. "Of course he can," Eric snapped without taking his eyes off the Screen, which showed George sitting hunched on his stool, struggling with his decision. "Five hundred million dollars will get the whole lot of us out of here, woman. One hundred million dollars each. That’s the price." "He hasn’t got the guts," Doreen chimed in. Claudia was silent. Even if her husband hadn’t the courage to execute the other man, there was still a good chance he would win enough for the two of them to escape the slum. She concentrated on the Screen. Nightmare was talking. "If you can’t do it, George, if you can’t pull the lever, you will have lesser options but the prize money will be reduced each time. Do you understand, George?" "I understand," George muttered. Nightmare pranced to the front of the stage and spoke to the viewers. "What do you think George should do, friends?" George’s family chanted along with the non-existent studio audience. "Take the money….Kill the man…Take the money…" "Are you brave enough, George?" Nightmare now stood behind George, speaking quietly over his shoulder. A hush enveloped the studio and the watching family. George hesitated. Eric held his breath. George shook his head. "Are you turning down Five Hundred Million Dollars, George?" "No," Eric howled at the Screen. George nodded. His lips moved. "Yes," he said soundlessly. A hooter moaned a mournful note. "You have just turned down the chance to win Five Hundred Million Dollars, George," Nightmare shouted. Eric groaned and cursed his son. Doreen squirmed in the lumpy depths of her chair. She suspected she would be the one left behind if George won any money at all. The family watched Nightmare pat George on the shoulder. "Never mind, George. All is not lost. Not for you, that is." He laughed. "Let’s take another look at Howard." Howard had been moved. He was now seated on a bench with his arms and legs pushed through holes in a metal screen. Four hooded men stood with raised axes, their eyes on an unlit bulb above Howard’s head. "George," Nightmare whispered seductively. "Are you tough enough to win yourself Four Hundred Million Dollars? Can you pull the lever and switch on that light over Howard’s head? Solemnly he looked at the camera. "I wonder what George’s family thinks. Do you folks think Howard should lose his limbs for Four Hundred Million Dollars?" "Yes. Yes. Yes." Eric was beside himself. He leapt to his feet, slamming his chair backwards. "Yes." He thumped the Screen. "Take the money you moron. Don’t let ALL of us down." Doreen curled silently in her chair. Sylvia sobbed loudly. Claudia’s hands were in her lap, her fingers clenched so tightly her knuckles were white. George’s face filled the Screen. A slight twitch twisted the corner of one eye. He drew in a deep shuddering breath. "No." He shook his head miserably. "No." "George, are you sure?" Nightmare was at George’s shoulder again. "Are you giving up the chance of Four Hundred Million Dollars? Because you’re not tough enough?" "Yes." George’s voice was wobbly. "Yes. I’m not tough enough to take a stranger’s arms and legs." "Well, friends." Nightmare spoke to camera. "George is at a crossroads but he can still win Three Hundred Million Dollars; so let’s see what’s happening to Howard." Howard was sitting in the same position but one of his hands had been released .One of the hooded men had put his axe down and was standing at the back of the room with his arms folded. "Yes, friends. If George takes the Three Hundred Million Dollars, Howard gets to keep a hand. Now that would be mighty generous George. And while he is deciding, we have time for another word from our President." The President came onto the Screen, calmly wiping his spectacles with a large, white, very crisp handkerchief. "Friends," he said to his nation, "let me update you on the war with…" Doreen’s voice cut across the President’s speech. "Only three hundred million dollars left, " she crooned. "Guess you get to stay behind as well Eric." She stretched and yawned gustily. "You can keep me company. We can grow old together." "You filthy harridan," Eric turned on her. "If I stay in this slum another week, I’ll strangle you. I swear I will. He lifted his hand. Sylvia caught his arm. "Let her be, Eric." Eric threw his wife across the room. "Keep out, bitch. You’re as bad as she is." He kicked his chair at her. "You like her so much, you can stay and keep her company. Three hundred million dollars is enough for me and George and Claudia to get out." The last notes of the national anthem died away and George was back on the Screen. He was looking at the floor. The lights in the studio dimmed. Nightmare’s voice was heard, probing for George’s decision. Would George pull the lever, he was asking, that would switch on the light that would signal to the axemen….? "No." George didn’t look up at his tormentor. "No. I won’t" "Are you sure, George?" That seductive voice again in his ear. "Three Hundred Million Dollars, George. Are you very, very sure?" "I am very, very sure," replied George. Eric groaned. Doreen chuckled. Sylvia wiped away her tears and Claudia looked worried. Eric picked up his chair and sat down. The family watched the Screen intently. Another picture of Howard was shown. A leg had been released. "Two Hundred Million Dollars," Nightmare was saying in a solemn voice. "You have two choices left, George. Should you refuse to pull the lever this time, Howard will keep a third limb. And if you refuse after that, Howard will walk away unharmed and you will take his place in the room." He paused, giving George time to consider. "Do you think, George, that Howard would pull the lever for Five Hundred Million Dollars?" George’s family stared at the face of Freddy Nightmare, Master of Ceremonies for the game show, HOW TOUGH ARE YOU? Nightmare smiled into camera in a friendly fashion. "What do you think folks?" he asked the viewers. "Do you think George Latham has the guts to pull the lever and win Two Hundred Million Dollars? Do you?" |
| 200 Million Dollars by trishwahlstrom@yahoo.com (Entry #6) |
| ~Runner Up~ |
| A drizzle of shiny rain plodded
eastward as Mark and Jeff Dobson parked their pickup at a turnoff by the
Cowlitz river. They effortlessly slung their knapsacks over their backs,
grabbed their fishing gear, and set off on the mile long trek to their cabin.
The clammy Northwest rain thankfully ceased as they navigated a stretch of huge
boulders. It was just past this stretch that amid the sounds of the soothing
gurgle of the river and chattering of birds in the dripping evergreens, they
heard a faint cry for help. "Did you hear that, Jeff? Someone is out here." "I think it came from over this way." "Help, please," came another strangled cry. "I'm up here." The young men scrambled up the soft bank, fanning out a little amongst the dense forest, but saw no one. "Up here." The voice seemed to come from above Mark's head and looking up, he saw a man entangled in a parachute twenty feet above him. "Over here, Jeff. Someone's up in a tree." By the time Jeff got over there, Mark was already scrambling up the wide branches until he reached the parachutist. He seemed to be about fifty, dressed only in a light jacket, and soaked and weakened from a long cold night. "I'll help you get down, Sir. Are you hurt?" "Yes I am. I think I broke a few ribs and my right leg is numb," the man whispered shakily. "We'll get you down ok, don't worry. Jeff, get up here." It took them half an hour to lift him hand over hand down the tree. Soon they had him laid comfortably on the ground covered by one of their coats. "One of us will go into town and call for a rescue team to come get you and take you to a hospital." "No, no! Don't do that," he cried in a emphatic voice tinged with fear. "I need to keep this little jump of mine a secret. Isn't there somewhere else I could go?" His pleading eyes looked up at them as they exchanged baffled glances with each other. "Well our cabin is just a quarter mile away," said Mark, making the decision as the older of the two. "We could take you there, make a fire and get you some blankets - let you warm up get some rest first." "Thanks. That would be best." The man paused for a moment, looking at their stalwart faces as if trying to make a decision, then added, "There should be a couple of suitcases nearby somewhere. If you could try to find them first...?" The Dobson boys scouted around and found a couple of heavy suitcases, tied in a nylon cord, and brought them back over to where the man was lying. "You can come back for those later. I need to get to your cabin first." Mark and Jeff took off their flannel shirts and fashioned a rude litter between two sturdy branches. Together they managed to carry their heavy burden to their cabin. Mark built a fire in the old wood stove while Jeff got the semi-conscious man out of his wet clothes, into a heavy spare sweater and pants, and piled three blankets on top of him. Mark kept watch on the sleeping man while Jeff trudged back down the trail to retrieve the suitcases. When he arrived back, he set the bags inside the door and beckoned for Mark to join him outside. "You know what's in them there suitcases, Mark? Money!" "Money? You're kidding me." "It's money sure as a skunk stinks. They were so heavy, I thought maybe he was one of those Mt. St. Helens geologists carrying around rock samples or something, but they are both packed with hundred dollar bills. There must be millions of dollars in there." Mark leaned back against the rough hewn boards of their cabin in amazement. "Well I'll be a ring-tailed raccoon." "We're rich. Think of what we could do with that!" "We are not going to do anything with it. It's not ours." "Yeah, you're right," Jeff sighed. "Maybe he'll give us some of it as a reward. We did probably save his life after all." "We'll ask him about it for sure when he comes to. Meanwhile, we gotta get back home pretty soon for supper." "Shouldn't one of us stay with him, in case he wakes up?" "And miss Thanksgiving dinner? I can't think of a single excuse Mom'd believe. Besides, he's going to sleep for hours and he's too banged up to go anywhere." "That's for sure. We'll have to get out of there as soon as we can tonight and just say we need to come back up here to do some fishing at dawn." "Ok, but not a word to anyone until we find out what's going on." They looked in on their sleeping invalid, put a couple of sandwiches and a jug of water by the bed, and left a note saying they would be right back. The hike back through the pristine forest was usually a silent one but this time it was peppered with conversation, speculation about their mysterious guest. As they pulled up in their pickup truck, the modest family home looked cosy to the boys, especially after spending half the day outdoors in the wet chill. An assortment of uncles, aunts, and cousins were there, most of whom they saw almost every day, but a few had made the drive down from Seattle. Upon entering their home, they were naturally overrun with hellos and hugs before they could pry themselves away to get out of their wet clothes and into a hot shower. Pausing for a deliciously smelling sniff at the kitchen, they settled in the den with everyone else in front of a football game. "How are things at the factory?" asked Uncle Fred. "Still working hard or hardly working?" "I'm working hard because I'm a foreman, you know," replied Mark. "But Jeff got laid off this week along with eighteen others." "Sorry to hear that, Jeff. What in the heck's the problem? That factory has done well for years." "Mismanagement," came the bitter reply from Jeff. "The Exron guys that are running it now have their heads up their asses. Pardon me ladies." This drew a round of laughter, as the women in the family used those words almost as often as the men. "My business was down 20% last year," a cousin piped in sourly. "If the factory goes down, everyone in town will suffer. People will have to try to live on Unemployment or drive an hour or more to Longview for work. Maybe even move out of town altogether." They all discussed the town's woes some more as the football game ended, though few of them really cared who had won. A news bulletin then came over the television. A man highjacked a Boing 727 last night. He demanded 200 million dollars, four parachutes, then had the plane take off for Mexico. Somewhere over Southwestern Washington he parachuted out of the airplane. Massive search efforts have been underway all day. A $25,000 reward for information is being offered. The brothers exchanged looks and Jeff was about to say something until Mark kicked him on the leg and shook his head quietly. There was a lot of discussion and speculation about the spectacular crime and the daring highjacker. Mark and Jeff now knew who it was sleeping in their cabin. After the meal was over and most of the family had left, the boys made their excuses, hopped back in the old battered pickup, and headed eagerly back to their cabin. "What'd you shush me for," Jeff complained. "You know who we got back there? We could collect that reward." "We're not collecting any reward just yet." "You thinking he might split some of that money with us?" "Even if he offers, we can't take stolen money," Mark replied firmly. "Yeah, it wouldn't be right," Jeff sighed. "I guess we'll wait and see what he has to say." They arrived back at the cabin with some leftover turkey, potatoes, and biscuits to find their guest awake and breathing comfortably. "We brought you a little Thanksgiving meal." said Mark. I'm sure you're hungry after your scary jump out of that 727 last night." After a long pause, he replied, "So, you know who I am. I suppose it was all over the news." He lay back with a little wince of pain and added, "Why haven't you turned me in?" "We wanted to hear what you had to say first," Jeff answered. "Why you did it. What did you plan to do next." "Let me sit up first, boys. I feel like a damned invalid lying down here." They helped him sit up on the bed and propped him up against the cabin wall with some pillows. "It's like this. I'm a sick man. I need an operation but the insurance company I worked for for twenty-six years fired me and cancelled my medical when they found out. I don't feel a bit sorry about taking their money this way. Those Exron weasels will find a way to write it off anyhow." "Hey. That's the same company that bought our factory last year." "Is that so? Well anyhow, I picked a 727 because it's the only airplane with a rear door that I could jump out of. I asked for four parachutes so they wouldn't know if I was taking a hostage or not - didn't want them to give me a bad one that wouldn't open. I used forty feet of cord from a spare one to tie the money to so I'd be able to feel the bags hit ground first and be prepared to land. Unfortunately, I landed right in a tree, as you saw. "My plan was to get a boat, float down to Portland at night, catch a bus out of the area, work my way up to Canada, and get a plane to Switzerland. They're pretty tight-lipped about money there. I can find ways to get rid of it slowly, have my operation, and start a new life somewhere else." He sighed. "I guess it was a foolish dream to try that stunt but I'm tickled pink that I've at least pulled it off this far." Jeff and Mark looked at each other and nodded. Mark took the lead. "You can stay here a week or so until you're mended and the search has died down a bit. Then we'll find you a boat and you can continue with your plan." "What? Really? Oh, thank you, boys. I can't believe you'd do this for me. It's pretty risky, though. You'd be accomplices after the fact." "Well we hate Exron too," said Jeff heatedly. "They are ruining our factory and dragging the whole town down with it." "That's a fact, said Mark. "We'll take that risk." "I should at least give you some of the money for helping me out." "No sir," said Mark. "We couldn't take any money that wasn't ours." "And besides, this is just a great adventure," added Jeff. "Everyone is looking for you and we're the only two people in the world who know where you are!" A week went by where they brought him food, taped up his ribs, and brought him some books and the daily papers so they could all have a good laugh at all the cockeyed theories the baffled media and police were spouting. They had some nice long chats together and found they really liked the each other. When the hubbub of the search had finally subsided a little, their fugitive decided it was time to try to make his getaway. They had repacked the money into a couple of large knapsacks and he was wearing some new clothes to complement the ten day beard he now had. Before climbing into the boat they had found him, they shook hands, wishing each other well. He gave them $5,000 to scatter 40 miles downriver tomorrow to make the searchers think he died or something and throw them off the scent. The last they saw of him, he was puttering off downsteam, giving them one last wave. The Dobson boys resumed their old routine with Jeff finding part-time work at the supermarket and Mark still toiling at the factory. Three months later, Mark got an early morning call from the factory vice-president, telling him to report to the board room and to bring Jeff with him. When they got there, feeling a little out of place in their jeans and flannel shirts among the neatly suited Board of Directors, they were ushered to two chairs near the head of the table. The chief honcho began: "We have a very curious letter from our home office that has been confirmed by phone. It concerns you two and we were hoping you could also shed some light on the matter. This factory has been bought by the XYZ Corporation of Geneva, Switzerland, and it names both of you, Mark Dobson and Jeff Dobson as the managers. There is a very generous salary and performance bonuses if the factory shows a profit every year. They have also established a large discretionary fund which you are in charge of. What would you gentlemen know about all this?" "Got me," Mark replied with a straight face. "Maybe we got some long lost rich uncle that died." "Or maybe we just have an anonymous benefactor," Jeff added. "I see. Well it is not our duty to investigate. The documents have been checked out thoroughly by our legal staff and they are all in order. One more thing. There is this sealed certified letter addressed to the both of you." Taking the letter, Mark stood up. "In that case, gentlemen, I guess you can clean out your desks and hit the road. We'll be taking over Monday morning." They still have the letter, which they take out of it's hiding place and read occasionally, just for fun. Dear Mark and Jeff, As you may have guessed, I am the XYZ Corporation. Since I have a lot of money now, I can afford to make some investments. I think this will be a good one as I know you young men will do a fine job. You can use the discretionary fund to make some improvements around town or help some other businesses, whatever you feel is right. I trust you. I know you don't want anyone giving you any money but if you work hard, you will earn a whole lot. It's not too much to say you saved my life, and I'll never forget you for that. Yours Truly, D.B. Cooper |
Here are all the entries, posted in the order they were received.
| 200 Million Dollars by Mark Lambert Marknutswriter@aol.com |
#1 of 12 |
| 1333 words | |
| Jenn and Dan sat a few feet apart on the couch, staring
at the television. "What's on channel three?" asked Dan. "I dunno, do I?" replied Jenn, "you're the one with the remote." "Batteries are low." "I can't believe it! Didn't you get any today? I did say this morning..." "I forgot, didn' I. Got the TV guide?" "No." Dan scanned the living room until his eyes fell on a magazine, which sat on the table near the window. "It's on the table," he said. "And?" "And what?" "You want me to get up and get the bloody thing for you, don't you?" "Well, you're nearer." "You lazy git." Jenn reached out for the magazine, leaning left, stretching her arm for all she was worth while attempting to keep sat on the couch. Her hand came within an inch and with a further stretch, she barely managed to hook the pages between two fingers, and yanked it from the table. Without looking to Dan, she held the magazine towards him. He took it and leafed through. He turned the pages and gave a few sniffs and huffs. "Hmm," he managed. "Well?" "There's a documentary about the history of world war two on four." "A documentary? You've got another think coming. What's wrong with this program anyway? The man in the sharp suit on the TV screen gently let down another contestant. "Ooh sorry, my love...your answer is wrong!" The audience gasped. "Hitler was actually born in Austria, not France." A big 'ahhh' came from the audience. "It's crap," said Dan. "Look at this. Totally stupid people. She thought Hitler was French." "No she didn't. She thought he was born in France." "What's the difference?" "The difference is, you doughnut, that well...wasn't he born in Germany?" "See, you'd know the answer to that if we watched the war program." "This is educational enough for me." "Star Trek's on five," said Dan "Like I wanna watch that." "Hmm, ok how about 'Celebrity Pedicures', over on one?" "What's that about?" "Says here that an audience is shown the feet of five celebrities before treatment and then after they have a pedicure, the audience have to vote for whose feet belong to who." Dan focused on the page, "or 'whom' like they say here." "Sounds ok. Put it on then." Dan pressed a button on the remote to try to squeeze life from it. "Get up and change channels on the TV thing," said Jenn, wagging an outstretched finger towards the screen in the corner of the room. "Can't remember how to do that. Don't think we've ever done that." He put the remote to one side. "Might as well stick with this, I suppose," he said. They watched the program in silence as more contestants were dismissed. "What d'ya want for Christmas?" asked Dan. "Eh? What?" "Christmas. It ain't far away. What d'ya want?" Jenn thought for a few moments. "You know, I've always wanted one of those calligraphy sets. Wanted one for years." "What? You can't even spell 'calligraphy'." "C...A...L...I...C...R...A...P...H...F...Y, snot nose." "Okay, okay. Where do I get one of those?" "Down the market. They should have one. Just use your imagination." A woman on the TV screamed and brought her hands up to her face as she answered a question correctly. "I'll have a home-brew kit," said Dan. "A home-brew kit? Don't make me laugh." "What's wrong with that?" "It takes a bit more work than you realise. Bill at work's got one." "Can't be that much too it." "You can't even get your bum off the couch to try to change TV channels, so I wouldn't think you'd get along with that." "I would." "Wouldn't." The TV program ended with a woman crying tears of joy and almost squeezing the life out of the host after winning a small shiny car which she had to share with four other family members on the show. The host smiled showing brilliant white teeth, "see you next week!" Music played and credits rolled. "Next up," said the announcer, "is Celebrity Hair-Do's. Stay tuned." "Ooh, I like that," said Jenn. "That girl from that soap thing is on it," said Dan. "Who?" "Shirley something. You know; she was in the Sunday paper last week. Topless photos from her holiday." "Oh, her. Slapper." "Yeah, the one with nipples like a blind cobbler's thumb." "No need to be crude." "That's not crude...they stick out like..." "Whatever! I'm more interested in her hair actually." Dan took a sideways glance at Jenn. "What, you thinking of getting yours done like hers then?" "Maybe." "Won't suit you." "Oh, right, Mr bloody hair-dresser-know-it-all, it won't will it?" "Nah. You see, she's got fine hair, whereas yours is, well..." "Well what exactly?" "A little brittle. Too much bleach I reckon." "They can do anything they like these days." "Not for fifteen quid they can't." An advert on the TV extolled the importance of car insurance."Come along with us," said the smiling face, "you'll get what you deserve!" Jenn took a quick glance towards Dan and looked back at the TV. "I forgot to tell you." "What love?" "I had a little prang in the car today." "What? How lit..." "It wasn't much. Some fella went up the back." "Well, his fault then. How much damage?" "Only the bumper a bit bent. I suppose Frank down the shops knows someone to get that sorted eh?" "Yeah." "Do you know what the fella said to me?" "Err, no, I wasn't there." "Well I said, 'can't you see that sign on the back? 'Don't get too close'?" "And?" "He said, 'I had to get close in case it was one of those funny ones'." "Sounds like a wanker." "He was a cheeky sod. Nice eyes though." "Eh?" "Well he did have nice eyes." "You got his insurance, I take it?" "Guess what. You won't believe it!" "I reckon I won't." "He paid me off there and then." "How much?" "Sixty quid. He said it saves us both on the insurance." "Sixty? It might cost two-hundred for a bumper replacement!" "Ooh, you are sooo picky sometimes." Dan picked up the remote and squeezed harder. The TV channel changed. "...a new way to freshen your armpits," said the voice from the TV. "What's this?" said Jenn. "I managed to change channels! The 'Big Money' program is on next. It's got that bloke from 'Naked Celebrity Mud Wrestling' presenting it." "Ooh, I like him." Music blared from the TV and a black-suited man walked out between opening curtains, his arms spread wide. "Good evening money-lovers! Ha, ha. This is the program where one, yes, just one lucky, lucky contestant will win two million dollars! Yes, two million smackeroonies! Ha, ha. Ladies and gentlemen..." "Can't get much for two million these days," said Jenn. "It'd get a nice car with a solid bumper for starters." "Piss off." "With two million, I'd buy an island and we could both go there and..." "And what? An island might not have a TV! Anyway, you'd need more than that to buy an island," said Jenn. "Oh yeah? How much?" "I reckon at least, well, err, fifty million." "Nah, the best would be about 100 million." "You're having a laugh mate. I read the other day that Sir Richard Whatisname just bought a country for 200 million." "Well, that depends on the country dunnit." "What d'ya mean?" "See," said Dan, "a country like England would cost about, I dunno, maybe 500 million, give or take a few you know?" "And?" "And, my dear, a country like Scotland would cost peanuts." "Oi you, don't forget my dad is Scottish." "Like I said, peanuts. Nuffin' going for 'em." "Ok, smarty-arse, what island could you get for 200 million then?" "One in the Mediterranean, near Italy, that's where." "But they might not speak English!" "I'd be the owner, so I'd make 'em all, or turf 'em out" Jenn turned to Dan. "Love you darlin'." "Love you too." |
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| 200 Million Dollars by dingusdongus2000@yahoo.com |
#2 of 12 |
| 139 words | |
| I got money and I want to spend, Looking for a decent end. An end to the problems the world might face, Disease and poverty at such a pace. Wars and hate goin’ on all day, Let the poor ones have their say. I wanna spend to make it real, Eliminate the head-clubbing of a seal. Get rid of low wages for the poor, Have them knocking on my door. Fast-food outlets can go and jump, I’ll build one that has no hump. I’ll spend 200 Mill, To comfort the ill. Or build a sports center, Help ladies with an upside-down placenta. Help those with no aspiration, I’d sort their concentration. 200 Mill should sort it out, Apart, that is, from those with gout. I’ll do my best to be true Cos all I do is think about you. |
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| 200 Million Dollars by lee10@host365.com |
#3 of 12 Winner |
| 2440 words | |
| George’s face filled the Screen, six feet high by
six feet wide. His pores looked like anaemic orange peel, the pale grey of
fear. His wife Claudia noted he’d squeezed some blackheads. In the oily
shade by the side of his nose, the skin was red and angry. George squinted at
the camera. "Why does the boy always look gormless?" his grandmother enquired. Her sharp voice was unsympathetic. "Shurrup, Mother. We wanna watch George, not listen to your whining." Eric’s eyes never left the Screen that hung on their living room wall. "He’s our passport out of this hell-hole." . "What good’s that lad of yours ever done?" the old woman sneered. "You don’t think he’ll win, do you? More fool you if you do. No, we’re stuck here forever, thanks to that pathetic father of yours. You and the boy take after him. No backbone, any of you." "Mother, belt up, " snarled Eric, "or I’ll give you a thick lip." She shut up. It was Wednesday. George’s family watched the Screen, waiting for the game show to start. The door to the street led directly into the room. Under the door, a strong draught carried the smell of the open drain that ran the length of the road. George’s grandmother, Doreen, sat in the only easy chair, its seat rubbed to a shiny gloss by her backside over many decades. It sagged and dust was thick along the back cushion. "It was the only thing your miserable granddad left me. It’s mine," she’d once told George. "So keep out of it." George’s father, Eric, had taken possession of the only other seat with a back. George’s mother, Sylvia sat next to Claudia on a wooden bench. The state-of-the-art, state-sponsored Screen was the only electrical appliance in the house that worked without fail. The house was as down-at-heel as everything and everyone in it. It was one of thousands of such houses in the city’s Workers’ Ghetto. The family desperately wanted to escape to The Hill, where it was rumoured there was an indoor toilet in every house, but they could not afford to buy their way out of the Ghetto. George hadn’t returned home from work on Monday. Eric had been delighted, hoping that meant he’d been picked up by the game show’s press gang that plucked the week’s players off the streets. "Yes!" he’d shouted and punched the air when a personal message on the Screen told them "their loved-one had been selected to Play the Game on Wednesday." There was only one game on the Screen. It was a game from which George might not return. Faint, Sylvia had reached for Doreen’s chair. A slap across the face brought her round. "That’s my chair. Do your fainting somewhere else," her mother-in-law had shouted. George’s face faded, replaced by that of another man, a wispy, grey beard sparse on his cheeks and chin. His breathing was rapid but like a rabbit in thrall to a stoat, he was otherwise motionless. The camera drew back to bring the studio into view. The two men sat uneasily on high stools, facing each other across a blue-carpeted floor. Each held a black box with a cable that disappeared into curtains at the side of the studio. The name of the show was written in tall red letters on the wall behind them. HOW TOUGH ARE YOU? it screamed at the nation. "And now," a voice boomed from the Screen, "your Master of Ceremonies for tonight’s How Tough Are You……Mister…. Freddy…. Nightmare." Freddy Nightmare bounded onto the stage before the last drawled out syllable of his name had faded, all gleaming teeth and glinting jewellery. "Do you think George’ll be alright?" Sylvia whimpered. No one heard her above the discords of pre-recorded screams and canned applause that flooded the studio. The M.C. bowed. "Thank you friends, thank you," he grinned at the camera through falsely perfect teeth, allowing the uproar to continue for a few seconds more. He held up his hands. All sound ceased. The game was about to begin. "Ladies and Gentlemen," Nightmare shouted. "Let me introduce you to tonight’s contestants. "On my right," he gestured towards George, "is George Latham." Claudia squealed and clapped her hands. "Stupid cow," Doreen muttered. No one responded to her venom. "And George’s opponent this evening," Nightmare continued, "is Howard Hopwood. Let’s hear it for the contestants." Canned applause swept from the Screen. Nightmare strolled across the stage to stand behind a podium. He picked up a gold envelope. The applause trickled away and was replaced by a drumroll, which faded as Nightmare opened the envelope and withdrew a sheet of paper. "And now, ladies and gentlemen….we have…," Nightmare waved the paper dramatically, "The Question." George looked sick and frightened. Howard held tight to the edge of his stool, swaying slightly. Nightmare’s smile disappeared. "Let me run through the rules for the Show’s first part." His voice took on a serious tone. I will ask…The Question. Each contestant has a buzzer. The first correct answer wins and the contestant gets a chance to play…The Game." The pre-recorded applause and stamping of feet continued for a while. Nightmare cut the air with his hand. The sound stopped. "Regretfully then, we will have to lose the other contestant, so let us show our appreciation for him now." There was a quick burst of applause. "Of course," Nightmare laughed, "we may not lose him entirely, just bits of him." The two stunned contestants were bombarded with hoots of laughter. "Gentlemen, are you ready?" Nightmare asked. George nodded. Howard swallowed and blinked. Nightmare took that as a ‘yes’. He looked down at the paper and read, "And The Question is…and make sure your fingers are on your buzzers, gentlemen…The Question is…," he raised his voice. "What is the tenth month of the year?" Neither contestant spoke. The silence seemed to stretch towards infinity. "Er…" George managed. "See. Told you he’s stupid," Doreen crowed. Eric caught her face with a backhand swipe. "I told you to keep quite," he snarled. "October," Sylvia whispered. "Tell him October." "October" George blurted hesitantly. "The buzzer, fool," Claudia squealed. George waved the box towards Nightmare and pressed the buzzer. "October", he shouted. "October." Lights flashed, bells rang and Howard Hopwood fell off his chair. He lay on the carpet, curled as though asleep. Two men dressed in black uniforms dragged him from the stage. "Well done, George," Nightmare shouted above the noise. "Ladies and gentlemen, tonight, after a few words from our President, George Latham will play …The Game." The Screen was filled by a close up of an elderly, gently smiling, grey-haired man who looked over the top of his glasses and spoke to the nation. The four members of George’s family jumped up, howling and hugging each other, all animosity forgotten for the moment; the President’s speech unnoticed. The intermission over, Nightmare’s voice oozing from the Screen brought them back to reality. "Dirty old man," Doreen hissed. Eric stopped kissing Claudia who sat down on the bench, tugging her short skirt down. Sylvia glared at her daughter-in-law, then sat down to listen to Nightmare. "Tonight," he was saying, "we are going to test how tough our contestant…Mr.George Latham…really is. George, are you ready? "I, er…" "George, are you tough?" "Um, er…" "Great. Great. George, the top prize of Five Hundred Million Dollars is yours. All you have to do is to pull that lever." Nightmare pointed to the centre of the stage. A thick electricity cable ran from the back of the box from which the level protruded. "Can you, George, pull that lever?" Nightmare knelt on one knee by the lever. "Of course, if you do," he drew the flat of his hand across his throat, "it’s curtains for poor Howard." Sylvia gasped as a shot of Howard was shown. He was kneeling in a dimly lit room, his head on a block. Above his neck, a guillotine was suspended. A stray beam of light briefly twinkled on its sharp edge. A burly, black-hooded man with a wicker basket in his hand stood next to Howard. Nightmare could be heard saying unctuously, "Are you tough enough, George Latham? Will you take the money?" Eric screamed, "Take the money, George. Do it, boy. That Hopwood’s a loser." "He can’t," Sylvia moaned. "Of course he can," Eric snapped without taking his eyes off the Screen, which showed George sitting hunched on his stool, struggling with his decision. "Five hundred million dollars will get the whole lot of us out of here, woman. One hundred million dollars each. That’s the price." "He hasn’t got the guts," Doreen chimed in. Claudia was silent. Even if her husband hadn’t the courage to execute the other man, there was still a good chance he would win enough for the two of them to escape the slum. She concentrated on the Screen. Nightmare was talking. "If you can’t do it, George, if you can’t pull the lever, you will have lesser options but the prize money will be reduced each time. Do you understand, George?" "I understand," George muttered. Nightmare pranced to the front of the stage and spoke to the viewers. "What do you think George should do, friends?" George’s family chanted along with the non-existent studio audience. "Take the money….Kill the man…Take the money…" "Are you brave enough, George?" Nightmare now stood behind George, speaking quietly over his shoulder. A hush enveloped the studio and the watching family. George hesitated. Eric held his breath. George shook his head. "Are you turning down Five Hundred Million Dollars, George?" "No," Eric howled at the Screen. George nodded. His lips moved. "Yes," he said soundlessly. A hooter moaned a mournful note. "You have just turned down the chance to win Five Hundred Million Dollars, George," Nightmare shouted. Eric groaned and cursed his son. Doreen squirmed in the lumpy depths of her chair. She suspected she would be the one left behind if George won any money at all. The family watched Nightmare pat George on the shoulder. "Never mind, George. All is not lost. Not for you, that is." He laughed. "Let’s take another look at Howard." Howard had been moved. He was now seated on a bench with his arms and legs pushed through holes in a metal screen. Four hooded men stood with raised axes, their eyes on an unlit bulb above Howard’s head. "George," Nightmare whispered seductively. "Are you tough enough to win yourself Four Hundred Million Dollars? Can you pull the lever and switch on that light over Howard’s head? Solemnly he looked at the camera. "I wonder what George’s family thinks. Do you folks think Howard should lose his limbs for Four Hundred Million Dollars?" "Yes. Yes. Yes." Eric was beside himself. He leapt to his feet, slamming his chair backwards. "Yes." He thumped the Screen. "Take the money you moron. Don’t let ALL of us down." Doreen curled silently in her chair. Sylvia sobbed loudly. Claudia’s hands were in her lap, her fingers clenched so tightly her knuckles were white. George’s face filled the Screen. A slight twitch twisted the corner of one eye. He drew in a deep shuddering breath. "No." He shook his head miserably. "No." "George, are you sure?" Nightmare was at George’s shoulder again. "Are you giving up the chance of Four Hundred Million Dollars? Because you’re not tough enough?" "Yes." George’s voice was wobbly. "Yes. I’m not tough enough to take a stranger’s arms and legs." "Well, friends." Nightmare spoke to camera. "George is at a crossroads but he can still win Three Hundred Million Dollars; so let’s see what’s happening to Howard." Howard was sitting in the same position but one of his hands had been released .One of the hooded men had put his axe down and was standing at the back of the room with his arms folded. "Yes, friends. If George takes the Three Hundred Million Dollars, Howard gets to keep a hand. Now that would be mighty generous George. And while he is deciding, we have time for another word from our President." The President came onto the Screen, calmly wiping his spectacles with a large, white, very crisp handkerchief. "Friends," he said to his nation, "let me update you on the war with…" Doreen’s voice cut across the President’s speech. "Only three hundred million dollars left, " she crooned. "Guess you get to stay behind as well Eric." She stretched and yawned gustily. "You can keep me company. We can grow old together." "You filthy harridan," Eric turned on her. "If I stay in this slum another week, I’ll strangle you. I swear I will. He lifted his hand. Sylvia caught his arm. "Let her be, Eric." Eric threw his wife across the room. "Keep out, bitch. You’re as bad as she is." He kicked his chair at her. "You like her so much, you can stay and keep her company. Three hundred million dollars is enough for me and George and Claudia to get out." The last notes of the national anthem died away and George was back on the Screen. He was looking at the floor. The lights in the studio dimmed. Nightmare’s voice was heard, probing for George’s decision. Would George pull the lever, he was asking, that would switch on the light that would signal to the axemen….? "No." George didn’t look up at his tormentor. "No. I won’t" "Are you sure, George?" That seductive voice again in his ear. "Three Hundred Million Dollars, George. Are you very, very sure?" "I am very, very sure," replied George. Eric groaned. Doreen chuckled. Sylvia wiped away her tears and Claudia looked worried. Eric picked up his chair and sat down. The family watched the Screen intently. Another picture of Howard was shown. A leg had been released. "Two Hundred Million Dollars," Nightmare was saying in a solemn voice. "You have two choices left, George. Should you refuse to pull the lever this time, Howard will keep a third limb. And if you refuse after that, Howard will walk away unharmed and you will take his place in the room." He paused, giving George time to consider. "Do you think, George, that Howard would pull the lever for Five Hundred Million Dollars?" George’s family stared at the face of Freddy Nightmare, Master of Ceremonies for the game show, HOW TOUGH ARE YOU? Nightmare smiled into camera in a friendly fashion. "What do you think folks?" he asked the viewers. "Do you think George Latham has the guts to pull the lever and win Two Hundred Million Dollars? Do you?" |
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| 200 Million Dollars by fitties@hotmail.com |
#4 of 12 | |
| 2494 words | ||
| Descending, the small complex grew in more
detail. The city of Las Vegas could be seen to the north, but with his night
vision goggles, the light from the city was blinding. Looking down, the
building and the approaching ground was illuminated in a soft green light. With
the wind roaring in his ear from the fall, he checked his altitude, and pulled
the ripcord. The chute opened behind him and jerked him upwards. Recovering
quickly he grabbed his control straps, and guided himself down to the roof of
the building. Landing with cat-like grace on the roof of the complex, he quickly undid his harness and wrapped up his chute. He sat in silence listening for any sign of alarms or guards coming towards him. Nothing. The only sound was his heart racing after the 15,000 foot parachute drop from the chartered Cessna Skyhawk. Skydiving was second nature to Tyler Ripley, but landing on AmTech’s roof – a chief military weapon supply company – at 02:00 hours, that was something different. Letting his body warm up, he slipped off the rest of his jump equipment. The skin on his face was cold and stiff from the winds of the jump. The desert night air whipped at him at close to 120 mph. The insulating clothing that he wore seemed to do little at keeping him warm. The roof of the building was bare of any structure except for an air vent near the east wall. Setting his chute down near the small roof edge wall, he moved toward the vent, crouching as he went. The air vent was square and curved to the side to keep water and other elements from getting into the system. The air vent was large enough for him to fit through with room to spare. Although the size wasn’t what worried him, getting through the laser sensor net around the opening did. Taking out a small can of hair spray from one of his many vest pockets, he sprayed the opening and a zigzag of red light appeared, hovering, wraith like in front of him. Looking at his watch it read 02:13:46. At 02:15 exactly was when the ventilation protection system was supposed to go offline. Intel-Solutions – his employer – had giving him this information. They didn’t tell him, but he knew that they must have someone working on the inside. A small feeling of guilt passed through him, as he was not used to being on the other side of the law, but 200 million dollars as a payoff was too good to pass up. His mind racing at the possible outcome if the inside man failed gave him a tinge of fear. He was taught to push the fear back and fight through it. The army taught him how to go into battle and be a soldier. What the instructors didn’t teach him was that he would die inside slowly. Over the course of 12 years as an Army Ranger with operations ranging from hi-tech espionage to ground combat in operation Desert Storm taught him many things. Most important of all was that he didn’t get paid near enough for what he did. Checking his watch, the display read 02:15:04. He sprayed the opening again; the laser net was gone. Pulling the vent cover off with as little noise as possible, he set it down and pulled out his suction handgrips. Carefully, he started descending the thirty levels down to the testing area. Three levels down, unknown to him, the wind picked up and pulled his chute over the side of the building. Reaching the thirtieth level he saw the duct to his right that he needed to go through. Looking down he saw the main ventilation shaft continuing below him, its depth masked by the darkness. Slowly he moved over and climbed into the narrow passage. The metal of the vent surrounded him like a tin coffin. Knowing the way from the information given to him, he slowly made his way through the maze and came to a ceiling vent over a dark office. Slipping a bendable video camera through the grate of the vent he saw that the room was empty. Moving the vent, he lowered himself to the floor. He quickly replaced the vent and took a survey of the room. A small desk faced him on the far side of the room with a wall-sized bookshelf behind it. A leather chair was in front of the desk, facing it with a small side table with a lamp resting on it. The walls were decorated with paintings and awards hung sporadically around the room. It looked like any other office, except this one was 300 feet below ground. Moving towards the desk, his eyes flashed to movement under the door. The shadow of someone moving outside could clearly be seen. Swiftly moving behind the door he pulled out his silenced .9mm Beretta and waited. Muffled talking could be heard through the wall. He could hear two distinct voices, but he couldn’t make out what they were saying. The talking continued outside the door for a few minutes and then faded and all was quiet. Relaxing slightly but keeping his gun ready, he moved back to the desk and flipped up the closed laptop that sat on it. Lifting up his goggles, he turned on the computer, and the screen dimly illuminated him and the wall. While the computer booted up, he pulled out a small electronic device and inserted a cord into the USB port in the back of the computer. When the connection was made, a small red light came to life on the device. On the screen, a username and password box greeted him. Pushing a button on the box he had hooked up, the small red light flashed on and off quickly. The screen began to flicker and then quickly went to black. Coming back on, it came to the computer desktop Pushing another button on his device, he began to copy the entire contents of the hard drive. The red light started flashing from green to red rapidly. His curiosity getting the best of him he opened one of the files labeled Project Solon Research Findings, and began to read. Skimming over most of it he picked out some of the major words that jumped at him. Project Solon. Beam weapon. Alien technology. "Alien technology? What the hell?" He thought to himself. Moving closer to the screen he began to read in more detail.
Reading the rest of the document was fairly quick and didn’t prove to be any more insightful on how the Air Force got a hold of the alien power source. Knowing how the government worked, he was sure the scientists weren’t told. The black box continued to flash green to red, still copying the contents of the hard drive. The silence heightened his senses, and it seemed that every sound was amplified. His own heart beat pounded in his ear, almost hearing the blood rushing through his veins. He heard footsteps outside the door again but they passed without stopping. Looking back at the device, the red-green light flashed a few more times and then stayed solid green. The copying was done. Disconnecting the device, he shut off the computer, and began moving back towards the vent. Slipping the black box into his bag, the door blew open from an explosive charge sending shards of wood into the room. The blast sent him flying into the far wall. His goggles were thrown off his head and sent crashing to the floor. Hitting the floor stars flew into his vision as his head bounced off the carpeting. Guards in full body armor flooded into the room, flashlights attached to their submachine guns danced in the dark as they swarmed him. Lying stunned on the ground he tried to look up but was kicked in the gut, knocking the air out of him. Coughing and sputtering for breath, he lay there, the guards in a circle around him. He saw his pistol against the wall where he had crashed. As he longed for his weapon a hand reached down, and picked up his pistol. Tracing the arm up he tried looking at the man who was now holding it, but all he could see was the flashlights on the guards weapons trained at him. "Hello Ty, nice to see you again." Said a familiar voice. "Welcome to hell." The words had barely been heard when a boot came down on his face, knocking him out cold. "…up! Wake up!" Said a voice. The room a blur of white as his eyes fluttered open. Water splashed on his face, inhaling some of it, he started coughing. "There you go. Wakey, wakey little Tyler. It’s time for school." "Fuck you." Tyler said, his mind swimming back from unconsciousness. The right side of his face throbbed in pain. Becoming more aware, he realized that he was sitting down and tried to move. His hands were bound with duct tape behind him. Looking up he tried to open his eyes again, but found that his right eye was swollen shut. His left eye adjusting to the light, he saw only one man in the small office. Looking up he saw a face he thought he’d never see again. Tony Stanton stood before him. "Now, now. You know better than to talk back to me." Stanton said as he punched Ripley in the gut. Leaning in close so that only Ripley could hear. "I made a pretty penny selling that information…but then you came along. I had no idea you were hired for the job, hell if I had known that, I would’ve done all this for free." Pulling back he threw another punch, connecting with Ripley's nose. His face made a crunching sound under the force. Warm blood flowed out his nose and over his mouth, dripping on his lap. "I’ve dreamed of this for a long time." "You’re the inside man?" Ripley said. He was in disbelief that his old Ranger Lieutenant was standing in front of him. "Yup. Hard to believe huh?" A slight chuckle escaped Stanton, as he stood there looking at him with a look of extreme joy across his face. "I bet you never thought you’d see me again, hell, let alone down here." "What the hell are you doing here? Last I heard you were in Brazil." Ripley said. Moving his wrists, he felt the tape give slightly. The sweat from his wrists loosening the glue from the tape that bound him. Working quietly he started to free himself. "What do you mean? I’m in charge of security here. You’re breaking into a top-secret installation, and trying to steal from us. Officially, this operation doesn’t exist. Therefore what I'm going to do to you wont be given a second thought." Pulling up a chair, Stanton sat in front of Ripley, looking at him. The smug look on his face becoming brighter by the moment. "Paybacks a bitch, ain’t it." "Paybacks for what? You killed those people in cold blood. No matter what you said at your hearing, I know the truth. You’re a murderer." His hands fervently worked on the tape behind him. "You’re a thief. And Paybacks for you getting me drummed out of the service. There was no proof that I had done anything, but your testimony was enough to raise suspicion. But look, we’ve already talked about that years ago –." "You knew I was in the office…didn’t you want your pay off? With me dead, you won’t get your money." "One of my sentries on the surface found your chute, you dumb fuck. I couldn’t ignore that. I have to keep my cover or else I’m dead like you. Plus, I have enough to retire on from the down payment they gave me." "You on the other hand, you wont live to see a penny of yours. I’m going to make the last few minutes of your life, my most memorable." Stanton said. "You know what your problem is Stanton?" Ripley said, a grin peeling across his face. "What’s that?" Stanton said leaning closer to Ripley. "You talk way too much." Moving as quick as his aching arms would allow his arm shot forward. The heel of his hand making contact with the tip of Stanton’s nose, breaking it and driving the bone fragments up into his brain. Surprise flashed briefly into his eyes. A small grunt escaped him as he flew back out of his chair, falling flat on his back. Jumping on him quickly he muffled any sounds that were being made from the dying man. He saw his pistol on a small desk and picked it up. Looking at Stanton, his eyes gazed blankly up at the ceiling and a new sense of hope came over him. Pulling open the door he saw two guards facing out. He raised his gun and put two rounds into each of their heads, they fell limply to the floor. Looking down the hall he saw the blown out office door. Running down the hall he darted inside and began towards the vent when something caught his eye. A solid green light stared at him from the darkness. A smile, unseen in the black, grew on his face. Walking over he knelt down and pulled up his bag. The black device with the information on it was inside, the green light shining through the unzipped main pocket. Pulling out a flashlight he moved the vent and hoisted himself up into the duct. His body aching, he guided himself back through the maze to the main shaft. Pulling out his grips, he began the long 300-foot climb back to the surface. 6 Months Later… A slight ocean breeze ruffled his hair as he took a sip of his martini. The waves on the water rocked his 150-foot yacht gently. Looking over the bow he saw the famous Sydney Opera House across the bay. A woman in a skimpy bikini walked past him and ruffled his hair affectionately. "Life is good." He thought to himself as he took another sip. "Life is good." |
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| 200 Million Dollars by Eric Ayers e_a_ayers@hotmail.com |
#5 of 12 |
| 155 words | |
| The price for a single Minuteman III nuclear-tipped
missile and underground silo: 200 million dollars. The price for a squadron of 12 F-15 fighters purchased in 1980: 200 million dollars. The price for three "first draft picks" in any male professional sport (assuming 8 year contract, and signing bonus): 200 million dollars. The price of a WWII-era aircraft carrier: 200 million dollars. The estimated annual price of a program that will guarantee that all students graduating from American high schools are literate: 200 million dollars (estimated because no program currently exists). The estimated annual price of legal fees provided to death row inmates so they can receive their automatic appeals: 200 million dollars (estimated because the number of appeals ongoing varies from year to year.) The estimated price of one pound of politician brains: 200 million dollars (estimated because no one has ever seen one full pound of politician’s brains in one place, especially Washington!) |
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| 200 Million Dollars by trishwahlstrom@yahoo.com |
#6 of 12 Runner-up |
| 2467 words | |
| A drizzle of shiny rain plodded eastward as Mark and
Jeff Dobson parked their pickup at a turnoff by the Cowlitz river. They
effortlessly slung their knapsacks over their backs, grabbed their fishing
gear, and set off on the mile long trek to their cabin. The clammy Northwest
rain thankfully ceased as they navigated a stretch of huge boulders. It was
just past this stretch that amid the sounds of the soothing gurgle of the river
and chattering of birds in the dripping evergreens, they heard a faint cry for
help. "Did you hear that, Jeff? Someone is out here." "I think it came from over this way." "Help, please," came another strangled cry. "I'm up here." The young men scrambled up the soft bank, fanning out a little amongst the dense forest, but saw no one. "Up here." The voice seemed to come from above Mark's head and looking up, he saw a man entangled in a parachute twenty feet above him. "Over here, Jeff. Someone's up in a tree." By the time Jeff got over there, Mark was already scrambling up the wide branches until he reached the parachutist. He seemed to be about fifty, dressed only in a light jacket, and soaked and weakened from a long cold night. "I'll help you get down, Sir. Are you hurt?" "Yes I am. I think I broke a few ribs and my right leg is numb," the man whispered shakily. "We'll get you down ok, don't worry. Jeff, get up here." It took them half an hour to lift him hand over hand down the tree. Soon they had him laid comfortably on the ground covered by one of their coats. "One of us will go into town and call for a rescue team to come get you and take you to a hospital." "No, no! Don't do that," he cried in a emphatic voice tinged with fear. "I need to keep this little jump of mine a secret. Isn't there somewhere else I could go?" His pleading eyes looked up at them as they exchanged baffled glances with each other. "Well our cabin is just a quarter mile away," said Mark, making the decision as the older of the two. "We could take you there, make a fire and get you some blankets - let you warm up get some rest first." "Thanks. That would be best." The man paused for a moment, looking at their stalwart faces as if trying to make a decision, then added, "There should be a couple of suitcases nearby somewhere. If you could try to find them first...?" The Dobson boys scouted around and found a couple of heavy suitcases, tied in a nylon cord, and brought them back over to where the man was lying. "You can come back for those later. I need to get to your cabin first." Mark and Jeff took off their flannel shirts and fashioned a rude litter between two sturdy branches. Together they managed to carry their heavy burden to their cabin. Mark built a fire in the old wood stove while Jeff got the semi-conscious man out of his wet clothes, into a heavy spare sweater and pants, and piled three blankets on top of him. Mark kept watch on the sleeping man while Jeff trudged back down the trail to retrieve the suitcases. When he arrived back, he set the bags inside the door and beckoned for Mark to join him outside. "You know what's in them there suitcases, Mark? Money!" "Money? You're kidding me." "It's money sure as a skunk stinks. They were so heavy, I thought maybe he was one of those Mt. St. Helens geologists carrying around rock samples or something, but they are both packed with hundred dollar bills. There must be millions of dollars in there." Mark leaned back against the rough hewn boards of their cabin in amazement. "Well I'll be a ring-tailed raccoon." "We're rich. Think of what we could do with that!" "We are not going to do anything with it. It's not ours." "Yeah, you're right," Jeff sighed. "Maybe he'll give us some of it as a reward. We did probably save his life after all." "We'll ask him about it for sure when he comes to. Meanwhile, we gotta get back home pretty soon for supper." "Shouldn't one of us stay with him, in case he wakes up?" "And miss Thanksgiving dinner? I can't think of a single excuse Mom'd believe. Besides, he's going to sleep for hours and he's too banged up to go anywhere." "That's for sure. We'll have to get out of there as soon as we can tonight and just say we need to come back up here to do some fishing at dawn." "Ok, but not a word to anyone until we find out what's going on." They looked in on their sleeping invalid, put a couple of sandwiches and a jug of water by the bed, and left a note saying they would be right back. The hike back through the pristine forest was usually a silent one but this time it was peppered with conversation, speculation about their mysterious guest. As they pulled up in their pickup truck, the modest family home looked cosy to the boys, especially after spending half the day outdoors in the wet chill. An assortment of uncles, aunts, and cousins were there, most of whom they saw almost every day, but a few had made the drive down from Seattle. Upon entering their home, they were naturally overrun with hellos and hugs before they could pry themselves away to get out of their wet clothes and into a hot shower. Pausing for a deliciously smelling sniff at the kitchen, they settled in the den with everyone else in front of a football game. "How are things at the factory?" asked Uncle Fred. "Still working hard or hardly working?" "I'm working hard because I'm a foreman, you know," replied Mark. "But Jeff got laid off this week along with eighteen others." "Sorry to hear that, Jeff. What in the heck's the problem? That factory has done well for years." "Mismanagement," came the bitter reply from Jeff. "The Exron guys that are running it now have their heads up their asses. Pardon me ladies." This drew a round of laughter, as the women in the family used those words almost as often as the men. "My business was down 20% last year," a cousin piped in sourly. "If the factory goes down, everyone in town will suffer. People will have to try to live on Unemployment or drive an hour or more to Longview for work. Maybe even move out of town altogether." They all discussed the town's woes some more as the football game ended, though few of them really cared who had won. A news bulletin then came over the television. A man highjacked a Boing 727 last night. He demanded 200 million dollars, four parachutes, then had the plane take off for Mexico. Somewhere over Southwestern Washington he parachuted out of the airplane. Massive search efforts have been underway all day. A $25,000 reward for information is being offered. The brothers exchanged looks and Jeff was about to say something until Mark kicked him on the leg and shook his head quietly. There was a lot of discussion and speculation about the spectacular crime and the daring highjacker. Mark and Jeff now knew who it was sleeping in their cabin. After the meal was over and most of the family had left, the boys made their excuses, hopped back in the old battered pickup, and headed eagerly back to their cabin. "What'd you shush me for," Jeff complained. "You know who we got back there? We could collect that reward." "We're not collecting any reward just yet." "You thinking he might split some of that money with us?" "Even if he offers, we can't take stolen money," Mark replied firmly. "Yeah, it wouldn't be right," Jeff sighed. "I guess we'll wait and see what he has to say." They arrived back at the cabin with some leftover turkey, potatoes, and biscuits to find their guest awake and breathing comfortably. "We brought you a little Thanksgiving meal." said Mark. I'm sure you're hungry after your scary jump out of that 727 last night." After a long pause, he replied, "So, you know who I am. I suppose it was all over the news." He lay back with a little wince of pain and added, "Why haven't you turned me in?" "We wanted to hear what you had to say first," Jeff answered. "Why you did it. What did you plan to do next." "Let me sit up first, boys. I feel like a damned invalid lying down here." They helped him sit up on the bed and propped him up against the cabin wall with some pillows. "It's like this. I'm a sick man. I need an operation but the insurance company I worked for for twenty-six years fired me and cancelled my medical when they found out. I don't feel a bit sorry about taking their money this way. Those Exron weasels will find a way to write it off anyhow." "Hey. That's the same company that bought our factory last year." "Is that so? Well anyhow, I picked a 727 because it's the only airplane with a rear door that I could jump out of. I asked for four parachutes so they wouldn't know if I was taking a hostage or not - didn't want them to give me a bad one that wouldn't open. I used forty feet of cord from a spare one to tie the money to so I'd be able to feel the bags hit ground first and be prepared to land. Unfortunately, I landed right in a tree, as you saw. "My plan was to get a boat, float down to Portland at night, catch a bus out of the area, work my way up to Canada, and get a plane to Switzerland. They're pretty tight-lipped about money there. I can find ways to get rid of it slowly, have my operation, and start a new life somewhere else." He sighed. "I guess it was a foolish dream to try that stunt but I'm tickled pink that I've at least pulled it off this far." Jeff and Mark looked at each other and nodded. Mark took the lead. "You can stay here a week or so until you're mended and the search has died down a bit. Then we'll find you a boat and you can continue with your plan." "What? Really? Oh, thank you, boys. I can't believe you'd do this for me. It's pretty risky, though. You'd be accomplices after the fact." "Well we hate Exron too," said Jeff heatedly. "They are ruining our factory and dragging the whole town down with it." "That's a fact, said Mark. "We'll take that risk." "I should at least give you some of the money for helping me out." "No sir," said Mark. "We couldn't take any money that wasn't ours." "And besides, this is just a great adventure," added Jeff. "Everyone is looking for you and we're the only two people in the world who know where you are!" A week went by where they brought him food, taped up his ribs, and brought him some books and the daily papers so they could all have a good laugh at all the cockeyed theories the baffled media and police were spouting. They had some nice long chats together and found they really liked the each other. When the hubbub of the search had finally subsided a little, their fugitive decided it was time to try to make his getaway. They had repacked the money into a couple of large knapsacks and he was wearing some new clothes to complement the ten day beard he now had. Before climbing into the boat they had found him, they shook hands, wishing each other well. He gave them $5,000 to scatter 40 miles downriver tomorrow to make the searchers think he died or something and throw them off the scent. The last they saw of him, he was puttering off downsteam, giving them one last wave. The Dobson boys resumed their old routine with Jeff finding part-time work at the supermarket and Mark still toiling at the factory. Three months later, Mark got an early morning call from the factory vice-president, telling him to report to the board room and to bring Jeff with him. When they got there, feeling a little out of place in their jeans and flannel shirts among the neatly suited Board of Directors, they were ushered to two chairs near the head of the table. The chief honcho began: "We have a very curious letter from our home office that has been confirmed by phone. It concerns you two and we were hoping you could also shed some light on the matter. This factory has been bought by the XYZ Corporation of Geneva, Switzerland, and it names both of you, Mark Dobson and Jeff Dobson as the managers. There is a very generous salary and performance bonuses if the factory shows a profit every year. They have also established a large discretionary fund which you are in charge of. What would you gentlemen know about all this?" "Got me," Mark replied with a straight face. "Maybe we got some long lost rich uncle that died." "Or maybe we just have an anonymous benefactor," Jeff added. "I see. Well it is not our duty to investigate. The documents have been checked out thoroughly by our legal staff and they are all in order. One more thing. There is this sealed certified letter addressed to the both of you." Taking the letter, Mark stood up. "In that case, gentlemen, I guess you can clean out your desks and hit the road. We'll be taking over Monday morning." They still have the letter, which they take out of it's hiding place and read occasionally, just for fun. Dear Mark and Jeff, As you may have guessed, I am the XYZ Corporation. Since I have a lot of money now, I can afford to make some investments. I think this will be a good one as I know you young men will do a fine job. You can use the discretionary fund to make some improvements around town or help some other businesses, whatever you feel is right. I trust you. I know you don't want anyone giving you any money but if you work hard, you will earn a whole lot. It's not too much to say you saved my life, and I'll never forget you for that. Yours Truly, D.B. Cooper |
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| 200 Million Dollars by D. S. Foxx bookwyrm@prodigy.net |
#7 of 12 |
| 815 words | |
| Clara gazed up at the stars, a wistful smile on her
face, as visions of lottery tickets danced like sugarplums in her head. "What
are sugarplums, anyway?" she murmured. "Are they a different fruit from regular
plums, or iced, or what?" Her husband, Chris, rolled over to look at her. "It’s July," he said. "Yeah. And?" "Why are you thinking about sugarplums?" "I wasn’t." She turned her head to smile at him, then went back to staring at the night sky. "Thanks for the skylight. Best anniversary present yet." "Only anniversary present yet." He kissed her shoulder. "What were you thinking about?" "Oh, lottery tickets." His laughter rolled over her like friendly thunder. "In the name of the Nutcracker prince and all his army, I do love you, Clara mine." * Every night since she could remember, Clara had wished the same wish, one she’d never spoken aloud in all her life. She’s sworn she never would, for fear it wouldn’t come true. It was the one thing she hadn’t even shared with Chris. Hers, hers alone; her dream, her wish. My namesake had her adventure. Maybe I can have mine. Though she didn’t dream of a prince to love—she had that. Oh, please. She reached the front of the line at last, and bought her weekly lottery ticket. The same numbers every time, the same whispered prayer. Please. * Chris joined her by the television with a bowl of popcorn in his hands. "Didja win? Can we buy that sailboat I’ve been lusting after and travel the globe?" Clara smiled. "I do love you," she said. But she never looked away from the screen. The first number fell. One of hers. Beside her, Chris laughed. The second, another one she’d picked. She stifled her hope. She’d gotten partial wins before. The third, and Chris crowed, bouncing so a few kernels escaped from the bowl. She failed to notice them fall around her feet. All her attention was on the TV screen; she didn’t even breathe as she watched the numbers come. Five. Then six. The annoyingly playful pause they programmed in. Her chest felt tight. Please oh please oh please. "What’s the jackpot tonight?" Chris’ voice sounded strained; she reached for his hand. His fingers greasy in hers, they stood waiting. The last number finally fell. "Oh." Clara didn’t know she’d made a sound. All seven numbers, hers. After all the years, all the waiting, hers. Chris pulled her into a hug; she stood, numb, unresponsive. Blinked, slowly. Again. And then a smile began, as she realized: she’d won! A two hundred million dollar jackpot, and she’d won! She reached up to pull her husband down into a kiss, but couldn’t pucker her lips, too busy laughing. "I won! I won!" "You sure did," Chris shouted. "You won!" He bounced around with her for a long minute, then fell panting back onto the couch, ignoring the popcorn he’d managed to spill onto the seats. Clara thought she’d never loved him so much as in that moment. She’d won, he’d said. Not ‘we.’ If her wish cost the entire amount of her winnings, she was sure that he wouldn’t stand in the way of her dream. Maybe he’ll want to go, too. Two hundred million dollars; maybe we can. She leapt upon him, ignoring the smears of butter and crushed popcorn, and wrapped herself around his body in an octopus embrace. The television still on, ignored behind them, they celebrated for hours, bathed in star- and moonlight and cathode rays. Until the late-late-night movie was interrupted by a breaking-news flash. Clara heard the newshead speak, and his words chilled her heart: ". . . today announced the cancellation of all spaceflights, without exception. No country shall attempt to breach the stratosphere. . ." "No. Oh, please, no." Clara paled as she listened; beneath her, Chris looked up, puzzled. His wife had never expressed any interest in world politics. "No. No!" "What’s wrong, sugar?" Clara made no response. Her skin was cold to his touch; he began to worry. "Clara? What’s wrong, love?" She said nothing until the broadcast was finished, then looked at him, all hope gone from her eyes. "All I ever wanted," she said, her voice flat. "My only wish. . ." "What?" When she shrugged, he gripped her face in his hands, trying to warm her. "Tell me, what did you wish?" She pointed up at the skylight, up at the stars. So far away, but not inaccessible, not quite. There was always a chance. If you had enough money, enough power, enough luck. Russia had sold tickets, NASA had run a contest a few times. . . there had been hope, at least a little bit. But now. . . "Two hundred million dollars," she whispered. And the tears flowed down her face, shining in the light like a sugar glaze. |
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| 200 Million Dollars by GPain97046@aol.com |
#8 of 12 |
| 226 words | |
| She was talking to her love and her hands moved with
wild gestures. When she yanked her black leather hat off, I could see her white
curly hair. Black leather pants and matching vest accented her slimness. Her
feet were in tiny black leather boots. Her voice carried over to where I stood. Her angry words were hard to hear, so I nonchalantly moved closer. "I’ve given you everything and still you want more. Why?" Her face started to flush and her blue eyes glared at her love. No reply! "I adore and idolize you. Doesn’t that count for something?" She slapped her black leather gloves on her legs. No reply! "I don’t have anymore to give." She sat down and I could see the tears in her eyes. No reply! "Hell, you’re not worth it. People said you’d do this and I refused to listen." She threw her hat on the floor and began to pace. I moved closer. I had to hear the rest. "Oh why, can’t you give me something in return?" Now I could hear sadness in her every word. No reply! "Okay, here’s my last dollar. I hope you’re happy." She practically threw it. This time there was a reply! Bells started to clank and whistles began to blow when the slot machine hit the progressive jackpot worth 200 million dollars. |
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| 200 Million Dollars by ligtop@yahoo.com |
#9 of 12 |
| 2499 words | |
| It was a cold and wintry
night on that December day. Star-stricken and accompanied by a radiant moon,
the night was illuminating a misty bluish essence over the land. Occasional
clumps of cumulus clouds curtailed the dark ambiance. Randomly, they passed
across the heavens, governing the duration of moon rays beaming below. The
scene emitted a romantic flare that set a tone of stellar calmness. A postcard
portrait in the making, if you will; cold and wet and beginning to snow. It was
Christmas Eve. The snow was as frosty as ever, flagrantly falling to the girth of the warm earth--some flakes bigger than others but none claiming to be like any other. The snow shower increased and began to plow its way over the river and deep into the bosky woods, which spread out wide, corralling trees with arm-like branches extending high in the sky like an assembly of tall cheerleaders reaching up in unison and shouting, "Go! Go! Go! As fast as you can!" The trees, docile and bare, gave refuge to the collected heaps of white snow. Standing gallantly still, the trees took on the image of tall, dark skeletons stretching out, wearing pads of white armor. Their deciduous nature signified the presence of the wintry wrath. Although appearing delicate and fragile, they sometimes displayed a presence of wickedness and fright. Their trunks were massive and valiant, yet life within them was only denoted by the gentle swaying of their limbs, bestowing a mirage of seemingly choreographed marionettes in a twisted ballet. This was, of course, whenever the wind picked up, since otherwise they remained gallantly still. Through the trees and mist-blown snow, the sight of a town emerged. Footprints and melted circles around storm sewers indicated a busy town. If not for the evergreens and faint, multicolored Christmas decorations, the landscape would have rendered only shades of black and white. But to the likewise, this town was full of passion and heart. Animals and civilians alike abounded, meandering in this small town of Gofelburg, just outside Peoria. Gofelburg had their share of home-grown stars. One of them was Jack Lang. He traveled all over the country singing with his band, "The Clan." With long dark hair parted in the middle, he often sported a beard. His slender face had an appealing smile. The ladies were known to swoon over his angelic persona. Jack came from a musical family. His father was the bandleader of the famous High-Timers, and his mother, Rose, was an operatic singer and occasional track runner. Jack had a knack for both melody and harmony, a soulfully angelic singing voice, and a natural gift for romantic expression. The man, as some may say, could flat-out sing. Jack Lang had his share of disappointments, but he focused on trying to make a better life for himself. Most of his free time was spent with his three kids. His wife was afflicted with a rare genetic malady called Spurz-Zelp syndrome, which causes the brain to swell down into the face. Most refer to this as a Zelp attack or Z tag. On the streets it had come to be known as "having the Zelp." Jack just told the kids that mommy was sick. The effect of SZ on the brain is horrible and the disfigurement to the face, uncanny. Z-shaped spores embed themselves into the brain stem. No one is quite sure of the source, but wherever it is, it must be top secret. The spores are harmless when they lay dormant. However, once triggered by certain amino protein chains, called X-Trites, it’s simply bad news. Many refer to this as "catching the X factor." Some call it the Max Factor, while others emphasize it more emphatically as, "Red X." Jack knew something was wrong on the night he last made love to his wife. Streaks of red rippled through the whites of her bulging eyes. Her jaw jutted and a hankering of mucus dribbled out over her lower lip. Her ears flapped and a squalling sound came whistling through her nose. At first he thought it was his raging lovemaking. Dumbfounded, and to the contrary, he noticed that this was something of greater concern. Exponentially, her eyes and facial features began to enlarge, unveiling ever more that something was amiff. Soon, her tongue swelled and protruded permanently through her mouth, lifting her upper lip just under her nose. Her ears flipped forward and extended outward while the back of her hair stood up and twisted to a point. With her eyes ballooning out and her eyebrow bones surging forward, Jack finally made arrangements to see Gofelburg’s top "head and shoulder" specialist. After months with the disorder, her face retained these expressions as she lay comatose near the dining room, behind the couch under a corner table on an old antique Oriental rug Jack had bartered for at an auction years ago when his wife was healthy. His wife desperately needed an antidote. Jack headed out that day to the grocery store. While there, he spotted an old college lover. His heart began to pound because he still harbored deep feelings for her. He kept saying her name in his head, "Dana Syne, Dana Syne." He could feel goosebumps all inside. Wow, he thought, I can’t believe it. There she is, beautiful as ever, moving passionately down the aisles with that powerful, radiant smile and wide-open eyes like deep pools of ocean blue. Her cheeks, he noticed, were soft and robust, unifying her smile and eyes, giving her that stunning, jaw-dropping appearance. She had made her way to the frozen food section. Jack slid over unnoticed and grabbed her on the sleeve. When she turned to look, her face squinted, denoting non-recognition. Then suddenly her eyes opened wide and she smiled. She appeared very excited to see Jack and went to hug him. Just then, the strap on her purse snagged on a protruding canister of some unidentified frozen beverage, spilling everything out. Embarrassingly, a condom dropped at their feet. Dana smiled and winked to break the tension. Seeing this, they both grabbed each other and laughed out loud. They kept laughing uncontrollably until they both cried. People were whispering as they walked around all the stuff that spilled out on the floor, especially the condom that lay in the middle of the aisle. Dana was immersed in the meeting and never took notice. However, Jack did take notice and was a bit aroused by the sexual doohickey that lay nearby. Why, pray tell, was Dana carrying a condom in her purse? Jack and Dana agreed to head up front to pay for their groceries. They talked a bit more while they waited for their groceries to be bagged and totaled. Jack kept trying to come up with some interesting conversation to keep her attention but his jokes and accolades dead-ended. Dana also tried to keep the conversation going by talking about S&M. Jack’s eyes flew wide open. This worked, but it still was rather awkward and the conversation dragged. Dana invited Jack out for some drinks. They got in her car and drove around for a while but nothing was open. Jack elected to get a six-pack of beer at the liquor store and just drink it in her car. She laughed, noting what a backward town it was not to have an open bar on Friday night. They soon made their way back to his car at the Piggly Wiggly parking lot. Kicking back, they snapped open their beers. He asked her about her husband and although she spoke proudly, she couldn’t lie about whether she really loved him or not. On that note, they drank a toast to what love is. Jack took a big gulp of beer and told Dana the whole story regarding his wife. He told her how he felt empty inside. She too exclaimed her emptiness. On that note, they drank a toast to emptiness. Both seemed to struggle with what they wanted out of life. It seemed that neither knew how to reach beyond the emptiness of negation. Dana’s eyes peered deep inside Jack. Jack then stroked her face and expressed how time had been good to her. She smiled back and dropped her head with embarrassment. Not responding, Jack wasn’t sure if she was doubtful or gracious. His gut feeling was that she wanted him. Of course, he knew there was a good chance that it was just the liquor talking. Dana reached over and grabbed his leg. She smiled and mentioned that she was aware of his success and that she often bought his records. Jack acknowledged and smirked while conceding. He followed by grabbing her hand and pulling it up a bit toward his crotch. He said that he loved singing to the audience and loved their reaction. He told her that when he sings, he commands the stage and women lose themselves. He went on to tell her that the traveling did take its toll but the rewards were cha ching. On that note, they both drank a toast to cha ching. Jack and Dana were really drunk from all their toasting. It seemed a toast was in order regarding anything they discussed. For Jack, this was ok because deep down he always wanted to get her drunk and see what would happen. Slurring his words, he looked at her with a swagger in his eye and asked her more about her husband. She went on to say that she had actually found out his architect job was a cover up for a covert espionage operative regarding genetic rendering. She had found a deposit slip for 200 million dollars from a thug group; code name "Ousted." Going through his paper work, she saw all the complicated plans to sicken and control the population with a comatose virus. She continued with her findings, which included a chemical key and an antidote serum. Something about "dousing the Red X." Jack smirked and crossed his eyes as he sighed while staring down the Piggly Wiggly sign. He was buzzing and feeling really relaxed and very anxious. He was starting to really feel attracted to Dana at this point. He then told her about his wife and how she was laid up like a useless vegetable. He said she was average at best, in her prime, but in the last years she was exclusively a nag and a whiny, self-centered, controlling bitch. He continued explaining that she laid around a lot and got fatter by the Cheeto. Sometimes he would call her the "hog on the battered, dented platter." He expressed that he was actually fed up with her shit. He explained that doctors assured him that the more time passed, the more likely she would be out for the count. On that note, they drank a toast to time. By now they were both immersed with each other and drunk off their asses. Meeting in the Piggly Wiggly, they agreed, was more than mere innocence. On that note, they drank a toast to innocence. Their hands fevered more intensely on each other. Jack was totally captivated by his lust and coy behavior. Deep down he was feeling the fury of the beast within. He was putting aside everything and focusing solely on Dana’s touch and passionate expletives. On that note, they drank a toast to expletives. Dana looked over at Jack. Jack looked at Dana. They looked at each other with firmer and intent. Their eyes were affixed and their minds and bodies were locked, linked, and bound by a universal, barbaric, driven desire. Jack tried to toast, but spilled his beer in his lap. Once again, they laughed out loud until they cried. He told her he had to pee. She laughed and then dropped her head in his lap, biting his pocket. He said he could wait. Jack and Dana were all over each other. Hands and feet mingled and lips pressing tightly and firmly locked. The pressure from their intense coddling broke the supports on the front seats. Now they were bent over backwards and looking at each other in the lay-down position. Jack tried to reach for his beer but Dana grabbed his hand instead and laid it in her lap. She moved it around while puckering her lips and rolling her eyes with flatteration. She whispered that her little red fox was trying to breathe. Jack responded that the foxhunter bear the calling. All of a sudden the spark of obsession and grappling smoldered. Jack laid Dana backside to the rear seat. Dana responded with splendor and elation. Her passion for desire ignited and her lust for compassion surrendered. Jack too was feeling the lust. He started at her upper legs, then moved his hands firmly and controlling down toward her ankles. There he looked deep in her eyes and slowly spread her legs out wide. As she complied with fervor, he lowered his head down and pulled her panties down with a teasing, delicate bite. Dana looked at Jack, and in his eyes she could see the reflection of "Piggly Wiggly." Temporarily distracted, she maintained and allowed herself to feel submissive. Jack took the lead as they maneuvered their nakedness in the right position. He gently grabbed her smooth calves and lightly kissed her well-manicured, shapely feet. She responded by grabbing him firmly by his manly unit and stroking it softly before bringing it home to meet the red fox. Things intensified, as usual would be. Both Jack and Dana were so relieved that the moment finally came after all these years. Pun intended. As they finished with their love, Jack sat up and reached for his beer. Dana sat up too and began to make poignant excuses why she needed to leave. They realized their beers were empty and their tongues were tired. The conversation became lame and both recognized that there was nothing left to say. Jack buttoned his shirt, and as he started to get out, she leaned over and kissed him. For a moment Jack felt like he was back in school. And inside he felt the pain of not having her when he was a young and vibrant stallion. For him it was good, but back then it would have been monumental and sincerely colossal. Jack stood there with his back to the Piggly Wiggly and watched her start her car. He could see the big pink pig reflected in her window. He thought of his wife. Dana lowered her window slightly and waved good-bye. Jack waved back, then got in his car. He reflected on the experience and, as he drove away, the snow turned into rain. He wasn’t sure, but he thought he heard a saxophone playing an old Scottish tune somewhere deep in the melting snow-laden night. |
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| 200 Million Dollars by mrwrleft@yahoo.com |
#10 of 12 | |
| 1831 words | ||
| Trying to kill the remaining minutes of a
Friday, Percy Tinkerton went to the lunchroom to get another cup of coffee.
Two of his coworkers, Dan Walker and Bill Paign, were standing there already, with their coffee mugs half full and laughing at a joke Bill had just told.
The men laughed and moved to other jokes. Percy looked at his wristwatch, saw that it was six to five and left the lunchroom. The memory of the joke remained on his mind and kept him smiling while he drove home. There he changed into a robe and ate the Chicken Divan casserole, that his wife, Meg, had cooked. Then Percy pushed his plate away, looked over at his wife and smiled, while rubbing his chin, "Honey, what would you do if someone offered you a million dollars to sleep with him?" He asked her playfully. "You mean, like in that movie, 'Indecent Proposal'?" "Kinda…" "I'd take it, of course. Who would pass up a chance like that?" "You mean, just like that?" Percy felt a little dryness in his mouth. "Just like that," she passed Percy his cup of cappuccino, "Why? Do you have someone in mind?" "But darling," Percy's mouth felt even dryer, "I thought you loved me." Meg looked at him with coldness for a moment, but then broke into laughter. "Ha! Ha! Ha!.. I got you honey. Ha! Ha! Ha! … I got you." Meg finally stopped and hugged him from the back, "Darling, No amount of money in the world is gonna make me stop loving you, not a million and not 200 million dollars." "Ha! Ha! Ha!" Percy slapped himself on the knees, "you got me darling," his tongue wasn't dry anymore, "You got me good..." "200 Million Dollars," Percy’s face assumed a thoughtful expression, when the last bit of laughter, inside him subsided. "I wonder why you chose that number?" "I don’t know, it’s just a big number I guess. Why?" "No, darling. It’s not just a big number. It’s a number, that symbolizes the American dream. Because, think about it, I mean anymore, a million is not that much ." "It’s big money, all right. We could move from this dump, into a nice house. We could buy nice cars, travel to South America or Europe. Instead of sitting here in this dump, with all these credit card debts, a leaking roof, a broken air conditioning and our old bed, that squeaks, so much." "That’s not what I mean. Yes, it’s big money, and you could stop doing massages. I hate it when you touch other men and…and…" an expression of irritation, momentarily crossed Percy’s face, "200 million…" Percy bit his lip and rolled his eyes, "200 million is …is a dream. How could anyone even spend that much money? Let’s say you have it. What would you buy, besides a new house?" "Don’t worry, hon. Just give it to me. I won’t have a problem spending it." "You know what I think," Percy lifted his finger and waved it, "I think the government should limit the money one person can have to 200 million dollars. Really." "Now you’re talking like a commie." "No, not like a commie. I don’t want to take all the money from the rich, just the amount that exceeds the American dream." "That’s silly. Why frustrate yourself by thinking of such things. You’re always such a... such a dreamer." "Women," Percy waved at Meg dismissingly and got up to go to the bathroom. "Your kind have no imagination." Sitting in the bathroom, Percy went over this scene: the glittery, impossible, dreamy amount of 200 million dollars and his wife’s answer. A gust of warmth and tenderness for his wife filled his heart. "Darling," returning to the kitchen, he interrupted her usual chatter, about the savings she made, using manufacturer coupons and the new bedspread she eyed in Target. "I am so happy that you are my wife, that we are together, and that…" he couldn’t finish because of the lump in his throat. Meg looked at him inquisitively, picked up the empty plates and put them in the sink. "Yes. Me too honey, me too." Then, after thinking a tad, she added "Did you stop by the bar with the boys? I didn’t notice any smell." Later in bed, stopping in the middle of the action, Percy, still full of tenderness asked Meg: "Do you feel me, my love? Do you feel me loving you?" "Of course, I feel you." She slapped him on the butt, "Why did you stop? Go on." Then after a moment she started giggling. This time Percy stopped again, in astonishment. "What’s up?" "It’s the bed. We’ve got to save up and buy another one. It’s so distracting." "Honey," Percy’s voice trembled with reproach. "Just forget about all the bills and credit cards and the stupid bed! Just be with me, only with me, at least for these moments!" "Sorry hon. It just occurred to me. Go on, go on." "Well, now, I sort of lost my momentum." "Oh, honeeeeeeey, let me help you with that." In the days that followed, Percy was in an elevated mood. Work didn’t seem that boring, his boss, not as abusive and belittling, co-workers, not as nosy and backstabbing and then on Wednesday he came home to a big surprise. Instead of going right to the kitchen, Meg led him to the bedroom and made a wide "a la commercial" gesture in the direction of the bed "What do ya think?" "Oh, it’s beautiful." Percy went around looking, touching and testing it. "Oak?" "Yes, honey, yes! And look." Meg jumped on it with all her might, "it doesn’t squeeeek!!!" Suddenly, an unpleasant thought, infiltrated Percy’s mind. "It must be expensive? How much was it?" "That’s the best part," Meg got up looking away from him, "it cost us nothing." "How so?" the "expect a miracle" smile, was ready to return to Percy’s face. "Well, remember, I told you ‘bout Mr. Hanapen, the one that comes twice a week, for a full body massage. Well, he, Mr. Hanapen, you know, he has the bed factory in the Valley." Meg continued, looking away. Percy’s expression slowly changed from the "expect a miracle" smile and toward a look of concern. "…and Mr. Hanapen always talks so proudly about his factory. You know: what variety of products he has and how much profit he makes stuff like that … and he is always so friendly with me and gives me a good tip. So last week, on Tuesday, he told me he wants to give me a bed as a present. And I, naturally, go ‘sure,’ cus we need a new bed. And he goes ‘when do you want it to be delivered?’ and I go ‘whenever’ and he goes ‘how’s a week from Wednesday sounds?’ and I go, ‘That’ll be great’ and so they delivered it today." Meg stopped and looked at Percy with a hopeful smile. By this time Percy’s expression had arrived at a look of concern. "And what did you do last Tuesday, for this guy, that he all of a sudden, decided to give you a present?" "Nothing, honey," Meg grabbed Percy’s hand. "I was surprised myself." Percy didn’t say anything, but his mood went down from the mountain it had been on for the last couple of days, to sea level. The memory of her constant nagging, about the squeaky bed and its miracle emergence suddenly came together in his mind. "I know everything!" He said unexpectedly, after a substantial silence, at the dinner table. Meg blushed. "What? What are you talking about?" "I know what happened that Tuesday." "What do you mean? Lot’s of things happened last Tuesday. Which one do you have in mind?" "You know which one! The one that happened between you and that guy. Mister... whatever his name was." "Mr. Hanapen?" "Yes, him." "What are you talking about? I did a regular full body on him." "Oh, come on. Don’t try to cover it up. You let him fuck you, didn’t you?" Percy got up and started pacing the kitchen floor like a caged animal. "I know it, I just can see it," he continued, while Meg waited, with the look of someone who is just waiting for a chance to respond. "And this is after you promised me, right here, in this very spot, that you’d never do it. Not even for 200 million dollars." "Now, you hold it right there, buster! What in the world are you talking about?" Meg finally blew up. "He is, at least, sixty years old. If I wanted money, I wouldn't have married YOU. I could have had a sugar daddy, just like this," Meg snapped her fingers. "I could have had everything! A nice house by the ocean, a nice car, and … but I am not like all these money-sucking bitches. I work and work hard. And I don't fuck around and didn't fuck him. So what if I helped him jack off? Is it my fault that they pay more for that stuff, than for a therapeutic massage? Do you think I’d be doing that if you’d bring home a decent paycheck? Do you think it's pleasant to hold on to a sixty-year old dick?" "It's prostitution, cus you still did it for money." Percy mumbled. "For Money? For money! No, you nincompoop - for YOU. I did it for our family, so our bed wouldn't squeak at night. I am sick and tired of hearing your bullshit!" Angry tears rolled out of her eyes. "…and what has 200 million got to do with anything? We can barely make our mortgage payment. We can’t fix the damn roof. I can’t even buy a decent dress. And it’s all because YOU are such a dreamer! Such a dummy!" She bit her lip, yan | ||