Byron Wins The Lottery

After class had ended, I strolled out into the student parking lot. However, a foreboding sight had caused me to halt dead in my tracks. There, leaning up against the rear of a black stretch limousine, stood Byron.

   Byron Jacobson, as I remembered him, was an impoverished, good natured, easygoing and down to earth, nerdy, yet simply minded kind of guy, who came from a very poor family. Although presently, for some unknown reason, everything about him seemed different, in fact, he appeared to have changed immensely. For he now held himself prominently tall and proud, reminding me of a demented live version of The Statue of Liberty.

   Moreover, while leaning up against the rear of the black stretch limousine, two overdressed showpiece women hung onto each of his arms. Also, towering to the far side of each woman strutted a pair of threatening looking, what had to be, Byron’s bodyguards. As for Byron, he doubly flaunted himself, blazing like a flashing neon sign. A true, bubblegum, smug and gloating, vainly polished from head to toe, wannabe Dashing Dapper Dan.

   His attire consisted of a top hat, adorned with a giant feather sticking out from its top, a monocle and a lit cigarette extended from a black, lengthy cigarette holder, which he clamped down upon tightly between his set of flamboyant gold front teeth. Overlaying his entire body shimmered a sleek and glossy, full-length fur coat of some sort. Upon his fingers shone an array of ultra-gaudy, super-sized gold rings, each exhibiting a different colored stone. Around his right wrist sparkled a conglomeration of tennis bracelets, while his left wrist featured an elegant, expensive looking watch. Dangling from his neck glittered a dozen or so, thick, gold rope chains. While alongside the black limousine, and topping his ostentatious display, marched Byron’s chauffeur, who proudly paraded around his master’s pit bulldog, which wore a gold collar. I was so stunned by this sight, that when Byron and his overbearing entourage approached me, I had already been figuratively frozen dead in my tracks for what seemed like, although it couldn’t have been, a considerable amount of minutes:

   “If you have any questions,” Byron asked, “money is the answer. In reality, money is the answer to ninety-nine percent of all questions.”

   “But why, Byron, why are you now speaking with a fake British accent?”

   “Because, Billy, it accentuates my debonair, sheik and natural air, of magnetic savoir-faire, babe. Long live thy Queen, me bloody good chap!” Byron then snapped his fingers, “ ‘Monday,’ cappuccino!”

   One of Byron’s bimbo concubine women jolted her way over to his stretch limousine. She quickly opened the rear drivers’ side door, hopped inside, and equally as quickly closed the door behind her.

   Again Byron snapped his fingers, “ ‘Tuesday,’ ashes!”

   The second bimbo woman immediately removed the black, lengthy cigarette holder from Byron’s mouth. She flicked the holder’s ashes, only to quickly reinsert it.

   “Damn, Byron,” I spoke, “you’re so far behind in the race that you actually think you’re leading. In truth, you haven’t got a prayer.”

   “Prayer schmayer, savoir-faire! I’m wealthy, therefore people should be praying to me. In fact, I’m so successful that instead of alien abductors probing me, they would ask me to probe them. Ah-ha-ha… Boy, oh boy, how could anyone not love knowing that I won the Millionaire’s Lottery? Yes sirree, I’ve inherited $3,939,489 hunky-dory smackarooskis, babe, and I deserve every single cent.”

   “The only thing you’ve inherited is your inflated sense of entitlement.”

   “Yeah, well, nobody’s perfect, Billy-Willy. Although, I’m actually very well rounded, for I have a chip on both shoulders.” Byron chuckled. “Think Big - Do Big, End of Story!”

   Just then the rear drivers’ side door to the stretch limo popped wide open, the first bimbo woman stepped out. With the heel of her bright yellow stiletto shoe she kicked the door closed behind her. After scuttling her way back to Byron, she obligingly handed him a full mug of cappuccino. She then awkwardly leaned over, patiently holding out another mug of cappuccino beneath Byron’s pit bulldog’s snout, enabling him to gluttonously slop it up. During this affectatious setting, Byron, with his pinky finger sticking way out, had struck an obnoxious pose while loudly slurping down his own full mug of cappuccino:

   “Sluuuuuuuuurrrrrrrrrrrrrrpppppppppp! Burp! Auuuuuuuuuuhhhhhhhhhhhh! Now that jolly well hit the spot.” “Tuesday, tidy me royal mouth!”

   The second bimbo woman quickly dashed to Byron’s side, racing to wipe off her master’s mouth with her handkerchief.

   “To maintain an ego such as mine, one should change his women as often as he changes his socks. It’s too bad there’re only seven days to a week though, otherwise I’d have myself plenty more love-slaves than just a meager seven.” “Monday, me forehead!”

   Now the first bimbo woman dashed quickly to Byron’s side, racing to wipe off the perspiration from her overlord’s forehead with her handkerchief:

   “Whoops, Monday, you missed a spot!” Byron shouted, “What the Hell’s wrong with you? Now hurry up and do it again, and this time try to get it right!”

   “Oh, I’m so terribly sorry, my dearest darling, stallion, sire. Here now, how’s th’…?”

   Before Monday had a chance to make amends, or even finish her sentence, Byron relished in the opportunity to deliberately belittle her:

   “Nevermind, Monday!” Byron again snapped his fingers, “Tuesday, fix!”

   Tuesday instantly took over, amending Monday’s innocent oversight.

   “I need to keep an eye on these incompetent servants of mine. By the way, wouldn’t you just love owning a full-length chinchilla fur coat, like mine? It has become such a part of me that I’ve even listed it on my organ donor card. Ah-ha-ha… Yes sirree, it most certainly is one beautiful sight, now isn’t it, Billy?”

   “In your dreams, Byron, and it’s almost June, aren’t you a bit warm?”

   “Warm, swarm, the poor are uninformed, but I’m not, because I’m rich, End Of Story!”

   At that exact same moment while Byron the poser was muttering the words, “I’m rich,” I happened to glance down to also notice his limo license plate reading these identical appalling words, “IM RICH.” He then went off on this boastful, show-off tirade of his:

   “My two front teeth are both eighteen-karat gold. My rings are all twenty-two-karat gold, each sporting a precious stone. My fourteen-karat gold tennis bracelets all contain twenty ten-point diamonds. Half of my rope chains are eighteen-karat gold, and the other half are all solid platinum. My dog’s collar, which displays his name, ‘Nero,’ spelled out entirely in flawless emerald cut diamond chips, is completely fourteen-karat gold. But my pride and joy, my crème de la crème, is my Patek Philippe watch. This watch cost more than what many people make in five years. Oh, and this feather sticking out from the tippy top of my top hat is a genuine exotic ostrich feather. Truthfully speaking, why I admire myself so much that I also live vicariously through myself, too. Ah-ha-ha… Oh, and um, did I mention that when I’m in Rome, the Romans do as I do? Ah-ha-ha… Yet, there’s just one thing I can’t do, and that is, I can’t lose!” Byron then again snapped his fingers, “Monday, me monocle’s dirty!” “And Blake, don’t just stand there like the dumb chauffeur that you are, Nero just made a doo-doo! Hurry up now and wipe his butt!”

   “Very good, sir, I’d be happy to get right on it,” replied Blake.

   “Boy, Byron, you sure did let your lottery winnings go to your head, didn’t you?”

   “Why that simply isn’t so, Silly-Billy. However, who knows, maybe someday you will also win the Millionaires’ Lottery. Although, instead of you receiving a million dollars in either cash, or in annuity payments of fifty thousand dollars a year, every year for twenty years, you’d probably end up winning ‘The Penny Pincher’s Millionaire Lottery,’ where the recipient receives a million dollars in annuity payments of a dollar a year, every year for a million years. Ah-ha-ha…”

   “Oh, go to Hell, Byron!”

   “I already went to Hell, Billy, but your mother said you weren’t home. Ah-ha-ha…”

   “I can’t believe you actually just said that,” I rebutted, “but my mother said I wasn’t home. Sheesh, Byron, what are you, five, six, or seven years old?”

   “Age is only a number, Billy. If I were six, then in dog years I’d be forty-two. But, hey now, speaking of dogs, I once had a dog named ‘Help.’ Yet, for some reason, every single time I called him, dozens of people came running. Ah-ha-ha…” “Anyway, hey, Monday, a round of Dom Perignon! Presto, lickety-split, chop-chop, snap-snap, hurry up now, because time is money!” “And hey, Tuesday, shine me, and I mean like, pronto!”

   “My pleasure, one round of Dom Perignon coming up in a jiffy, sir,” replied Monday.

   “Yes, sir, will do, I’ll have those royal shoes shining like mirrors,” responded Tuesday.

   “Hey, Billy, maybe you’ll have better luck winning at the racetrack? Oh, and here’s a tip for you tomorrow at Monmouth, ‘Toilet Seat’ in the first, put all yuh can on it. Ah-ha-ha… You get it? Boy, oh boy, I’m so funny that I’m even the life of the parties I don’t attend. Ah-ha-ha… Hey now, my-my, how I just love my money. Ah-ha-ha… End Of Story!”

   “Money, money, money, is this all you now know, Byron,” I asked, “and all you ever think about? Your warped, uppity, one track mind’s logic makes no sense whatsoever.”

   “Yeah, well, I’m rich, Silly-Billy, therefore I don’t have to make any sense. Whereas, if you had any cents, I’m quite certain you’d spend it. Ah-ha-ha… As for me, why I find myself so impressive that occasionally I give myself my own autograph. Ah-ha-ha… Oh, and by the way, you may not want to admit it, but you know as well as I know, that all roads lead to Byron. Ah-ha-ha…”

   “You blindly wallow in your idea of success, Byron, but you’re a total failure as a person, with nothing good ever coming out of your mouth!”

   “Oh, you want me to say something good, do you now, Billy? Here you go, not only do I have some good news, but I also have some great news. The good news is that I bought the apartment complex, which you, your wife, and your daughter live in, and the great news is that I’m now your landlord. Ah-ha-ha…”

   “You’re a monster, Byron! I wonder how many times I have to flush before you disappear?”

   “Oh, and uh, since I’m now your landlord,” commented Byron while wearing an evil, smug grin, “I’d appreciate it if you’d start addressing me as Sir Lord Byron.”

   “It’ll be a cold day in Hell before that happens.” I proclaimed.

   “Suit yourself, William, but by law I’m allowed to raise your rent.”

   “You’re despicable, Byron! Because of you the gene pool now needs a lifeguard.”

   I then turned around and began walking away, heading for my car:

   “Ah, leaving so soon, Billy-Willy?” Byron chuckled, “And we were just starting to get acquainted, you could have became a part of the team. Ah-ha-ha… Why not have your people call my people, we’ll do brunch? Ah-ha-ha…”

   “Is maintaining a captive audience your only means of companionship, Byron?”

   “Why, Silly-Billy-Willy,” Byron smirked, “I take it you didn’t receive my memo. It’s standard corporate procedure for all questions to be submitted in writing.”

   “You know something, Byron, somewhere there’s a village missing its idiot.”

   “Yeah well, that maybe so, Silly-Billy. But, don’t forget that you live in my apartment complex. However, I know that you are very poor. In fact, you are so poor that you can’t even afford to pay attention. Ah-ha-ha…”

   “Why don’t you go play leapfrog with a unicorn, Byron!”

   I then got into my car and drove home. Although, just one minute after arriving home, my telephone rang:

   (Ring… Ring… Ring…)

   “Hello.”

   “How’s it hanging, Billy? It’s your caring and most compassionate landlord, Sir Lord Byron. I’m calling to inform you that your rent has been raised by just a marginal $50.00 per month, due today.”

   “You’re a monster, Byron, and you should be ashamed of yourself.”

   “Well, smack my smorgasbord! You think that I ‘should be ashamed of myself’? Why, even if that were the case, Billy-Willy, I just so happen to have a very forgiving nature, therefore, I forgive myself. Ah-ha-ha…”

   “You’ll have your rent!” (Click!) I abruptly hung up the phone.

   A minute later the telephone rang again:

   (Ring… Ring… Ring…)

   “Hello.”

   “Hey Billy, you now something, I’ll never forget the one thing you taught me.”

   “Oh yeah, Byron, and what’s that?”

   “I forget. Ah-ha-ha…”

   “You’re sick!” (Click!)

   A few minutes later, once again the telephone rang. But this time I let my answering machine get it:

   (Ring… Ring… Ring…)

   (Beep!) “Hello, Silly-Willy, are you there? Come out, come out, wherever you are! Ah-ha-ha… Hey loser, I’m sending my girl, ‘Wednesday,’ by to pickup my rent money. She’ll be there in half an hour, and I know she’s absolutely your type, Billy-Willy. I heard you like them tough and ruthless, well Wednesday’s rough and toothless, ah-ha-ha… and that’s close enough, right? Feast your eyes, William! Ta-ta, fare thee well, au revoir (goodbye).” (Beep! Click!)

   A half hour later the doorbell rang:

   Upon opening the door I was instantly confronted by another of Byron’s attractive, bimbo love-slaves. She was dressed in a skimpy purple lace halter-top, a tight faux leopard skin miniskirt, and a pair of red stiletto ultra-high heels. She appeared to be of Hispanic descent, reeking of cheap smelling perfume, costing about .99 cents per gallon:

   “Hola (Hello), is you Billy?”

   I figured I’d play along, jokingly speaking her lingo:

   “Sí, I done be Billy, is you Wednesday?”

   “Uh-huh, sí, I be Wednesday, I here fo’ you rent dinero (money).”

   “Here you go,” I handed her a check. “Dat be a nice blond wig you’s wearin’.”

   “Nice ain’t have nothin’ to do wit’ it, sweetie. But, I swear for God, Sir Lord Byron ain’t be tellin’ me you’s so damn fine. Hey now, gimme some sugar.”

   Wednesday leaned forward, stretching her neck way out, aiming to kiss me on my lips. Yet, I quickly turned my head enabling her to kiss me on my cheek instead. She then smiled, flaunting her missing two front teeth.

   Throughout the next month, I spent a great deal of time searching for a suitable, reasonably priced, new apartment. Unfortunately, my efforts were spent in vain, and before I knew it another month passed, where once again my doorbell rang. This time, upon opening the door, I encountered a petite, stiletto and hot pants wearing, attractive, young Japanese girl. To my surprise, she carried a small, brown paper bag, which appeared to contain a bottle:

   “Kon’ nichiwa (Hello), me Jizum Honchin. Buh, you may call me, ‘T’ursday.’ Me here fo’ Sir Lord Byron’s much yen, p’ease. You Billy?”

   “Yes, I’m Billy. I’m pleased to meet you, Miss Thursday.”

   Without hesitation, I attentively handed her a check:

   “Me honorably much t’ank you, Mis’er Billy sir, sayōnara (goodbye).”

   “Yeah, and Frank Sinatra to you, too. Oh, and uh, by the way, what’s in the bag?”

   “Dis? Dis here wine, me got dis fo’ Sir Lord Byron.”

   “Oh, yeah? Emm, good trade.”

   “Huh?”

   She then bowed, turned around, and wiggled away.

   Throughout the following month I continued in my pursuit to locate another apartment, unfortunately, once more it was to no avail. By the time the end of the month rolled around, it was number five of Byron’s bimbo love-slaves who came collecting the rent:

   As soon as I opened the door, I laughed aloud. Before my eyes now stood a barefoot, small framed, medium height, attractive Hawaiian girl. She sported blue-black hair and huge dark brown, almond shaped eyes. Her attire consisted of a skimpy, straw hula-hula skirt, a lei around her neck, and a flower in her hair. Once our eyes met, she instantly began gyrating her hips and swaying her arms, in what I believed to be a traditional Hawaiian luau fashion. Obviously her enthusiasm was a mile wide, while only an inch thick:

   “Aloha (Hello).”

   “Hello, you must be ‘Friday’?”

   “When you wit’ me cutie, everyday Friday. Buh, me wheel name be Sue Nahmi.”

   “Oh brother, here we go again. So, anyway, I don’t want to take up anymore of your time than necessary. So here,” I handed her a check for this month’s rent, “please give this to Byron.”

   “Mahalo (thank you), Billy, ‘ōkole maluna (bottoms up), and lani kala (Heavenly freedom), ah yes, lani kala to you.”

   “Yeah right, and Lana Turner to you, too,” I replied.

   She quickly spun around, gyrated her hips and swayed her arms while descending away. However, waiting for her at the bottom of my staircase, stood Byron. He abruptly spoke:

   “I believe that money makes the person. In fact, the wealthier the individual, the smarter the individual. The wealthier the individual, the nicer the individual. The wealthier the individual, the better looking the individual, even if he looks like Quasimodo. Ah-ha-ha… The wealthier the individual, the more the little people want to shake his hand, regardless if he even happens to be a sociopathic, pedophilic, mass murdering warlord. Ah-ha-ha…”

   “To quote a Cree proverb, Byron, ‘Only when the last tree has died, the last river’s been poisoned, and the last fish has been caught, will we realize we cannot eat money.’ ”

   “Who the Hell would want to eat money, Billy, when you can bathe in it, caress it, kiss it, sleep in it, and talk to it about anything? Why, I’m happy even just to look at it, and in truth, some days I do this morning, noon, and night. By the way, did I mention that I’m rich? Ah-ha-ha… Think Big - Do Big, End of Story!”

The End

AND THE MORAL OF THIS STORY – “MONEY DOESN’T CHANGE PEOPLE,

IT JUST BRINGS OUT WHOM AND WHAT THEY TRULY ARE!”